#my collaborations

[beatriceportinari]

Toad, origami, one square sheet of paper

[inkskinned]

i got my isbn today for the book. 8 months to go. my mom and i were talking about what the next steps are. i was eating trail mix, standing on one foot, phone tucked into my ear.

"yeah," i said. "the problem is that tumblr as a market is like, not something that can be studied." there's this weird wave of nostalgia and affection for this place that came up over me: how lovely we avoid consumerism. okay, it sucks as a creator. but also? keep stickin' it to 'em.

my mother made the sound at the back of her throat that i also make, the one that means i've got an idea. "you should figure out some kind of reward for presale amounts. maybe you give out poems or a mug or a signed book or something. would your followers like that?" my mother is sweet, and kind, and i have no idea how to explain on this website you can buy someone crabs.

i put more m&ms down the hatch. i had to speak through peanuts and almonds. "if it passes 25 thousand i will print the book out in its entirety and eat it live on camera."

"oh god. no, you don't have to do that." she was anguished. "just tell them that you'd love them to read it, and that they've inspired you to write. you got started on that site, and they helped you keep going. raquel, you love these people. the community? you talk all the time about the other writers and artists and whatever else. tell them that you're hoping for their support, they'll come through."

"no," i assured her. i discovered i had dropped an m&m, but an ant had already found it, so it belonged to him now. i will let his little life have a surprise blue treasure in it, too. "i'm gonna fuckin' eat the book."

[kingofreddragons]

A story collab: @whitecatarts did the story, story boarding, and color, and I did the editing, typesetting, and lineart.

Reads right to left. Tw: blood and gore

[salarymanwaka]

[spase2axolotl]

How they met :]

-next-

[birbs-in-space]

curious about what's in store for you for 2024? :D

Let AO3 decide!

(Updated from 2023: Up-to-date tag bank, opt-in tag categories, optional dark mode! As always: proceed with informed consent.)

[auveiss]

☀️🌊 It's summer vacation, let's go to the beach! 🌊☀️ My submission for a local furry convention art collab ✨

Art Tag | Ko-fi | Artstation | Deviantart | Twitter | Youtube

[e-vay]

His Lucky Star

Awhile ago I asked for sonamy headcanons (and I’m always hungry for more!) and I received the most beautiful headcanon from @hedgethemaze and I just had to illustrate it!

Thank you @hedgethemaze for the opportunity to draw your short story 😊

You can read Hedge’s original headcanon below the cut:

Sonic and Amy’s favorite nighttime pastime is stargazing 🌙​⭐​🌠​👀​

Amy enjoys making out constellations and discovering new figures drawn in the sky and would occasionally make up stories with them – She knows Sonic finds this a bit childish, but appreciates that he doesn’t let it show and listens to her stories, instead (even participating once in a while, throwing in some action to keep them from being too daydream-y lol).

Sometimes, looking at the stars would remind Sonic of Starfall Islands – of cyber space – of Amy being at arm's length yet, an entire plane of existence out of his reach. The thought makes him reach for her hand as they lay on their backs on the grass, with a whole new appreciation for the feel of her hand nestled in his - Amy, aware of the gnawing memory, would shift her hand and intertwine their fingers, successfully chasing the memory away.

And some other times, she’d say those stories are just bedtime-story-practice to tell their 'future' child/children, only to tease him because there’s nothing as amusing to her as watching Sonic go from cool blue to cherry red live in record time 😆

About stargazing - it occurred to me that it could be more than likely for Sonamy to catch sight of a shooting star.

Well, I imagine Sonic would notice Amy staring at the shooting star in silence, knowingly waiting for her to say something but then the star disappears from view and he'd say "huh... kinda thought you were gonna wish something for a sec,"

Amy, realizing what he means, would jump a little on her spot next to him, they'd still be holding hands, but she scooches over and rests her head on his shoulder.

"Oh! Well, actually," she rubs her cheek on his shoulder and her grip on his hand tightens "I have everything I could wish for already."

Sonic notes she's got her eyes closed, now more interested in the warmth their bodies are sharing amidst the nightly breeze. Sonic blushes, hoping in vane she doesn't notice his body getting warmer at her statement.

"What about you? Don't you have any wishes?" Amy is genuinely curious (she can feel his awkwardness, so she doesn't tease him 'this time').

Sonic looks away, the hand that's not being held by Amy scratches a very reddish cheek, taking a deep breath to cool himself, "Nah..." the shyness quickly evaporating from his voice and he braves returning her gesture by, ever so slightly, snuggling against the top of her head. Leaving Starfall in the past, to focus on the present, Sonic's already made up his mind. "I'm good, Ames."

[pictuajjx]

oh god I want him

[mooshroomteeth]

doodle on handmade paper from a friend!!

[royal-misfit]

The main reason I think Goncharov worked better as a piece of mass produced fiction over Zepotha really does come down to the basic concepts of each piece. Goncharov had a concrete idea from the start, it was a lost 1973 mafia film directed by Martin Scorsese. Meaning that people new to the joke could more easily understand how to add to the story. Martin Scorsese has an unique style to his films, he has directed multiple mafia/crime dramas that people could pull from to create a cohesive story that sounds plausible for him to have made. People were able to come up with characters (and the actors who played them) and an actual plot by just studying the genre and finding what would work. Zepotha is just marketing a single artist's work under the idea of "an 80's horror film", no director, no actual genre other than "horror" (what kind of horror? Slasher seems to be the most popular, but Zepotha sounds more like a giallo style supernatural horror to me). There's no director listed, so no one knows how this film would play out or look. Because horror is such a vague descriptor here, people are throwing just about everything to the wall to see what sticks, which slows down the actual storytelling potential. People are making up characters first, before a plot leading to there being like 50 named characters, but any actual story is lost. Tldr; Goncharov found it's footing much easier and faster by starting out with a concrete idea, while Zepotha is stumbling because it's vagueness makes it hard for anyone to agree on basic things like story or characters.

[sensitiveheartless]

Chapter 109 spoilers!

[lizziebartfest]

Year old sam and max art I made with my wife @/al00nii on insta

I painted the bg and did the lighting for sam and max

[zzoupz]

what do we think about tumblr sexyman unspeakable from faith the unholy trinity

[birrdies]

'SUNBLEACHED' (1.6k words) Our collaboration piece for the Flowers in the Desert zine! writing by me (birrdies) art by @fishbloc

Sunflowers. 

Over the flat, endless plain they stretch as far as Scar can see. Roots and leaves branch like veins and arteries through the soil on the verge of something alive. The sunflowers face the limitless blue above— no beginning or end— the stretch so vast that time itself feels as inconsequential as a marble rolling around in his hand. 

Scar doesn’t understand it.

One second his feet had been on the stone where Pearl had fallen, where lightning had struck with finality, and the next he’s up to his waist in sunflowers. Each golden petal stands on edge. As if they know something he doesn’t. He reaches out to touch one of these petals; they tickle the pads of his fingers. Shy, pretty things. 

It’s quiet here and Scar isn’t sure if it’s a silence he finds comforting or damning. He thinks he should be afraid, but how can he be? It’s warm here. The earth smells of freshly fallen rain beneath his feet, despite not a single cloud in the sky above. The fresh, dewey scent that soothes him, almost convinces him that this is a good place to be. 

“You’re here,” a voice says behind him.

There, enveloped by the countless sunflowers, is Grian. His hair is pale, sunbleached, and his cheeks are pink. Everything about him has been touched by the light in some way, down to the faded red poncho draping his shoulders and the speckling of freckles across his nose bridge. 

He’s drowning in it— this light. He’s made of it. And Scar’s eyes fall to find the sunflowers around him withering and decaying quickly. The yellow petals curl and desiccate into gray husks, breaking off their buds and fluttering to the ground. They’re dying. Not by lack of sunlight, Scar realizes, but by an excess of it. Burnt to a crisp. 

And like the sun, his skin blisters. The skin of his hands and the redness slathering them have no beginning or end. Gashes and swelling bruises and split knuckles. The blood never clots, a constant red drip falling from the fingers held limp at his sides. A quiet drip, drip, drip the only sound across the windless field. Not even so much as the sound of a breath. Just that blood.  “Grian,” Scar says. “I’m here.”

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why Grian’s here either. But he’s grateful he is. Their nightmare— or, had it been a dream?— ended long ago, the desert gone and buried several games past. The Grian in front of him now isn’t the Grian he’d fought with moments ago. This Grian was younger. More afraid. More capable of burning. 

“Where… where is here, exactly?” Scar asks.

Grian curls those bleeding fingers into the nearest living sunflower. As if he’s unsure whether he wants to caress it or yank it from the ground, roots and all. His face is twisted, it’s always twisted when Scar’s around. But he yearns for the days when that twist had been of wicked delight, the way green-lit eyes exploded into starbursts at the sight of their mutual destruction. 

“You won,” Grian says simply, taking a sunflower by the stem and starting to pluck the petals. One by one. “Congratulations.”

Scar falters. A victory. A bolt of lightning striking the earth, the loud thud of a gavel. It’s over Scar, he hears, a constant echo in the back of his mind. You won. Grian’s anger burns. A second petal falls.  “You’re upset.” Scar will do anything to make it stop, to untie the knot tied between Grian’s eyebrows, to take those cracked, bleeding hands in his own and mend them until the skin is whole again. To take away the pain, the regret, the guilt. 

Grian never left the desert, no matter how much he wanted to. And Scar could never go back. No matter how often he wished he could.

“This is your dream, Scar.” Grian turns his face away. “It’s been a long time coming— a victory.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve won anything,” Scar says honestly. A victory implies the heavy yet welcome weight of a crown, the fleeting yet intoxicating rush of excitement. But all Scar feels is the emptiness in his chest, the air around his crownless head. Blood on his hands that he can’t see, but knows is there all the same. The same way it stains Grian’s. 

Grian plucks a third petal. He barks a cruel laugh, but it sounds more like he’s about to cry. “How do you think I felt?”  Scar frowns. “It’s still about the desert? After all this time?” 

Grian plucks another petal. Four. It flutters to the ground to join the others, yellow petals torn and crumpled, slowly turning gray. The edge of his mouth tugs into a knife-like smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s all he can manage, though he doesn’t mean it. Nothing can make him regret that day, knelt in a cool pond with the weight of a diamond blade against the junction of his neck. The hand he used to hold onto it, digging it into his own skin— asking for it. “You deserved to win.”

“I deserved this? To be alone?” Grian throws his arms out to the sides, to the endless curvature of sunflowers drowning the both of them. Nothing to shield them from the unrelenting sun above. “Because that’s what winning means. You’re alone, Scar.” 

Scar’s heart plummets into his stomach. “You’re here.” 

“Am I?” A fifth petal. “Or do you just want me to be?” 

Scar stares at Grian, uncaring if the scalding brightness gives him sunspots, or if the pain of looking at the spoils of his own choices burns him up from the inside. You won, Scar, his voice echoes again and again in Scar’s mind, a scratched record. His fists curl up at his sides, into the black cloak sewn with lilacs and poppies along the hem. 

Is that what this is? A cruel illusion to make him realize what it truly means to be the man at the edge of the world, to be the last man standing? If this is victory— Scar grits his teeth and twists his fists into his cloak— then he doesn’t want it. He’s never wanted it. It was never about winning, it was about— 

“About what, exactly?” Grian snaps, plucking the through straight from his mind just as he does with a sixth petal. “Is it about this? Sunflowers? You can’t hide behind them forever. Not here. Not from me. Not from yourself.” 

“Stop it.”

Grian’s in front of him now, bloodied hands shoving him by his shoulders. Scar stumbles back and barely keeps himself upright. This isn’t right. This isn’t Grian— not the one he knows, not the one he needs. 

“Why aren’t you angry, Scar?” Another push. “After everything that’s happened to you. All the people that have betrayed you. All the times I left you behind.”

Scar grapples for self control, to reign in the flash of anger burning the back of his throat. “What are you trying to prove?” 

“Stop lying. For once in your life, look me in the eye and tell me you’re angry.” Grian yanks a sunflower from the ground and shoves it, decaying leaves and all, against Scar’s chest. “Tell me these are just a sham.” 

It’s on the tip of his tongue: the truth. A terrifying, bitter thing that burns crawling up the back of his throat. Because it betrays everything he’s worked so hard to build, the masks he’s sported like second skins, the confidence which he flaunts like a shield. Without it, what does he have left? He’s stripped clean, Grier’s hands against his chest burning like sweltering charcoal. Sunflower petals slip between his fingers. 

He opens his mouth to let it up, to tell the truth, and then—

The sky above him changes. Only slightly. If he had blinked he would’ve missed it. But clear as day he sees them overhead: clouds. Slowly rolling across a blue sky.  And he’s on his back, blinking spots from his eyes as breath rushes into his lungs. The air tastes fresh, crisp, like seawater. Eyes fluttering, he tries to remember what he’d just been about to say.  “Scar?” 

Eclipsing the sun beating down on him overhead, a head peers down at him. Dark, wide eyes, a slanted mouth. A sporting of freckles across dusty cheeks. 

Something knotted unravels in Scar’s chest. “Grian.” Grian’s lips wobble into an uneasy smile. He wipes sweat from his brow, and Scar catches a glimpse of his hands: dirty, packed with mud, but bloodless. “Whatcha doing down there, pal?”  Scar’s arms lie limp at his sides. He’s not sure he could move even if he tried. If he wanted to. Something about this peace is fragile, uncertain. As if simply breathing the wrong way will make the world shatter in two and send him back to that place. One wrong move and he’ll be alone again. 

“Dunno,” Scar says breathlessly. Stalks of wheat tickle his arms as the wind kicks up, ghosting over his body. A sunflower stands over him, waving in the breeze. “Appreciating the view. Clouds. They’re nice.”

“Come on.” A hand reaches out to him. “Stop trampling my wheat.” Scar has to stare at it to remember that it’s not covered in blood. That it’s just dirt from a long day tending to wheat and sunflowers. That the Grian smiling down at him is the real one. Not the one made to torment him. 

Scar reaches for that hand, allowing their palms to slot together. Grian’s skin is callused and warm. He’s there. He’s real. Scar isn’t alone.

[kddqr]

Collaboration with my bro @anthony33ql !!!❤️❤️