#nothing weird going on here

[hazufeliet-gw2]

My favourite screenshot of the night ♥

[findnanako]

Find Nanako in Another Crab's Treasure.

If you have a photo you want Nanako to hide in, feel free to submit it to the blog.

Remember to reblog to have as many people find Nanako as possible.

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[talesfromthecrypts]

Taking my best friends who all hate each other out for a walk

[evercelle]

2024 art summary! it sure has been a year

[egophiliac]

saw the event announcement and had to immediately drop everything and get back to my favorite pasttime (drawing Lilia). sure don't want me saving up my keys, huh, do you Twst?

[gatoburr0]

Been thinking about it

[claraoswalds]

#mrs flood who are you: time lord edition

[raiiny-bay]

some WIPs from the 80s AU i never finished

[sergle]

I'm thinking abt that pretty fall leaves embroidery pattern post and about how like... it is categorically a repost, it's a reupload. right? a thing that is generally disliked. but because it's credited, it's genuinely boosting the artist in question. and it could ALWAYS be like this. reposting content could ALWAYS be a symbiotic relationship, but because sourcing back to the original creator of something is so uncommon, it's just easier to ask people not to repost it at all. and people still don't understand the difference. or they'll go to the effort of cropping out usernames/signatures to repost something, which is More Effort than literally crediting the creator of something you liked enough to want to repost. Like. I literally don't actually care if my own shit gets reposted, you have to understand. I just don't want it STOLEN. But "do not repost" is easier to write on my art than "you can repost this, but don't alter the image/remove my signature, don't you dare write 'credit goes to the artist' because that is not credit, please link back to my original post or someplace that you can actually find me. please use an actual link/url instead of writing a non-clickable link of my username, because making it text instead of a clickable link cuts the number of people who will go to the effort of visiting my own page in Half." All those aggregate themed accounts, those fuckin annoying as hell instagrams and facebook groups that are like "body positive art we love wamen 💕 hashtag feminism" and then MASS-STEAL plus sized art created by women, if pages like these that always go and steal my older self-portraits and other works... If they just put a link to my prints of those pieces in the text of those posts, or, fuck, my commission info page? I would literally be living on the moon right now. I would have a house on the moon

[pvpcivilization]

ok im going to bed bc its late as hell here but i wanted to doodle parkciv finally

[mumblesplash]

my favorite thing about comics specifically is how much it checks your ego if you think you know how to draw characters. like i’m pretty sure people who don’t do comics assume the hard part would be how *many* drawings are involved in making a comic, and sure that’s part of it, but i think the real challenge is having to accept you’re not as good at drawing characters as you think you are. being able to depict a convincing character, a dynamic pose, or even an expressive face out of context as opposed to within a narrative is such a different skill set in ways i don’t think a lot of people realize

[aappleslice]

You can sell your soul to cover up the pain

[thelonelyshore-if]

Perri Drabble

Or, Perri wakes up next to MC for the first time.

Perri opens their eyes and sees stars. 

The sky is a silver-dusted black canvas stretched far overhead. Without their glasses the stars are just blurs of light a million miles away, but that doesn’t stop them from being beautiful. The night is crisp. Cold. They shiver, instinctively pulling the sleeves of their cardigan down.

Where…are they?

Calling this grogginess would be an understatement. Their entire body aches. Their eyelids feel heavy, still weighed down by the lull of sleep. Their skull feels like it's been filled with white noise and trying to form a thought is like wading through quicksand.

Is this what getting more than a few minutes of sleep at a time does to you? They aren’t sure they like it. Especially considering that they have no idea how in the world they got outside. For all of their insomnia, they’ve never sleepwalked before. They doubt that they’ve started now. But if not that, then how…?

Aliens.

The idea instantly cuts through the slog of thought. Perri sits bolt upright, eyes splaying wide and pulse growing quick. They grin, even though the motion sends their head into a dizzying spiral. The stars dance overhead and their stomach lurches. They don’t care.

But…wait. No. That doesn’t make any sense.

Perri stares out, realizes that they’re sitting on the deck of their lookout tower. Usually they’d be lying on the cold metal of the deck. Instead, they brush their palm against something soft and worn. Their grandma’s old quilt. Wouldn’t aliens have put them back in bed? Not just dropped them off on the deck?

And the quilt is weird, too. It’s spread out beneath them so deliberately. Did they do that? Why? They furrow their brow.

Perri makes a frustrated noise in the back of their throat. They ball up a fist, gently knock it against their forehead. Someone’s poured tar over their brain, they can’t think, and they can’t remember. They curl up in a huddle, arms wrapped around their legs and forehead pressed against their knees.

Waking up is always confusing. They sleep so rarely that it’s always hellish to claw their way back into consciousness. Even so, this feels different. Perri groans and turns their head to the side.

They turn, and they see you. 

In an instant their blood turns to ice and, nearly as quickly, melts. The excited little pitter-patter of their heart turns into great racing thumps, the weight of it so fast and heavy that it hurts. 

Oh. Oh.

You're lying next to them, body stretched languidly across the quilt. The red light of the radio tower blinks overhead. Lazily, like a pulse. Every few seconds it lights you up with a brilliant crimson haze, and then just as fast you're swallowed by the darkness once again. The illumination makes you look otherworldly, like some kind of fae creature sprawled out on their deck.

Perri tries to swallow and finds that they can't, that a rock has been wedged down their throat. Cold sweat beads on their forehead and trickles down the small of their back. There's a pinching behind their ribs that stings harder and harder with each throbbing beat of their heart.

They look away. They can’t stand watching you any longer, not when everything is a blur. Instead they stare out at the forest. They can’t make out any details, not really, but they do see the thick layer of late night fog smothering the trees. Normally they like the fog. They like how it swallows everything until they’re just a tower in the sky overlooking a sea of gray.

Right now, though, it’s isolating. They’re trapped.

Did they…did you…?

You’re lying next to them on the deck of their lookout, so clearly something happened. Perri sits up, risks another peek. You look disheveled, but of course you would. You’re sleeping outside, in the cold, in the middle of October. It doesn’t diminish your beauty, and Perri has to look away again.

Fuck.

They look at their hands. Their arms. Take stock of their body. They’re in yesterday’s cardigan and a pair of plush pajama pants. If you two had…if something had happened, they wouldn’t be dressed. Right?

They can’t take comfort in it for long, because you’re still here. They woke up next to you under the stars, and they have no fucking clue why.

Well–that isn’t true. They have some inkling as to why. You’re here because whenever they see you their heart dances. Because you make them smile. You’re beautiful, and they adore you already, and somehow you like them back. Of course they wanted you here. 

If only they could remember asking.

Perri can’t take this anymore. They get to their feet, trying not to look at you. They wring their hands over and over. The gesture calms them down, if only a little. It’s easier to think when their fingers are busy.

Memory has always been a tricky thing for Perri. Their insomnia has taken huge bites out of their brain, chewing things like memories into barely-recognizable bits. People are supposed to sleep, as a rule, and they don’t. Not really.

They stumble over to the tower railing, staring out at the fog. They just need to think, and it will come to them. What did they do last night–that’s where they need to start.

Did they put on their show? Surely they did, they so rarely miss it. If so…were you there? Did you stay after? Did you ask to stay…did they offer? They can’t imagine they would have. As much as they like you, they’re terrified. Now more than ever.

What did you two talk about? Did you watch the stars? They’ve always loved how the stars look out here. This far out from town you can see them all.

Did you kiss them?

Perri’s heart constricts. They feel sick. What if you did?

They aren’t sure they can take the thought of kissing you for the first time and forgetting about it. Anguish washes over them, leaving them feeling brittle. Like any second now they might break into a hundred tiny pieces.

“Hey.”

They spin around, heart instantly in their throat. You’re sitting up, huddled with the quilt wrapped around your shoulders. They can make out enough of your face to see that you’re smiling, though you look half asleep. A thin layer of mist curls around you, so pale they can hardly see it.

Perri meets your eyes and it’s like getting hit by a truck.

You did sit in during their show. You listened as they talked to callers, occasionally chiming in with your thoughts. You smiled at them over the soundboard, your eyes sparkling. They teased and joked in a way they don’t usually. They always feel more confident when they’re on air…and they wanted to impress you.

The whole time they wondered if you were flirting. You kept smiling at them. Making excuses to touch them–hand brushing against one another, shoulders bumping. Each time they felt half-nauseous with anxiety…and excitement, too.

And then the show ended, and they felt suddenly bold. Asked if you wanted to see the stars. They had the perfect place for it, they explained. They took you out onto the deck, spread out a tattered old quilt beneath you. Pointed out their favorite constellations.

At one point you rolled over on your side. Watched them, instead of the stars.

“What are you doing?” they whispered.

“This,” you responded, just as soft, before kissing them.

How could Perri forget?

“Um. Hi.”

They turn and face you now, emotions they can’t quite sort out churning within. They feel as elated as they are terrified. You let the quilt drop off your shoulders, smoothing it flat once again before patting the empty spot at your side.

“It’s pretty cold without you,” you say, and they think they might cry.

“Sorry,” their voice breaks, a little, but if you notice you don’t say anything.

“Come back to me?”

Perri can’t refuse. They return to your side, drop to their knees. They can’t believe they almost forgot their first night with you. In an instant they know that what they’re feeling is relief. It crashes over them so fiercely that it feels like it could knock them over. 

It makes them bold.

They kiss you. It’s clumsy, but it’s good. So good. They feel tears prick at the corners of their eyes. You kiss them back with a sleepy enthusiasm. When they pull away you reach up, brush away their tears.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, doubt flickering across your face.

“I–” they start, before stopping. Shaking their head. They remembered, in the end, so it doesn’t matter, does it? They remember you. Of course they remember you.

“I’m just happy,” Perri says. 

And they're not even lying. Not really.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

im forcing you all to look shady-car-salesman erik

[What If Magneto Had Formed The X-Men With Professor X?]

[meep-meep-richie]

they could have just kissed here, that would have been less weird🫠