#really proud of this one :D

[pand1on]

Claim your destiny

Been absolutely enamoured with @starrjoy's pandora au comic and naturally had to do some fanart before the next update crushes my soul <3.

[von-leg]

My work for @truffyfest !!!

Download the rest of the zine here :D (its free!)

[keeps-ache]

overgrowth and languor

[recommended you click and zoom] (alt versions below)

[boimann]

[mayordea]

the wife, she is complete. i still really love this design a lot

[mushramoo]

woe, father figure be upon ye 🫵

[kyurochurro]

TNG character sketches!! been wanting to draw this crew for a hot sec so I got around to it at 3 am last nite… LOL

(also I haven’t started tng yet but hey I dedicate this to my DAD big tng fan first Trekkie I ever met SHOUTOUT TO YOU DAD 🗣️)

[silvermun]

The King’s orders are absolute ⚔️

my full illustration for the @shadow-zine!

[mycherrycola]

three weeks after Rite Here Rite Now I still think about the fact that when it ended my husband (who I forced to go in blind to get his honest opinion on the band) turned to me, started to say something, but stopped himself and said, "no, I'll tell you when we get to the car". Once we got to the car he pulled out his phone, typed around a bit, and finally exclaimed triumphantly, "I KNEW it! He's Swedish."

And that was his only takeaway from the whole film

[m0liku-mori]

MY EXAMS HAVE ENDED it’s time to do a lot of stuff (hyperfix delulus)

[tlcartist]

The beheading of Cazador

Closeups and background info below 👇

This is a classic painting study based off of Judith slaying Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi, 1614–18. In the story, Judith, a beautiful widow, is able to enter the tent of Holofernes because of his desire for her. Holofernes was an Assyrian general who was about to destroy Judith's home, the city of Bethulia. Overcome with drink, he passes out and is decapitated by Judith.

[luffysprincess]

morning after pt. 2 (close ups below)

[eraser-collector]

Commission art for @surrealsunset

[babykittenteach]

A young Ed in a fairytale style illustration.

[moralcandy]

fifteen things that don't come back, by charlie slimecicle:

number one. the paper airplane you and your daughter throw at your husband while his back is turned in the kitchen, the two of you hiding behind the counter as you snicker quietly when he stops humming and yelps a curse as he turns around with a faux angry expression and a poorly-hidden smile.

number two. the glass your daughter broke trying to grab it from the cabinet on her tippy-toes. you didn't look over until you heard the glass shatter against the kitchen floor, too preoccupied with grabbing the jug of cold orange juice from the fridge to notice until it was too late. golden, afternoon sunlight shone warmly on the both of you from the open window as you swept it up while she stood to the side with a sheepish expression.

number three. your husband's soft shirt he let you borrow when you said you couldn't find your own but really you just quickly shoved yours under the bed when he wasn't looking. you absently noted that it smelled like him. your lips curved into a slight smile without input. your foot shoved your shirt under the bed a little bit farther.

number four. the pictures you took of your daughter and niece, hugging eachother as they posed for the camera, the photo incinerated into ash when you blew up your house. you frantically dug through your daughter's chest afterwards, soot covering your hands as you searched for the photograph. you did not find it.

number five. your niece.

number six. the feeling of a cold glass of wine held tipsily in your hand, the waterdrop of condensation slipping down the glass at the same pace your tears did down your cheeks. you downed the alcohol until there was nothing left except a burning feeling and a lump in your throat. the bartender did not give you another drink.

number seven. your friend, the one who used to laugh hysterically with you as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders before he began to scream at you while he wrapped his hands around your neck. he pushed you into the dirt, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth and the feeling of wet dirt on your skin as you absently question whether the water dripping on your face was the rain or the tears slipping down your friend's face. you know that was the funeral of your children, but you think both of the real 'you's died that day, too.

number eight. the warm, rumbling feeling of laughter in your chest as a smile hurts your cheeks, the sensation long gone. your mouth, for a moment, twitches into a small smile at the memory of the feeling.

number nine. the feeling of hands on your own, your husband's warm hands intertwined with yours as your cold, golden rings clink against eachother. your daughter's tiny hand clasped around yours as she leads you to a butterfly she found, grass brushing your ankles as you walk.

ten. the sound of your daughter's amused laughter, snorts interrupting occasionally. her head leans back as she giggles, her eyes scrunched up in happiness.

eleven. the sound of your husband's soothing voice, lilting with fondness as he looks at you. a smile absently crosses his face as he speaks, audible in his voice. you always remember smiling back.

twelve. your golden wedding band your husband lovingly slipped onto your ring finger so long ago, the one you furiously tossed into a dusty corner with particularily bad aim. you blame the poor aim on the tears blurring your vision, but it could've been the alcohol, really.

thirteen. your husband. you try to go to sleep in the center of your bed now, knowing that he won't be there. when you wake up, you always find yourself on the left side of the bed, as if you've moved in your sleep to accommodate someone. you scowl and think that your asleep self should stop being so stupid. ..you make the bed just in case he really does decide to come back.

fourteen. your daughter. whenever you make yourself breakfast now, you keep accidentally making two bowls, the muscle memory automatic, familiar, and no longer needed. you sit down at the table and set the bowls and begin to eat, but you always end up just stirring the cereal with your spoon as you stare at the untouched bowl across from you. you always end up throwing them both away. without your input, a frown tugs slightly at your lips as your pour out the second bowl but you know that nobody else was even here to eat it anyway. your eyes burn.

fifteen. your daughter, the one you know isn't the real one. sometimes you walk down those train tracks where you found her, hoping she'll be here this time. she never is. ..you still keep checking, just in case.

[kyurochurro]

dance with me , hero!!