#is weirdly inspiring

[arrimorr]

Your art style is very unique it reminds me of professional artist that draws old children stories

What inspired you ?

Thank you so much 😭😭😭 Im honestly very surprised whenever someone says I have any form of a style in what I do, because, personally, I think I am a bit all over the place (which is normal since Im still trying a lot of things out for myself)

First of all, I'm very inspired by Brecht Evens, especially the way he works with color and is capable of showing different light environments through it.

My brain chemistry was also forever changed by the way over the Garden wall artists went about depiction of creepy cartoony stuff.

Also, I've been going though a process of re-evaluating soviet art for the last couple of years. I absolutely HATED it as I child but I had to revisit it for one of my Uni researches and there are actually a lot of fun examples of work with color and shapes there????

[craftbadger]

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but if you’re at a low point:

If you were a fictional man right now, there would be *at least* ten people if not a large portion of the fanbase that would call you their wet beast poor little meow meow

[mythicalcoolkid]

You don't wish your disability was worse or more visible, you wish your disability was taken seriously. Please stop confusing the two, I guarantee you would not get the support you need JUST by being more severe or more visible. Please listen to visibly disabled people when we tell you it isn't better on our side

[heartorbit]

figure skating set right now please. thanks

[marblerose-rue]

click for better quality!

fire alone can save our clan. bye! *sound of lps feet clacking away*

[bloodengutz]

he's teething.

[autoboros]

10 minute Frye sketch that took 50 minutes

[maareyas]

Greeting a new dawn

decided to do something for the new year at the last minute kkkhkdkh. this was supposed to be a quick one. wadda hell

here's to another year of existing and silverposting. I want to hope that things will become better for all of us.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

im so sorry this is probably already a thing and I HAVENT EVEN WATCHED THIS SHOW BUT.

[natade-art]

we can only give paracelsus a human body for the weekends or he gets depressed due to lack of being a giant battle-axe key that his wife uses to kill people

[bungouchronicles]

I like my ships doomed by the narrative

[kraro-school-life]

✦ 15. 4. 24 ✦ 📓 ✦ Monday ✦ Day 13/60 ✦

I stayed after school for a physics lab workshop (kinda?) about solar panels and we got to experiment a bit, I liked it a lot. At home I decided to write my history homework on paper for once, which is ironic, because I still have to type it on the computer, so it turned out to be double the work. But at least my notes look pretty :)

✓ school - history homework ✓ art - started project in art class; art course ✦ sport - //

🌱🌿🪴 - 1h 20min on Forest ♫₊˚.🎧 ▷▷ Void - The Haunting

Have a great day/night !! ~ ♦️

[fraternum-momentum]

metamorphosis book cover ! complete with a removable gregor !

[nana-fubuki]

"Now you know It's so much better to pretend There's something waiting for you here"

These two make me think of so many songs and my artistic brain noodle went "Oh yeah let's make a card design why not". This time the song is "Kill the Lights" by The Birthday Massacre.

[dorothywonderland]

"She had us in just two words"

[the-ace-with-spades]

I'll never write it so gonna post the abandoned idea for it here (also as a reminder, all my fic ideas are for grabs unless stated otherwise so if someone wants to pick it up, be my guest)

Red strings of fate/Soulmates AU

You are connected to your soulmate by a red thread only you and your soulmate can see and touch (and cut). When your soulmate dies, the thread solidifies and becomes heavier, as long as the distance between the soulmates was the time one of them died — almost like a chain.

Jake and Bradley find out they're soulmates early on in flight school — it's hard not to when the thread pulls tauter and tauter until they finally meet in the same classroom and they can see the other end of the thread for the first time.

There's fascination, there's the thrill of sneaking around (they should disclaim it, as soon as they learn, so it can be put in their records, but they never do) and everything is new and bright. They start to treasure the string, turning around their fingers and finding joy in noticing the other end twitching and pulling — with time, they notice the motions translate over the tread no matter how far away they are.

They make up a system of pulls and tags, using Morse code and it becomes something else, they become something else — in the air, wordlessly in sync, on the ground, talking to each other whenever they want, during sleepless nights and separate schedules and long-distance deployments.

Until.

Things start getting complicated. Bradley has commitment and abandonment issues, Jake's an all-or-nothing type of guy and just being soulmates isn't enough.

They go their separate ways. Bradley still, sometimes, when he can't sleep and the night makes him feel like nothing has a sense or a purpose, sends little messages down the thread. He never gets replies.

The day they meet again at the Hard Deck, Jake suspects Bradley is coming for the same assignment. The string’s been getting lighter and lighter the whole night, dropping down, no longer stretched to its limit.

They try to ignore the string the whole time the training goes on, but Mav still suspects. He doesn't say anything, but he feels like history is repeating itself.

When Mav and Bradley are arguing in the debriefing room and Warlock comes in, he doesn't say anything but Mav looks down at his own wrist and his face turns white and Bradley knows at that moment.

(Whether Mav and Ice are soulmates and married or they are soulmates but Ice still married Sarah, that's up for discussion).

During the whole funeral, Mav rolls the invisible thread around his wrist, moving onto his arm when it's not enough.

It's at that moment — Bradley decides Jake will never have to do the same.

The minute he turns around for Mav, he makes up a plan in his head.

They find each other in the snow, and argue, but by the end of it, Mav is making up a crazy plan and they'll try to return in one piece. Try being the keyword.

He pulls on the string, the thread between his thumb and index finger.

Mav frowns. "What are you doing?"

"Sending a message before we go."

He repeats it, just in case Jake hasn't realized in time to catch the whole thing at first. And then he starts looking through the pockets of his life vest.

“He’s not walking around with a dead man’s chain, Mav.”

Mav tries to stop him the second he realizes what Bradley is going to do but it's too late — with the same knife he cut his parachute off, he cuts off the thread, close to his wrist, letting it fall limping into the snow, red almost looking like droplets of blood.

It takes Jake a minute to realize that the tagging is a physical feeling, not just wishful thinking formed by his imagination.

The carrier deck is a mess, the foxtrot teams returned, Phoenix is now arguing with the admirals about Rooster's position — he might not be dead, sir — and the ringing in Jake's ears doesn't stop until he looks down at his wrist, and sees the string moving, the pulling a rhythmic, well-known motion.

Aloud, breaking up the vivid discussion about Maverick and Rooster's status, he says, “Rooster is alive, he’s���he’s talking,” and it almost feels like it's someone else using his voice.

“What do you mean, Hangman? His comm is silent.”

“Can feel it on the string, it’s still red and he’s— he’s tugging in Morse code,” he says. He closes his eyes and lets himself be pulled by the wrist. “S-O-R-R—Sorry, he’s—sorry and—and—I-L—Shit, no.”

I-L-Y

The string flops down, loose. “No—”

He cut it. He cut it because it's still red and not gray but still too limp and he knows it. His wrist feels too light, too free.

When Bradley lands on the carrier, his wrist is bare and the thread pools around Jake's feet. It doesn't magically reconnect when they touch, when they shake hands.

Jake tries to desperately find the other end, carrying rolls and piles of it with him as he follows Bradley to the med bay.

“Jake, just—just cut it,” he tells him. “It’s going to connect you again in a day or two.”

Jake ignores him, pulling miles and miles of the thread into circled piles next to Bradley's bed. He can't see the floor — it's just red and red and nothing else.

“No,” is all Jake says. “Not to you.”

It'll find him a new match, connect the thread to someone else, to someone who isn't Bradley.

"Bring me some scissors," Bradley says. He almost feels bad, when Jake's gaze turns up to him, glaring with shiny eyes. "Just do as I say for once."

Wordlessly, looking like it pains him, Jake brings him disposable scissors.

Bradley grabs his hand before he can move away, pulls about three feet of the thread from the pile, and cuts off the excess on the floor.

He wraps it around his own wrist, the string thin and soft, and a little clumsily ties it into a loop over his arm. When he leans away again, the thread takes a second, taut, and then stretches with the distance, like it has always done.

Jake stares at it, too focused and too absent. "That's the shittiest knot I've ever seen."

Bradley huffs. "Well, you gotta learn to live with it."