#like a bunch of people contribute art

[venusflitrap]

zine i made :>

it’s gonna be a webcomic they’re gonna be a webcomic and this isn’t an empty threat because it’s my school project thing this year so it will happen

[jalytown]

POV: you’re a mal and you just interrupted their study date session (rip)

(mini-rant and bonus under the cut)

i arise from the dead to share this because I am so brainrotted and also so goddam DESPERATE!!! I NEED people to read the scholomance series by naomi novik pls pls PLS i love them so much i'm actually going INSANE

also i tried out new brushes and a new way of coloring for this so idk how i'm feeling about it but i had fun i guess?? here's the flat colors before rendering because i like how it looks as well hehe

anyway i'm going to slowly spiral by myself about this series :DDD I NEED MORE PEOPLE TO TALK TO ABOUT IT AAA

[quibbs126]

Id say it's more nuance. Like they are two halves of the same whole. The themes show a messy tragedy in the making. The whole "they can make them worse" and general toxity makes for interesting potential. The craving to place the lil guys in angsty situations that break further and further until SOMETHING bleeds

Itbjust depends on the creativity of the person making the content lol

Just some old people with beef

I’m sorry to the anon who asked this originally, but I was going through my inbox for something, and I came across this

And I no longer have any context as to what this was about

My brain is like “…is this about Transformers?”, but this is too old to have been an ask about that, not to mention I don’t really get Transformers asks

Honestly my best guess as to what this could have been was Golden Cheese/Burning Spice or just generally Beast/Ancient related. Some of the other surrounding asks seem to date this around the Burning Spice update, so that would make sense, but I’m not sure why I’d ask about that because I’m pretty sure I’ve made my stance that I don’t really like those ships

Oh wait, it might have been about me wondering why mysticcacao and goldenspice weren’t that popular/generally disliked ships, but shadowvanilla/vanillamilkshake was. I’m remembering now I didn’t really understand that (tbh I still don’t but I don’t really care that much anymore)

[supahstarrr]

Okay like disregarding that theres already so many things wrong with believing that "fictional characters are *just* objects so you can objectify them" and nothing more is already a harmful & shallow belief because they are often a representation of humanity and always existing in social context thus how you or the artist treat, view or interact with them is a reflection of what you've internalized... i feel as if viewing fictional characters so simply is such a sad, shallow way to engage with art

[acepalindrome]

I love Nevarra. They have a whole mini-city just to store their dead, where the aesthetic is to cover everything in skeleton motifs and then say ‘hm, not enough bones.’ Need to make a magic bridge? It’s bones, for absolutely no reason other than the vibes. They’ve got mummification down to an art form. Their best known king reportedly lived to be 127, sparred with his grandson on the day of his death, kicked his grandson’s ass, then went to take a nap and died. And you know they mummified him and gave him the fanciest room in the whole Necropolis, as you do.

They historically go ham about dragons, to the point they have winter balls to celebrate dragon hunts and would display dragon parts at the party (they used to use real dragon bits, but rotting dragon smells awful, so now they do replicas of dragon heads and hearts and stuff.) They have fast paced regional dances inspired by how fucking cool dragons are.

They’ve got the biggest and most important mage school that runs the whole dang Circle of Magi (suck it, Orlais.) They have a whole annual event where people just get together to argue philosophy and drink tea. They’re big on historical reenactments. They like ice skating. They’re a bunch of foodies who thinks aesthetics are as important as taste. They invented flatbread (possibly their most important historical contribution.) They love beetles and consider them good luck, and sometimes keep them as pets.

I just think it’s neat!!

[kutyozh]

not only langblr music resources

people irl often ask me where the heck i find the music i listen to, so i figured i might as well make a handy resource masterpost!

Radio Garden: Listen to radio stations all over the world. You can save your favourite stations, explore radio playlists, and search for stations in specific countries or cities. Love this one. You can download the app (android and apple) or listen via your preferred browser.

Radiooooo: Lets you choose a country, a decade, and a 'genre' (slow, fast, or weird) to listen to. You can download the app (android and apple) or listen via your preferred browser.

Charts: Charts can be tricky if you're looking for music in a specific language since there are multiple languages present in most country specific charts. It is nevertheless worth checking them out. Spotify charts or Top 40 Charts are your places to go.

Tunefind: Heard a song in a film or tv show that you enjoy but can't find it in the credits? This is the website for you! I use it when shazam fails me or when I'm at the cinema and can't use it or w/e. The songs sometimes come with a description of the corresponding scene for easy checking. Just very handy to have on hand.

Last.fm: Copy this link template: https://www.last.fm/tag/[nationality]/artists and replace [nationality] with a nationality you want to explore, e.g. "french", "chinese" etc.

Wikipedia: Type into the search bar "music of [country]", e.g. "music of slovakia", "music of botswana" etc.

Local events: Check for concerts etc. in your area. I know this is not an option for everyone for a bunch of reasons, but if it is for you, visiting local concerts can be a gold mine. I got like ten whole new songs in spanish and one in rapanui from one event I went to (it was like a culture fest with singing, dancing, and poetry). Also listening to live music just connects you differently to the art imo.

Friends & Acquaintances: Last but not least; sometimes my nosiness beats my social anxiety and I simply ask people what they like to listen to. If I'm being extra confident, I ask if they listen to music in languages other than english. Go forth and ask people about their music, go go go!!

Spotify specific recs:

Every Noise At Once: Sounds overwhelming - and tbh it can be. For this reason I personally prefer to look at 'Genres by Country', although there are many other interesting playlists to look at, such as 'We Built This City On' or 'The Sounds of Places'. You can find more if you scroll all the way to the bottom. Unfortunately, due to the layoff of the creator of this site, some features are not available anymore. This website is entirely based on Spotify.

LindsayDoesLanguages. Individual language playlists + more

Shameless self promo - my own account with individual language playlists. Also on YouTube !

700+ Languages. A playlist by Matthew Bofenkamp that contains one (1) song per language, and as it says on the tin, Matthew has so far collected songs in over 700 languages. Might be a good starting point for more music in your language of interest! Accompanying g0ogle spreadsheet with youtube links here.

One Song in Every Language. A community playlist by looky_dooky that aims to collect one song in every language. Everyone with a spotify account can contribute.

Another research tip: If you're on desktop, a good way to find language specific playlists is to go to any artist's profile and scroll down to the "Discovered on" section, then click "show all". Voilà!

(These showed up when I visited Haleluya Tekletsadik's page)

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

[txttletale]

https://txttletale.tumblr.com/post/760752457583394816

I don't understand why every so often you reblog posts that are just plain and simply mean-spirited. There's criticism of copyright and people's delusions, and then there's outright nasty sneering "I hope your art gets stolen lol".

I don't know if you've ever had (say) a game you made just straight up reuploaded somewhere else without even your name on it but you don't have to be a "smol creator" with "petty bourgie dreams" to be upset by that or to want some recourse against that happening. I swear to god, this kind of petty cruelty will probably be the reason I unfollow you one day in spite of all your good analysis.

i mean i think it's fair to say that i am perhaps too jaded to Being Mean and taking hyperbolically confrontational or glib stances on the computer, i think that's something i could stand to work on generally because i, personally, think it does not contribute to nice times on the computer

but, like, i don't care what their motives are, people cheering on IP law and its expansion are enemies of art and culture itself. they hold a worldview that is corrosive to everything i value about art and i feel justified in being a little aggro about it sometimes. & i think you will notice that nowhere in the original post does it say "stolen", it says a bunch of things which i think are good to happen to art! the only one of these that is anywhere close to 'stealing' is 'reupoading', which is not 'stealing', and instead something which contextually ranges from 'heroic preservation of otherwise lost cultural works' to 'a dick move'

anyways i did not primarily reblog this post out of spite towards the small copyright jakeys, but because i think a world where the expectation is that the things you make will be remixed and interpolated and used and translated and scrapped for parts would be a better world for art and culture and the joy of creation

[whilereadingandwalking]

In 2024 I:

✨Started the process to remove my Harry potter tattoo. Got two amazing new ones: a chunky bumblebee, a Totoro.

✨Lost my job—but then became Contributing Editor, Adult Books at Booklist and got hired as copyeditor at Encyclopedia Britannica, both jobs I adore.

✨Relatedly, watched karma work in real time.

✨Received evidence that I’m as resilient as I like to think I am.

✨Began writing for Chicago Review of Books.

✨Visited bookstores in Sydney and Brisbane; read on a boat to the Great Barrier Reef, on a train to the rainforest, in a car on the way to hold some koalas.

✨Saw three plays at Chicago Shakespeare Theater and five Broadway musicals.

✨Reread all of Sailor Moon in its new translations.

✨Spent way more time in the Art Institute.

✨Finally completed my ill-fated 2020 Spain trip. Read all over the Alhambra.

✨Decided to call people out more, spend my time on the ones I love most, and not waste time on what doesn’t matter.

✨Really tried to wear clothes I love and enjoy myself and my body.

✨Bought a bunch of new plants.

✨Visited 15 bookstores in 1 day on Indie Bookstore Day.

✨Became a board member of Chicago Books to Women in Prison.

2024 was tough and stressful. But its highs were incredible (from Chappell at Lolla to turning 30 at a koala sanctuary). Thanks to all those who made me feel appreciated this year.

[tamelee]

pls bottom naruto is disgusting stop drawing this ooc cringe

Eh? And it hadn't even been a full day.

Anyway, do you know what this means?:

It means… that I don’t give a damn about your whiny gibberish about this top/bottom bullshit, because it sounds incredibly silly. (And wrong because I draw both?)

It’s fine to have a preference, good for you (I have one too!), but if all you care about between a character-dynamic is the single notion which establishes a rule within a fandom that demands only this particular dick in only that particular booty and nothing else, while dividing yourselves between "us and them" while seeing the people who like the same exact characters as your "enemy" and treating them as such— well, 

I have nothing to say to you, I couldn’t care less what you think about me and I don’t know you. 

But for the sake of other creators who are often a target also, some which I know quit because of this… there is a little something I'd like to say about these servers:

You don’t think I (we) know what is said in there and by who? 👀 That your rules of "what is said on here stays here" with a bunch of people online that you don't know, is actually respected? Why do you think I never join any. And bet your ass that I'm not the only one. This constant fighting between NS/SN is such an embarrassment for this fandom, seriously. I hope you realize that.

Because, instead of encouraging a (new) creator to share something about the characters you claim to love (for fucking free) you go off chastise them for not “doing it right”/“your way”, pretending it's some unspoken commission no one knew of or was paid for. Instead of being happy there’s still so much creative contribution for characters from a story that ended years ago, you go complain under fanfics and dishearten writers, often grinning away with your little server-“friends” and make fun of work someone poured their heart in. Or, you huff, puff and breathe fire as you make plans to cancel them out of pure bitterness, to the point (especially new) creators are too scared and dispirited to ever share anything again. It's easy to do anonymously, aye? And if you think that doesn’t affect their lives and sends them right back into a crestfallen pit of dark hell because it prevents them to do/share the single thing in life that gave them a bit of joy, then...

Congratulations; you’re a heartless bastard.

And you, as a fan, did yourself dirty too.

Do you know how many people don’t want to share anything at all for this fandom because you people leave comments, tags, asks, tweets constantly complaining about an incorrect portrayal of the (in your opinion) only acceptable dynamic, like a bunch a brats? Do you? Because I’ve talked to quite a few of these discouraged creators, they have to hope for the best and pray they’re spared from your scrutiny. I receive it from both sides every now and then.

Again, congratulations: you’re the reason there’s less chance of you getting what you want in the first place. 

Do you... really not realize?

The more you squabble with "your enemy" (lol) the more it affects the "us" you care about while the rest of us just bask in the glory that is SNS/NSN and couldn't care less about what you think/have to say. So, keep everyone else out of it and go mope elsewhere.

But, between you and me? There are better ways to share what you think is right. Make something yourself, because what's stopping you?

You’re perfectly capable, it doesn’t have to be art or a fic, maybe there’s just something in the story that you really enjoyed— write about it. Make a meta. Post the panel, show the moment that determined your undying love for this single dynamic and why— whatever.  Because, wouldn't it be nice having someone encourage you to create something you like? 😬 Especially because you and your server feel so strongly about it? And then you don't have to depend on others either?

Wouldn't it be nice?

Well?

Hm!?

Try it, ffs.

[daily-teki]

Day 122: HAPPY OUT OF TOUCH THURSDAY EVERYONE

Got the whole memory dance squad together ^^ (yes, these four are what I’ve been working on all week, sorry abt the shit background)

Plus, exciting bonus: the shop is now open! You can now get these four (and partriodge ranger) as stickers if you’d like! I’m gonna make sure to have at least one new out of touch character every out of touch Thursday bc;

1. there’s not enough yttd merch out there so I gotta contribute to society somehow and

2. I wanna make sure that everyone can have a lineup of all their favs ^^

Keep in mind that I’m not doing this for any real profit, I just wanna see people happy with the stuff I make; so please let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to make! Doesn’t have to be sticker, teki or out of touch Thursday related, any art request is fine! If you’d like me to make a proper shoplift shoplaugh shoplove Midori poster I can totally do stuff like that too :>

I’ll make sure to keep doing my dailies tho lmao, I just had a bunch of stuff on last week

+ a Teki-less dance squad if you’d like that for background reasons or anything :>

[crimsonender]

Would you mind touching on ichangedmymind2’s defense post? On the one hand I feel like they made some good points, on the other hand it reads like it was written by a teenager that just learned a bunch of new words.

I have a couple points.

If Lily's offences began and ended with making weird art/fanfic on the internet then I wouldn't care.

Lily gets cast as this person who has no means to defend herself from critics: this is not true. Joon is actually the first person with a bigger subcount and following than Lily to have covered her. The only ones that comes close are ILoveKimPossibleALot and Vangeline Skov. It is us who are putting ourselves in a vulnerable position by criticizing her, and she has already doxxed several of us against our will, using information she obtained in confidence or through illicit means.

Furthermore, for the most part, we do not care how Lily reacts. The content this circle of critics has made, and I have to assume people like Joon as well, has nothing to do with Lily and everything to do with reaching her audience, both new watchers and old. Speaking for myself I couldn't care less if Lily knew I existed.

At the end of the day Lily's biggest crime isn't and never was being a huge freak with a Youtube channel. Don't get it twisted. I am a huge freak with a Youtube channel. The problem with Lily is she has control over people and she abuses it, and because of her status she contributes to the anti-intellectualism on Youtube that enable people like her to obtain this kind of control in the first place.

This person sounds really immature and like they don't really understand the power imbalances that parasocial relationships introduce. I would bet dollars to donuts this is a Lily fan that wishes to be included in her inner circle but likely orbits around her pretty distantly. They're using big words, clumsily I may add, to try and sound more intelligent than they are. Especially noticeable because their grammar and sentence structure are kind of shit.

[project-lumen]

》》 The LUMEN M-AHA-sterpost 《《

It was a-BAM time.

Hi hello there, fellow Life Series enjoyers! Arto, Pinkish and Kori here, live from our Game-Making Void bringing to you our comprehensive list of resources in one post for easier access and navigation!

Here you'll find our current status, some important links to other posts, as well as an overview of our tags and a handy F.A.Q. section :3

Without further ado, thank you so much, all info is under the cut!

》Status《

Date Format: [DD/MM/YY]

Current mission: On active development

》Links《

First announcement: Applications

Meet the team!

Second announcement: Our official art guide

Essential info

Arto's lore scraps

》Tags!《

#projectLUMENasks : For every single one of the questions we have answered so far!

》F.A.Q.《

What is this?

Project LUMEN is an effort to bring the Life Series to life in a brand new way, in videogame form! A RPG of sorts with battle mechanics, interaction with npcs, our own unique spin in Watcher Lore, changing art styles and multiple endings with a bunch of mechanics we need to keep secret for now but we know you all will enjoy, at least we hope so.

Cool, how can I contribute?

We want LUMEN to be a game by the community for the community, a tribute to all the wonderful artists, writers and creatives of all kinds. And it is a HUGE project, as such, all help is appreciated. We plan to open applications from time to time to recruit people as passionate as us into our little team. But everyone can lend a hand if they so desire, all ideas, all likes, all reblogs, all comments, all art, is truly, genuinely appreciated. Project LUMEN is completely non-profit, a passion project turned group effort that we are willing to pour our heart into, and we want to be as transparent as possible with it.

How will development of the game itself go?

As for specifications, Kori is the one in charge of the coding department, we are going to use Unity and C# to program everything, Arto will manage music and Pinkish will be in charge of the Martyn and Ren section. But once we review our first batch of applications, we will contact our chosen ones with more details, either for character sprites, script or any other miscellaneous things. We will all be working together as a team, each contributing as much as they so desire.

We will then take to developing our early alpha build including our very first couple of chapters, and release it for playtesting, then we will take all the feedback and make the pertinent changes. We will improve the game and continue developing until we have an almost finished beta build that we will then publish for testing. Take all the criticism again to finally reveal our finished product. Releasing first on itch io and then hopefully ported into Newgrounds for mobile compatibility.

Is there a release date?

As of now, we'd rather not promise anything. But we are actively working on development, and we hope to, at the very least, have a playable alpha demo at the end of this year.

[chamoemileclown]

your art has singlehandedly convinced me to watch parkciv 1 and 2. tbh they were... pretty solidly mid. but i have been dragged down the fandom rabbit hole kicking and screaming i might as well read up on the source material.

that being said tomorrow we watch pvpciv. and further investigate the ao3. we leave at dawn, take no prisoners

it’s so wild to me the amount of people who tell me they watched parkciv because of my art,, like i hope you didn’t go into it thinking its about yaoi because it definitely is not.

real talk i think my enjoyment comes from the mid-ness of it,,, like yeah it’s nothing crazy and sometimes corny but i think thats the best part about it. its silly and i can project a bunch of head cannons and put the characters into fun little aus because it’s not too complicated to fully understand. i did have covid when i first watched it and i kinda wonder if that contributed anything to it?? maybe it cooked my brain or something idk

[tacoma-narrows]

Tac's Yearly OC Art Shirt Design - 2024!

IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN!!! For anyone who doesn't know, every year I make a collage of a bunch of art I've gotten of my characters over the preceding year, and get that printed on a t-shirt for myself!! I do this as a way of thanking everyone who's made me something, regardless of if its on this shirt or not, and then showing it off to other people any time I wear it! This is the 6th year in a row that I've made one! :D

I’ve had the design for about a week now, and the shirt came in the mail earlier today, so it's finally time to post it!!

About half of these are from Art Fight, with the rest being mostly gifts, trades and a couple commissions in there too hehe :3

There are 11 different characters of mine on here (plus one friend's OC hehe), and most of them have a pretty good showing! Though there's strong contributions from Seabreeze, Luau, Starburst and Tarmac hehe! Can u spot all my characters? hehe. Overall, included in here we’ve got: Shep, PB, Starburst, Luau, Seabreeze, Rye, Pumpernickel, Astro, Soda, Tarmac and Vostok!

And of course! Those characters are represented through the 18 amazing artists who were all kind enough to allow me to include their work here!! Again, this is one of the ways I say thank you to anyone who’s ever made me something. Whether I included your work or not, I absolutely love anything anyone takes the time to make for me <33

And here are the people who made the art featured here! Go support their work if you don’t already! :D (Also linked are each piece they contributed!) @macaronichewtoyz! [ 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 ] @clear-valley! [ 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 ] @lesbianluxray! [ 1 ] @faaarawayyy! [ 1 ] @a-little-monotonous! [ 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 ] @bellhopping! [ 1 ] @hummiscellanea! [ 1 ] @natarstyc! [ 1 ] @ajd-na! [ 1 ] (Had the J and D swapped on the shirt, sorry aha </3) @woofledog! [ 1 ] @grovery-store! [ 1 ] ArchivalWyrm [Instagram]! [ 1 ] (Credited as LunarGalaxyWing on the back of the shirt since he changed his username after I ordered the shirt lol) RolyJulioli [Instagram]! [ 1 ] Creative_Lass [Instagram]! [ 1 / 2 ] Abyssal_Sapphire [Instagram]! [ 1 ] SilvarooHub [Toyhouse]! [ 1 ] KittenPlush [Instagram]! [ 1 ] FangGraves [Instagram]! [ 1 ]

To anyone wondering, no, this shirt is NOT FOR SALE!! This is a very personal thing for me every year, and of course it would be wrong of me to profit off the work of other people

Again, thank you all so much to those of you who’ve made me something at any point, who’s work I’ve included here, and just people who continue to support my work and what I do. It really does mean the world <33

You can see what the actual printed shirt looks like, along with closeups of the design and previous years' designs below the cut if you want! I'll also reblog this with my previous years' versions as well! :D

The physical printed shirt! (Front and back)

Design Closeups!

And previous years' designs! From 2019 to 2023! For lists of credited artists, see these links: 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023

[tinyundercover]

the half-pint

Nyx and Perrin are thieves in a fantasy universe. After a mishap, Nyx suffers the consequences of her actions. word count: 2.5k @gtgotcha4gaza prompt for @sizediscount !! the donation period is still open if anyone wants to contribute and receive g/t art or writing <3

Nyx’s jobs were always simple— get in, steal the thing, then get out. 

She had been accepting these jobs for years, and by now she considered herself to be one of the best thieves in the area. Along with her partner, Perrin, there wasn’t a single enchanted object, gold coin, or rare pet that the two of them couldn’t steal with ease. 

However, as she and Perrin peered into the camp of fairies, she immensely regretted accepting this job.

“How are we supposed to get to the flower without being seen?” Nyx muttered, dark eyes narrowed. 

The two of them were hidden behind a bush, crouched on the dead leaves of the forest floor. Beside her, Perrin sent her an amused glance. Brown curly hair rested atop his head, slightly darker than his warm, tan skin. “Who cares if some fairies see us? What are they gonna do, bite our ankles?” 

Nyx frowned, gaze focused ahead. Her black hair was pulled back into dozens of dark braids, snaking down her back. “Fairies can cast spells, genius.”

Perrin’s lips twitched into a smile at her stoic response, glancing back towards the camp. “I know, I’m just joking.”

Earlier in the day, a client had reached out to the Nyx and Perrin, requesting their skills. Their task was to retrieve an incredibly rare flower from the center of the fairies’ camp, buried deep in the woods. 

Nyx prided herself on being stealthy, nothing more than a shadow— yet as she examined the rows of miniature houses ahead, she wondered how she could possibly sneak through this tiny town without her footsteps shaking the buildings.

She felt like a big, awkward giant. Even crouched on the forest floor, hidden behind the bush, she was bigger than any of the little buildings. She could maybe squeeze her hand through a doorway if she tried. The houses were scattered over the ground, assembled from twigs and leaves. Tiny lamplights, glowing with green fairy magic, illuminated the area.

Even though it was well into the night, Nyx could still see the glimmering, colorful wings of the fairies still awake, drifting between the shops and houses, floating mere inches above the ground. Each fairy appeared to be the size of her pinky.

Further into the center of the little camp, about twenty feet away from Nyx and Perrin, a thin plant reached towards the night sky. Several blue flowers sprouted off of it, glowing faintly. All they needed was one of those flowers, and their mission would be complete.

“This sucks,” Nyx grumbled, sitting back. “We’re too big. They’re gonna see us no matter what we do.”

“We’ll just have to be fast, then,” Perrin mused, fingers drumming over the thick material of his pant leg. They both wore dark, earthy colors to blend into the forest around them. “I could run in there and grab a flower in ten seconds.”

“Ten seconds is more than enough time to get cursed by a bunch of fairies, Perrin,” Nyx scolded. He shrugged his large shoulders.

“It was just an idea. What do you suggest?”

Nyx focused on the blue flowers ahead, eyes narrowing. “I have a plan.”

Minutes later, Perrin had disappeared into the tangles of the forest, leaving Nyx alone behind the bush. She waited patiently, barely blinking, the silence of the forest unbearable.

Eventually, she heard a crash from deep in the forest, as well as Perrin’s footsteps dramatically stomping away. To Nyx, it wasn’t incredibly loud, but the tiny fairies mingling around the camp reacted as if they had experienced an earthquake. 

Immediately, voices rose up from the winged people, bright and angry. Perrin continued to make quite a ruckus somewhere in the forest, serving as a distraction, and Nyx leaned forward, focused.

The fairies began to swoop towards the noise, away from Nyx. Careful not to rustle the leaves around her, Nyx pulled herself to her feet, her lean body posed to move quickly.

The fairies seemed even smaller once she stood to her full height. She watched silently, hidden in the shadows of the trees, until the swarm of glowing wings faded into the distance. Once she was certain that the camp was empty, she darted forward into the tiny village.

The houses barely reached her knees. Nyx kept her gaze low as she weaved through the buildings, cautious of where she placed her feet. She didn’t want to knock anything over— her job was to steal a flower, not to leave destruction.

Her heart raced with exhilaration when she finally reached the plant. It twisted towards the sky, swaying slightly, and without any hesitation she whipped her knife out of her sleeve and sliced a flower off at the stem.

The glow of the flower flickered briefly. Dropping it into a small jar she had retrieved from her tunic, she spun on her heels, swiftly moving away.

The hum of fairy wings grew in her ear, and she cursed under her breath. Just as she reached the edge of the camp, a blur of green wings blocked her vision.

Nyx stumbled, pressing all of her weight into the balls of her feet so as to not tumble over and break any of the delicate buildings. She jerked back, focusing on the fairy hovering directly in front of her face, his little arms crossed over his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He barked, his small voice alight with fury.

This fairy must have stayed behind in the camp. For a moment, Nyx was terrified— until she processed just how small this man was. It was very difficult to feel intimidated by someone the size of his finger.

She scowled, darting around him. “Get out of my way, half-pint.” His wings hummed angrily.

Fortunately, he didn’t seem keen to chase after her. He only called out to her, voice dwindling with the distance Nyx rapidly put between them. “How confident,” he remarked. “You’ll regret this.”

When Nyx glanced over his shoulder, he was still hovering at the edge of the camp, the glow of his wings illuminating the trees in a faint green light. She said nothing, lips thinning.

His words rocked around her mind until she met up with Perrin, half a mile from the camp. He clapped her on the shoulder, grinning as she presented the jar— but despite their victory, her stomach still tingled with unease.

—

After the worst sleep of her life, Nyx jolted awake.

Darkness surrounded her, suffocating. She blinked rapidly, reaching around for the edge of her blanket, but she couldn’t figure out where she was.

Last night, after their successful mission, Nyx and Perrin had retreated to the closest inn and passed out on cheap beds. Nyx had been prepared for a restless night on the lumpy bed and stringy blanket, but she hadn’t expected to feel this dizzy upon waking up.

“What the hell…” Nyx muttered, finally finding the edge of the blanket and yanking it down to her chest. The fabric was much thicker than she remembered. She hadn’t realized that the blanket was large enough to cover her entire body… strange.

Her confusion grew as soon as her vision cleared.

The ceiling, dark and wooden, stretched high above her. She blinked several times, brow furrowing. The room hadn’t seemed this big when she had gone to sleep last night.

Something was inexplicably wrong.

Anxiety wormed its way into her chest, she sat up, wrapping her arms around herself. Icy fear struck her like lightning when she registered what she was seeing. 

The bed stretched around her, an impossibly huge expanse of beige cloth comparable to a wheat field. The edge of the mattress dropped away to a wide, empty space, a drop that would surely kill Nyx if she were to tumble off. Beside her, her pillow was a mountain.

“What…” Nyx swallowed, the color draining from her face.

If she didn’t know any better, she would think she was the size of a fairy.

Her stomach twisted into knots, fearful, confused, shocked. Fighting the dizziness clouding her mind, she shoved herself to her feet— and immediately her arms shot out to keep her balance. She let out a panicked shout, heart pounding. The plush mattress was much harder to stand on than she had been expecting.

Something creaked in response to her yell. Nyx snapped her head up to the other bed.

Her heart jumped into her throat. The sun was barely rising in the window, pale light streaming in to illuminate the hill of Perrin’s shoulder. His chest moved with steady breaths, curls buried into a pillow.

“Oh gods,” Nyx mumbled, stomach dropping.

Perrin was already a big guy, shoulders broad and thick— but this was incomprehensible. Even from across the room, his size absolutely overwhelmed her. Usually they were close to the same height, but Nyx was small enough now that he could easily scoop her up in one hand, and the thought made her nauseas. Nyx’s breath hitched in her throat, unable to pull her gaze away from his enormous, sleeping form.

“Oh gods,” Nyx repeated, panic rising.

Her heart jumped as Perrin shifted again, a large hand tightening on his pillow. When his eyes fluttered open, she fought the urge to turn and run.

It’s just Perrin.

You’ve worked with him for a year. 

It’s Perrin. It’s fine.

Nyx swallowed thickly, stepping back, heart thudding nervously. Perrin didn’t notice her. He sat up and stretched, yawning into his hand. 

His movement brought a small gasp from Nyx’s lips. She hadn’t expected him to sit up, especially not so quickly, revealing that he was much bigger than she could have imagined.

Gods. I’m small.

Her chest tightened when his gaze swooped towards her, drawn to her gasp. Panic settled into her stomach as soon as his eyes fixed on her small form, squinting, then widening.

The world seemed to freeze for a moment, as he took in the sight of her tiny, trembling form. 

“…Nyx?” His voice broke, shocked.

Adrenaline gripped her by the wrists. All reasoning left her mind, leaving her only with primal terror— and with no explanation why, she spun around and bolted.

“Wha— Nyx!”

The startled shout only encouraged her to sprint faster, stumbling over the thick blanket. Panic raced in her chest, shrieking in her ears to run.

Perrin’s footsteps behind her were large and fast, shaking the bed below her. She let out a shriek of surprise when two enormous hands slammed onto the bed in front of her, and before she could halt her sprint she collided right into his palms.

“Nyx, Nyx, woah— it’s okay!”

Cold terror shook Nyx to her core. She staggered away from the enormous hands in front of her, each finger large enough to overpower her with ease— a terrifying, sickening thought. She whirled around, wobbling on the plush surface. 

Perrin was kneeling on the floor, broad chest pressed into the side of the bed. His arms stretched forward, hands clasped firmly behind Nyx’s tiny form, trapping her. He was absolutely massive.

No. I’m tiny.

His eyebrows tugged together, a plethora of uneasy emotions crossing his face. Under his enormous, overwhelming gaze, Nyx felt like a mouse. She wanted to sob.

“It’s okay, it’s okay— I promise.” Perrin’s intense gaze focused on her, glancing over her trembling form. “It’s just me, Nyx, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

His comforting words tugged at her heart, and she took several deep breaths, hugging herself. Perrin’s presence surrounded her, enormous and overbearing, and she choked on her breath. “What’s— what’s happening—?”

“Breathe,” Perrin ordered gently, gaze softening. Something enormous and warm pressed into Nyx’s back, and after a nervous flinch she registered that it was his finger. “It’s okay.”

Nyx’s breath shuddered, and she brought her hand to her dark cheek, shakily scraping away the tear that had fallen.

Once Perrin seemed confident that Nyx had relaxed, he carefully unclasped his fingers and pulled his hands towards himself. Nyx let out a shaky breath, stomach twisting.

“Are you okay?” Perrin finally asked, brow knit together in concern.

Nyx swallowed, struggling to meet his enormous gaze. Her voice felt small and weak when she spoke, an uncomfortable feeling. “I… I think so.”

Perrin observed her glancing anxiously around the expansive room, taking in her wobbly, tearful, tiny form. “What happened?”

She blinked in confusion. Reaching back into her memory, she focused on the events of last night. Green wings floated around her mind.

Gods!

“I think… I think a fairy cursed me,” she murmured, heart sinking.

Fairy magic was incredibly difficult to fight. If Nyx wanted to break the curse and grow herself back to her usual height, it would take unfathomable amounts of research and work. The thought that she might be trapped this size for an indefinite amount of time made her feel ill.

“Oh.” Perrin blinked in surprise. “Huh. I guess you were right about how dangerous fairies are.”

“You think?” Nyx muttered, face hot. 

Perrin glanced over her, and Nyx wondered if he was aware of how intimidating he appeared, just by existing. He chewed his lip, lost in thought. “It’s alright,” he finally said. “There’s a library downstairs. I’m sure they have hundreds of books on fairy magic.”

“Right.” Nyx nodded unhappily, her stomach jumping every time Perrin shifted, as if he might snatch her up without warning. “Right, we should… go do some research.”

He nodded. His shoulders straightened up, shooting icy surprise into Nyx’s ribs, but he didn’t seem to notice her startled flinch. With a focused expression, he reached towards her.

Nyx inwardly cursed, jerking back from the massive, approaching fingers. However, instead of trapping her in an overwhelming fist like she had expecting, Perrin only lowered his hand to the bed, palm facing up. His gaze softened.

“Let’s go,” he offered. “I can’t imagine you want to stay that size any longer than you have to.”

She blinked up at him, tense. Her mind raced.

“Yeah,” she slowly agreed, peering down at his palm. “Right.”

His hand was enormous. Thick scars and calluses awaited her, his skin worn and damaged with overuse. She froze, stomach cold.

Her trepidation did not go unnoticed. Perrin leaned closer, eyes gentle. “Do you want to stay here?”

His words suddenly felt insulting. Did she really appear so weak and vulnerable that a simple trip to the library downstairs was too much for her? Her terror slowly melded into embarrassment. She and Perrin had gotten into countless dangerous situations together, all of which she had remained calm and cool and rational. This shouldn’t be any different.

Fueled by spite, she surged forward, stepping firmly onto his hand. 

She wobbled, not expecting the skin of his palm to sink slightly beneath her feet. Fighting the anxiety flickering in her chest, she sat down, settling into the center of his massive palm. Her arms crossed.

“Alright,” she huffed, furious at the situation. Perrin’s lips twitched in amusement. “Let’s go.”

If she was lucky, they’d be able to find a counterspell in the library, and she’d be back to normal in a few hours.

Everything would be fine.

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I had a great time writing this!! be sure to check out the other writing/art contributions from other volunteers as well!! <3