#it’s just the technical aspect. my love of art

[macadam]

Did fortnite really have to go as hard as they did with the model/animation for optimus

I mean really

[strawbebbiesart]

clean 🦆🛀🫧

(part 2)

[bmpmp3]

dysgraphic artiƨts risɘ UP!!!!!

[dandyshucks]

trying to figure out how long i should wait until i just take the dive and go find a locket (perhaps... a beetle locket even,,,) online and cough up the $20+ CAD flat-rate shipping price,,,

i just want a little locket to wear ,,, have a guz picture in it like a sappy fool,,,, BOY HOWDY DO I FEEL SILLY FOR IT THOUGH DHDKDL

[varjopeura]

.

[seafoam-taide]

THE BEAST IS RISEN AHAHAHAHHAHAHAAAAAAAAA

hi hi hi hello. hi. meet the most fucked up and evil thing ever.

ok so this is . and i dont know a whole lot about void deal yet but just know . is so immeasurably fucked up. inarguably the worst creature in my oc story to date. ze is just vibing and appears frankly pretty harmless but trust me on this. the horrors are real and . caused them ok. shortest most evilest thing on earth.

also i think this is the most i’ve ever shown of rosy ever. say hi to rosy too i guess lol

[orbitariums]

older art x younger black reader sugar daddy aspect... short lil smut included with breeding kink... art is grown and tired as ever but the most alive when he's with you.

older! art + younger black reader is something so sacred like. he's absolutely smitten by you, obsessed, and not shy about showing it. your laugh is like tinkling bells to him, and you laugh a lot. you're so innocent in the sense that you haven't been marked with the scar of age that mars your joie de vivre. each time you laugh, really laugh with the full force of your body, throwing your head back so your nose aligns with the stars, he just grins up at you in pure bliss.

you're so gentle with each other – when you're out walking together he always holds your hand, pulls you gently aside when a bike whizzes by. when he's tired after a day of training you straddle his lap on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around his neck and pressing your forehead to his, like you're trying to telecommunicate a feeling of calm. you never fight, at least not the way art used to in his past relationships. if you're upset about something, you listen to each other. you come to a compromise. you sleep on it and revisit it the next day with a fresh mind (but you never go to bed angry). he speaks to you in dulcet, crooning tones — "you okay honey?" "i know baby."

he buys you whatever you want. if you're out with him you might as well leave your wallet at home. art is your wallet. he knows it and doesn't even think twice about it. even when you do try to pay for something, he's already taken care of it or he's stepping in front of you wordlessly and tapping his card. if you want something, it's in your hands in a heartbeat, no matter how expensive. if you even mention a bag you’ve been eyeing, it’s at your doorstep the next day.

you've introduced him to so many new things aligning with your generation. sometimes it's hard not to feel like an old fogey, but he takes a genuine interest in filming your tiktoks, brainstorming instagram post captions, and rating movies on letterboxd with you. his latest favorite has been watching reels and tiktoks of wig installs with you. he's practically begging you to let him do your braid down. you settle on letting him do the voiceover for your grwm tiktoks instead. you even enrich his taste palate — he'd never had or heard of seafood boil before you and now slapping on a pair of plastic gloves and getting king crab legs is your favorite thing to do on date nights.

you've taken to your own nicknames for him — "artie", "pookie", "my love." the most curious one though, and possibly his favorite — is "baby daddy."

you'd said it one time casually in conversation after he bought you a dress you'd tried on in the airport before your flight to fiji, hugging him close at the register and doting on him,

"thank you baby daddy!"

he stills when he hears you say it, swipes his card wordlessly and heads out of the shop with you still clung to his hip. while you're sitting in the lounge at the airport, he suddenly needs clarification,

"baby daddy? doesn't that imply that... i'm the father of your children?"

"huh...?" you were occupied with your nails. you looked up at him, noting the slightly clouded expression on his face. "i mean, technically yeah. but it's just a cute pet name to me. why, do you not like it?"

"i like it," was all art said in reply, and you placed a big kiss on his cheek, snuggling into his neck.

later that night in the hotel room, you're pressed beneath art as he places practically all of his weight on top of you. his hips are rolling into yours, unforgivably deep and penetrating. you can feel the curvature of his body digging against you. he can feel the plush of your breasts and the sweat slicking between the two of you. you're moaning raucously into his ear, fingers combing through his hair, damp with sweat.

"i'm your baby daddy?" he questions, his mouth pressed against your ear. you whimper when you hear it from him, low and imploring, even though he knows you can't respond right now. he's fucking you too good and he knows it, knows when you've reached an unresponsive state while he fucks you into oblivion. "want me to pump you full of my fucking kids? feed your pussy my cum?"

you're pulsing around him like crazy the more he talks, and he pulls away just slightly so he can see your face. his eyes gazing into yours, he asks,

"hmm? you want that? you want me to get you pregnant?"

his thrusts grow sharper and quicker, and somehow deeper. you yelp at the pleasure, and nod vigorously as you throw your hand over your mouth.

"art," you can barely whisper. he nods, his jaw grit so hard it's visible through his cheeks.

"i know baby, i know. i wanna hear you say it. want you to cum around this cock while you say it."

your back arches off the bed as you squeal,

"fuck, daddy, yes! i want you to get me fucking pregnant, want you to fill this pussy up with your cum, please."

it's like that sends him into overdrive and he fucks you at a pace you didn't know was previously possible. you're shaking as he thrusts harshly into you, pulsating around his dick and squeezing him with a vice grip when you finally come.

art's head hangs when he feels you squeeze around him and his thrusts start to grow stuttered and sloppy as he whimpers your name,

"fuck, yn. make me come, yes."

as promised, he shoots ropes of cum inside of you. when you think he's done, there's still more, painting your insides and eventually oozing out of you. two slow, redeeming thrusts to keep it all inside of you, and he's finally slowly pulling out. the both of you watch as some of it drips out of you. art rushes to finger it back inside of your sensitive, sore pussy. but you have no complaints.

he collapses beside you and you immediately bury yourself into his side.

"so baby daddy does it for you, huh?" you giggle.

art sighs deeply, resting one hand on your shoulder and the other on his stomach. even he is in awe of himself. he takes a deep breath, trying to commit the memory of your pussy dripping with his cum to his mind,

"you could say that."

[atalienart]

@ianwaite replied to your post “Does Al also make you paranoid? Look at this...”:

Why do you assume that AI artists are not interested in their cause? What do you think of digital art?

​There are no Al artists, there are Al prompters. If you've ever been interested in something then you must know that the object of your interest is what really counts. You want to know more about it, you want to fully experience it. You want to be a writer, you sit and write, you develop your skills, find new techniques of writing and telling stories through written words. If you don't want to write, you're not a writer. You can tell stories but that doesn't mean you're a writer. You can have ideas but that doesn't make you a writer. If you tell another person or a machine to write you something you're not a writer. If someone else composes words for you, you're not a writer. You are not a carpenter when you tell a machine to make you a table in a rococo style. You're not interested in carpentry, you just want a table and want people to clap saying "wow, what a beautiful table, you're such an amazing carpenter" and then to buy it. This is what they're interested in. Al prompters are interested either in the technical aspects of Al, or the final "product" that can give them money or a pat on the back, or a short lasting pleasure of seeing their wife's head on a supergirl body. Tell me the difference between prompting and image searching? There is none.

What do I think about digital art? It's great and beautiful. Graphic programs artists use are another medium. Graphic programs don't lead your hand, don't magically pop images like Al. You draw lines with a stylus on tablet the same way you draw with a pencil on paper. Every medium has different properties. With oil paints you can do impasto paintings, watercolours react beautifully with water, Clip Studio allows you do draw on layers. There is no dark magic but Al prompters see a sped up, edited screen recording of a digital art proces and they think the drawing magically appears on screen without a physical input of the artist. They don't see work, just pats and some "product". I love digital art because it allowed me to share my art with other people much easier. I admire digital artists who can create amazing art pieces. I hope they won't give up when Al people constantly steal from them.

[kurjakani]

Ok YIPEE my overthinker serger manual (most likely just a prototype) is done. One of my pieces for my composition course. Here's scans, I'm gonna put an explanation under cut.

Assignment was: find two photos which have a composition you like. Take one, break down the components, and create your own piece with those ideas.

My photo was a page from a serger manual, but I technically went with the composition of a manual in general. I like infographics and i like infographics used in art.

I was feeling a little empty headed, but my main thought was: how much is enough information? Because I often struggle with my answer being "never too much". It's technically great- but at points in my life it has lead to scattered understanding of things because I keep focusing on minute aspects of a Thing so the bigger picture dissappears. Its one of the reasons why i love manuals- i love page lists, i love when someone takes a subject and decides what is the most valuable knowledge here for you. It says a lot about the creator of the manual, its purpose, the machines purpose..

I also do like manuals because knowledge is unwieldy and no manual will ever be perfect.

I would rly like one day to make a better version. A bigger one, mostly, wherw the process to unrelated bullshit is slower, but also maybe some thread of info runs through it? There's a lot of storytelling you can do with what information you pick. Also it would be fun to have these threads of info run parallel and end in the same subjects.

Idk, everything is connected etc etc

[dunmeshistash]

As of... actually several episodes ago but more so on this episode, I'm starting to think there's something (a reason/correlation?) to the anime not going all out on the animation (youd think ep23 part 1 would have gotten more attention) or when its not doing a 100% panel-for-panel adaptation of the manga (ie cutting out gags and some other parts)

Its almost like the anime is slightly just a little maybe advertising the manga? but idk, you dont really get this feeling if youve never read the manga. It only torments those who have who know what's in the manga that the anime-only's are missing out on. and there's also the dungeon tidbits that dont/havent been adapted that expand more on the story.

lets be real tho, some things in the manga just would not translate as effectively into anime. (ie the manga covers that look raw as all hell)

tl;dr i have a feeling the anime is not doing the manga 100% perfect justice because animation restraints AND it wants you to read the manga as well.

I've actually been thinking about that too. But objectively I think the dungeon meshi anime is effective/overall good adaptation of the manga.

The feeling of "NOO IT'S MISSING X THING" as far as I can tell is only for people who have read the manga, everyone else doesn't seem to feel there's a lack of quality. I call it the cursed knowledge of the manga lol.

The fact is that the manga is just PACKED full of so many details an adaptation that has ALL of it is just impossible, and trigger's anime isn't necessarily bad just because it doesn't have it <- I say begrudgingly cause I wish it had all

From what I can tell they have been pacing themselves within their budget/time constraints and focusing on what the medium of animation can serve the best to compliment the manga, which is action scenes, they seem to be focusing most of their efforts into giving us BREATHTAKING animations during the action and honest I LOVE IT.

I recommend @swampjawn's animation breakdowns if you wanna really appreciate it in a more technical aspect, its so good.

But another thing I've been noticing is how much content Ryoko Kui does related to the anime? Like the merch, the blu-ray boxes the collabs. Is that something common at all? The manga author doing so much content related to the anime of their work?

Maybe it's an exception cause she finished publishing Dungeon Meshi before the anime came out but I hope that her gorgeous art inspires people to read it.

Anyway I'm not sure if trigger is on purpose doing "manga advertisement" but just where I believe they'll stop this season is probably gonna make a lot of people want to read so it's a win in my book.

[elysiansparadise]

Hiii! So happy to see that you're back, and I hope the summer season is treating you and your loved ones well! I was hoping you would be able to give your thoughts for Neptune in the 9th House? Thank you for your time!

Hello love, thank you so much. Summer is going just fine, I wish the same for you and your loved ones. I would love to gave my take on this placement. 💖

Neptune in the 9th house 

Natives with this placement are people who are interested in topics such as philosophy, the human psyche, spirituality and some artistic branches. These people are in constant search for deeper meanings about everything that surrounds them and even life itself, in the same way they can be attracted to various philosophies and beliefs. They have an idealistic and humanitarian perspective on life and it is likely that they have had big philosophical questions since they were little. Many of these people can acquire great knowledge or even be experts in esoteric topics, astrology, some branch of art or psychology. Many of them have the ability to understand, empathize and sympathize with other cultures or people regardless of their differences. They don't like to waste time on pretentious technicalities or superficial topics, they like to delve into topics that people don't usually investigate. They have a deep sense of compassion for humanity, one that is not just limited to those close to them. Many of them may be interested in humanitarian causes and like the idea of ​​working for the well-being of others. They desire to have a deeper and more emotional understanding of topics such as their existence, purpose, ideals and beliefs.

With Neptune here, natives can seek out to visit places that inspire them and provide them with transformative experiences. Travel can be seen as an opportunity for self-exploration and spiritual growth. This placement favors trips abroad, making it more likely that the native will travel even to different continents. One of the things that is not often mentioned about this placement is its creativity, and that is that natives with Neptune in this house are capable of creating deeply beautiful and fascinating things. They have a soul that is not only curious and empathetic, but also intuitive, seeking to find beauty in those small things that people do not usually take into account. They believe that there is more than what the eyes can see, and one of their most beautiful qualities is moving and understanding between what lies on the surface. They find inspiration in content such as music, photography or things related to cultures other than their own. These natives tend to immerse themselves in a topic when it catches their attention. However, if Neptune makes many tense aspects, we can observe a tendency towards fanaticism.

These natives have a particularity, and that is the calm they project. That feeling of not only being in a safe place when they are around, but, due to their sensitive and intuitive nature, the feeling of being with someone genuine and real. Throughout their lives they develop a strong compassion for others, as well as a desire to include everyone and make them feel understood. They seek to make the world a better place, and although they know that they cannot change everything in a snap, they seek to contribute with their small grain of sand. Many of them may enjoy daydreaming or having a little place to retreat to when reality becomes overwhelming. There is a tendency to procrastinate with Neptune here, as well as getting too immersed in one project and then wanting to work on another simultaneously.

-> Go back to the masterlist

[babyrdie]

ALERT OF HADES II SPOILER

Okaaaayyy....seeing a considerable number of people act shocked at how Odysseus is in Hades II and think it's something against Odysseus, and now I'm wondering if they actually paid attention in the first game…I know everyone talks a lot about Hades' art, but I didn't think that was because it was the only thing you guys were really paying attention to.

It makes sense to be disappointed that the characters weren't treated the way a fan would have liked (for example, I'm not a fan of Hades, but I don't really like the idea of him in the game although I understand why he's the way he is), but I think it's weird to be that surprised by it or treat it like it's personal. Hades never fully followed the myths. They didn't do this because they haven't read Homer or because they don't like Penelope or hate Odysseus…it's simply because they don't follow the myths authentically. They don't specifically have anything against Odysseus or Penelope, it's just the way they do things. If this were the first game, I would understand this being unexpected… but it's the second game, we already know that they won't faithfully follow the myths because they didn't do that in Hades I.

I'll admit that I also didn't expect what was done with Penelope and Odysseus, but it's not really such a "wow! I could never imagine!" when it comes to Supergiant (I'm playing the technical test, for context). And I hoped they would already be together without relationship conflicts, because I really wasn't looking forward to a repeat of Nyx and Chaos, Patroclus and Achilles, Orpheus and Eurydice. I know most people wanted this, but I think it would be lazy to repeat this and I'm still hoping to not have this quest, whether with Odypen or other characters. And yet, even if I didn't expect it, I don't think it's as unexpected for Supergiant as some are making it seem.

Examples:

Melinoe and Zagreus are children of Persephone and Hades, and in mythology they aren't children of Hades.

Zagreus and Dionysus aren't the same person. The game makes humans believe that they're because the two played a prank on Orpheus, which made him invent a song with that story. Clearly a joke on the Orphic hymns.

Theseus is proud to be a demigod, but Poseidon denies that he's his father. Clearly a joke with the different versions of Theseus' birth, in which some he is Poseidon's demigod and others he's mortal.

Persephone is the daughter of Demeter and a mortal, not Zeus. For that reason, she and her children bleed red rather than gold.

Persephone isn't actually kidnapped by Hades. The kidnapping was an act that went wrong. Yeah, Odysseus wasn't the first character to have his non-con and dub-con aspect erased.

Achilles has a different personality than in myths. The game explains this as him maturing in the afterlife.

Patroclus is distant instead of communicative as in the myths, also explained by post-death events.

Asterius (Minotaur) is much more humanized than in the myths and he and Theseus are best friends.

There is a character heavily implied to be Medusa (Dusa) and she definitely doesn't behave like a monster.

Sisyphus is a kind and helpful guy, which is explained in the game with him having regretted his actions after his years of punishment.

Artemis and Callisto are on good terms even though they ended tragically in mythology.

Hades has a much more difficult personality to deal with than in mythology.

Thanatos, Megaera (one of the furies) and Zagreus are in a romantic relationship, which definitely doesn't exist in the myths.

The last aspects of the weapons to be unlocked do not even make reference to Greece, but to other figures. For example, the Twin Fists have the "aspect of Gilgamesh", a figure who is definitely not Greek.

Aphrodite says "You do know that I'm married, don't you love? I forgive you if you didn't. For my husband, he's always... busy with his work. I'm grateful that you are there for me to talk to" about Hephaesthus...her husband, she says. Hephaestus and Aphrodite are often divorced in mythology, including in Homer. And it's not because it wasn't yet at the time they got divorced, after all the Trojan War had already happened and they were already divorced at that time.

Also, they clearly don't use Homer as their only guide, so I don't know why you guys are saying "but Homer!" Patrochilles is there and not really canon in the Homeric tradition, but in Classical Greece they were considered a couple in certain sources (Aeschylus mainly). They use the name Asterius for the Minotaur (something Pausanias mentions, for example) although it wasn't the most common, they play with the various versions of Theseus' lineage, they reference Orphic hymns, etc. Like…it's really VERY obvious they took inspiration of more than one source.

On the Supergiant website, part of the Hades presentation is "Greek myth comes from stories of ancient gods and heroes filtered through new points of view; we’re excited to share ours." This already makes it more than evident that certain aspects were purposefully changed. It wasn't a surprise even before Hades I was released, for anyone who bothered to read it.

On Twitter, Kasavin (Creative Director) has already said that "it is a concerted effort over time, although Hesiod and Homer were very significant among the many authors we explored", which makes it clear that they don't focus on a specific source, although he recognizes that Homer and Hesiod are very influential.

In an interview available at Rock Paper Shotgun, he even said that he read more than one translation of the Odyssey and cites other sources like Diodorus Siculus.

Also, Odysseus cheating Penelope isn't even a modern invention, there were already versions of this in the Bibliotheca of Pseudo-Apollodorus (I'm talking about Callidice). And giving an unpopular opinion here: while I agree that Calypso in The Odyssey is undeniably an SA situation, Circe is more debatable than you guys like to make it out to be, it isn't undeniably. Both the interpretation that there was SA and the interpretation that there was no SA are valid, because the text itself doesn't make it explicit as it does with Calypso. In Circe's case, not necessarily not making it a relationship with SA makes it something that deviant from the myths.

Again because I don't want to be misinterpreted: what I'm taking issue with here isn't the disappointment in how Odysseus was portrayed. This is valid! I'm questioning the idea that this was done because they don't know about the myths or that it was something specific to Odysseus and Penelope. They know the myths, they just purposefully choose not to be completely authentic. They have nothing specific to Odysseus and Penelope, which is precisely why they aren't exempt from the changes they also made to other characters. They are no more special than Persephone, Hades, Zagreus, Melinoe (to name a few who had changes), that's why they receive the same treatment (that is, being changed).

I would never recommend Hades to someone who wanted complete authenticity to the myths. I wouldn't do that because I KNOW that's not the game's purpose. I thought everyone else knew too. You don't go to a vegetarian restaurant that you knew was vegetarian because you had eaten there before and be surprised because they don't have real meat dishes, be serious.

Edit (01/05): guys, you're talking about Epic, but I admit that I've never even heard that musical and I'm not part of the fandom. So I don't really know if Epic has an influence on that mindset 🤔and also my reblog develops a little more what I think based on Hades I if anyone is interested in theories for the narrative.

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[lunisoular]

Hello!!

I wanted to ask if you had any asl brother fanfictions??

I'm literally not even close to those episodes but I've seen so many spoilers and art about them that I'm already obsessed lmao

It's totally cool if you don't have any or just don't want to share, it just seems like you would know some good one lol

Hope you have a good day! 😁

SO SORRY FOR THE LATE RESPONSE tumblr hasnt been notifying me lately

there’s so many fics i’ve gone insane over i’d be overjoyed to share !!!!!

i don’t know if u or anyone else want to avoid major spoilers, but just in case, i put a red star (*) next to those that have them 😗

light up, light up - taizi

aaah taizi has so many great fics but this is one of my favorites; u can go thru all their op works to find more i didn’t list. it’s focused around sabo and is like a role reversal. definitely teared up

a little murder never killed anybody - loserlife592

family reunion !! asl expresses their ways of affection and boggles some minds. so cute……..

a song to bring you home - taizi

canon divergence—not sure how much u’ve seen, but it’s definitely still worth the read. it’s wonderful and cute and makes me ILL

without you by my side - capisback

ace and luffy get into a small scuffle; ace figures things out eventually. brotherly love….. oh im dead on the floor it’s wonderful

fish day (it takes a village) - hyperbolicreverie

luffy drags ace and sabo to a festival. they have fun, there’s cool villager dialogue that never fails to satisfy me, and cuteness

*all for one - missmungoe

okay i have a fair amount of alternate marineford fics but damn it i am nothing if not a sucker for good endings. read if ur fine with slight spoilers lol !! good bonding moments

soft and quiet and peaceful - whirlybird70

snow day….. just some nice fluff. can never go wrong with that

where the wild things are - space_ghost_with_the_most

FRIEND GHOST HAS LOVELY FICS !! u should check them out !!! 23k words of feral jungle children asl and it’s WONDERFUL

light up the sky (with you) - whirlybird70

luffy once again drags ace and sabo to have an adventure, this time with fireworks !! + makino cameo. it’s so cute the way they’re written…. !!

bedtime rituals - poisonstain

sweet n soft sickfic…… the series is about something different, this is a flashback, so u can check out the other fics in it if u’d like !

signal lamps - cowboy_emoji

ace and luffy catch fireflies, dadan and luffy talk a bit about ace. luffys his weirdly perceptive self; dadan continues to deal with them. love <3

*take a step in mine - soccersarah01

another alternate marineford—if ur fine with spoilers, it’s good ! it takes a sec, but sweet asl reunion <3

*time moves through you - lampalot7

technically only ace and luffy but i’ve reread this one so many times. it does have both marineford and gear 5 spoilers tho, so keep that in mind if u want to avoid them. time travel, little luffy cameo, AUGH it’s all so cute

*there is thunder in our hearts / you were always gold to me - taizi

these are also both alternate marineford + the latter gear 5, sorry 🫢 i think u get the gist by now

put your faith in what you most believe in - taizi

taizi just has lovely asl fics it’s insane. sickfic, sabo worries, but they both feel better in the end <3

here in spirit - lampalot7

GHOST ASL FIC !!!!! i’ve loved it for a while, and it inspired a few aspects of my own ghost au. made me cry……. god i love ghosts

close calls (or, monkey d. dragon’s no good, very bad day) - isntitlupintic

dragon’s perspective and focuses a lot on him, but there are some sweet asl moments !!! dragon saves the day !

[trafficblrpositivityproject]

fucking. has anyone said @wasyago yet? cause they deserve this

I love their art so so much, theyre genuinely one of my greatest inspirations ever, in my top 10 favorite artists of ALL TIME. they just keep making BANGER after BANGER after BANGER. they have such an incredible grasp on so many of the different aspects of art. solid drawing/3D space (seriously every drawing of theirs has a tangible sense of weight and volume to it, everything makes sense like it was drawn straight from a 3d model), color theory (the way they color makes me lose my friggin marbles man. every color choice is weird and also tasty and its so so good), appealing character designs (THEYRE SO GOOD. again the COLORS they work SO WELL TOGETHER and i love love love their shape language and how they draw faces), anatomy in general, stylization holy shit the way they stylize characters is AMAZING, lighting, rendering (i love their rendering style so fuckn much), composition (tango in front of the moon is one of my faves), storytelling through design, dynamic posing, expressions, EVERYTHING.

this got a lot more technical than i was hoping but AAAAAA WASYAGOS ART IS SO SO JUST SO AMAZING!!!!!!!!!!

@wasyago !!!

[darqx]

Some BP/HH/General asks

That mood when you want to share all the things but also want to keep it under wraps for the actual thing haha! Thanks very much anon!

As for your questions, I can't actually be specific cos there's no definitive number I have in mind for either. Basically there are a number of sectors (you can consider them their equivalent of countries - they have less than what we do though), and a number of species of demon of which I've designed about seven of. The ones I've shown before are these guys (and do you think I could find this pic again? No, I had to recreate it cos for the life of me I couldn't remember what ask I'd previously stuck it in lol):

One day when i have enough species and stuff out there I want to make a proper field guide \o/

Thank you very much for the interest! ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ I would actually love to for BP, but before I jump the gun there I have to get the comic out first lol. That being said I have made mini-games before featuring the HH versions and some other characs alas they are all lost at the moment to the sands of Flash becoming obsolete 😩

Me and Gato do still collab sometimes (and send each other Xmas presents)! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

I have been working on one off and on for a while actually! Hopefully I'll have some pages to post next year or so*, I've been doing a bit of thumbnailing recently :D

*that is the plan but i also don't know where people find the time to do anything with a full time job lol.

Hullo! Glad you are enjoying the snippets of BP I've got here and there :D Here is an older ref on Izm back when i first got the idea (at that time i didn't really plan to do anything with it, it was just an AU. Now it's my main project haha. Anyway the ref is a little bit out of date in that regard.)

I used to have a "field guide" which was also made quite a while ago, unfortunately the death of Flash kinda killed it. Here's a screenshot of some relevant info from it though.

That's an interesting one as it's questionable how sentient souls are after removal 🤔 In my mind its only form is the smoke light, it can "see" to some degree and MIGHT be able to talk (but in a very no one can hear them sort of way, a la i have no mouth and i must scream. So i guess it can think "aloud"). The more time passes the less sentience it has.

It could try, though it wouldn't really get anywhere if it's in Rire's collection. He might just eat it lol.

.D: Good with kids, will be fine in all aspects.

Izm: The fun dad however needs a partner that knows what they're doing to ensure the child safety during shenanigans.

Marcus and Zeke: Also would be good parents though might be more helicopter out of protectiveness/worry when first starting out.

Ren: Geek parent very good for homework help. Some Asian parent tendencies eg "ah see, i told you not to do that right? Now you see what happened."

They are similar to our known society for this! So basically, there are some good families out there (eg Zeke - who is a demon - is from a pretty average loving family), and there are some bad families out there who only care about power or having an heir or whatever.

HH Rire is a human. I differentiate between him and Demon Rire because they are two different characters...even though they are also technically the same character lol. You can consider them as alternate universe iterations of a base "Rire" concept.

I actually half jested this in an old comic lol

I am sorry to inform you that a HH webcomic doesn't actually exist 😅 I did a lot of art, animations and one shots (such as the HHJ comics) with them, but nothing actually planned or serialised or anything. Whatever's currently on my DA or here is basically what exists.

Bringing this image back cos it's relevant lol.

You spelled it correct there though! XD