#bright living

[annika-shurafa-interiors]

[notacluedo]

lil guy as a companion for my other lil guy

[the-home]

[prideprejudce]

one thing I will say is that I like the costumes and how they are sourced faithfully off the cartoons costumes

i mean let’s just remember where we started

to how its going now

[luffyque]

i'm sorry but luffy instinctively going for zoro to wake him up and proceeding to close the gap as he whispers to call zoro's name literally doesn't need any hetero explanation at all. yup

[uncanny-tranny]

All I want is to go to a trans person's funeral after they lived a full, enriching life. I want to see trans people grow old, I want us to live like the stars. We don't deserve to burn out before everybody else. When we die, I want it to be because we grew old, because we had lived.

[glass-trash-bab]

I got too into the tumblrclan thing and drew a bunch of tumblr references as sparklecats. enjoy

[scatterbrainedbot]

(okay so i wanted to play with this a lot more but its been like a month and @somerandomdudelmao has posted like twenty updates since so im gonna just slap some textures on it and call this donezo for now)

cass has given us so many amazing moments, and plenty are far more intense and emotional than this but like

theres just. something about casey saying this,

and having to then quietly go back down into the sewers, alone

bonus:

[draagonprincess]

Seeing 15 year olds making cutesy posts about how to act like your kin type or decorate your room like a den or whatever just... warms my heart in such a tender and specific way. Its the sweetest rebellion in the face of a culture that demands every teenager behave aloof and as palatable to one of three mainstream aesthetics as possible. I wish every kid had such courage and such passion for their individuality. I love it. Every time a young teen makes a kin aesthetic post the world becomes a more delightful, accepting place where kids are allowed to be kids and adults are allowed to have fun

[puppyeared]

hello every nyan

fan character for Laika's Comet, by @catmask (go check it out!!)

[annika-shurafa-interiors]

[crabsnpersimmons]

a little while ago @linafoxoficial challenged me to draw Sun as HUGE as i could so...

i'm taking it one step further (:<

i challenge y'all to draw Giant Sun

ALL AROUND THE WORLD!

i'll tag a few people, but there's no obligation! this is just some silly fun (:

@starriegalaxy @vacantfields @inkydoughnut @nikolliver @thatmooncake @normal-about-the-dca @oobbbear @sulfadimethoxine @cookiiemancer @cacaocheri @scribbyizback @ren-054 @endu115 @eggcromancer @ohno-the-sun @imclou @aquacomet @horrific-dunce @haruka-636 @zamjd @vodyaniks @ghosteii @strawberrytamii @cosmog-mcgee

and anyone else who wants to join!

it's okay if you're not used to drawing buildings and backgrounds, neither am i 😂

i did a little comic, but feel free to do whatever's most comfortable for you, as long as it's Giant Sun in all his anxious, big-nosed glory standing next to a landmark of some sort.

(PLUS, lina's birthday is coming up in May, so this is a like a fun little gift for lina as well!)

so here's lina's Giant Sun in... Toronto! 🇨🇦

now go! send Giant Sun across the globe!

[novelconcepts]

There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

[lycorim]

The stupidest ASoIaF AU ever, in which the houses all turn into their sigils for one week of the year. Yes, this does have horrifying implications for the Boltons and plot altering implications for Jon that I will be ignoring for the sake of Ned’s blood pressure (uhhhh umm let's just say that because Lyanna was a Stark he does Wolf Week instead of Dragon Week shut up)

Part 1: Winterfell

[Pt. 2]

[twobrokenwyngs]

the right questions ⟶ True Detective Season 1: The Long Bright Dark ⟶ True Detective Night Country: Part 3

[giggleonthestretcher]

living dead dolls from kera maniax volume 2

the dolls are wearing clothes designed by the creators of popular brands featured in kera maniax in the early 2000s. there are patterns and instructions on how to make the doll's clothing at the back too ❤︎