unable to stop dwelling on the discworld trouser leg of time where, in the penultimate fight scene in Nightwatch, Carcer manages to kill teenage Sam Vimes.

Which means that the future that Duke Vimes came from can no longer exist, which means he can’t go home. Meanwhile you’ve got a bunch of history monks with stored up temporal energy, a prepared space outside of time, and the need to do some desperate damage control before the Auditors get involved. Death shows up, reality is unweaving, Sam is reading Carcer his discworld miranda rights because what else is he supposed to do.

and finally, with little other option, the monks de-age Sam so he fits the time period and send him back out into the fray.

(they didn't call it deageing of course. His memory is hazy, splintered during that terrible in between moment, They....took the time out of him? Sanded away the edges of his self for a terrible, workable fit? It...wasn't a good feeling.)

Just—damn. Sam Vimes having to live his whole crapsack life over again, but this time as his disillusioned-reillusioned, unwillingly-character-developed, noir-epic, Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes self. 

Younger (Older? He's never felt so Old, His steps so Childlike, reality twisting in his gut like one of Dibbler's pies) Sam Vimes walking around in a haze after the revolution. Desperate to go home, knowing he can’t. Wanting to drink. Knowing he can’t.

The whole precinct feels pity, he really took Keel’s death hard, hardly speaks except to do his job. Eventually he has to grit his teeth and start being present, because what else is there to do?

Resists the urge to drink until Colon takes the whole watch out to celebrate because -he’s going to be a father!

Come on Sammy, one drink won’t kill you— and after the first drink he’s cracking jokes and after the second hes smiling and after the third hes honestly the life of the party and sometime after that he’s crying about how he was going to be a father and my wife would be ashamed if she saw me drinking like this and— 

Oh shit, Did anyone else know he had a wife?? A PREGNANT wife??? What—aren’t you like 12—no you're 17 now aren't you but when did—

You guys n’ver met ’er—oh gods none if you ev’n know ‘er, is jus’ me...

What—when did you lose—

I lost her the same damn day I los’ ev’rythin else, whadya think...bleeding Carcer...the fuckin revolution...

So! That! Sam only vaguely remembers the night, but rumors travel faster than light on the disc, so by the next day the whole damn city knows about poor Sam brung low by the loss of his poor, tragic, pregnant wife, so young to be a widower, and the Seamstresses nod because they already knew, don’t ask them how, somethings you just have to know in that trade.

And his mother—I don’t know, sue me, I’m a time travel fiend but there’s something deeply intriguing about a man meeting his dead parent, who is somewhat younger than him, and stepping into the old relationship like a badly fitting thing that's supposed to fit well. She would know, right? How would she deal with her son’s impossible grief? Maybe she wouldn’t know—he spent most of the time out of the house, running with different street gangs, maybe he avoids her until she dies and lives with the guilt twice over. God, we don’t even know her name. There’s just so much narrative and emotional potential that I don’t even know where to start.

When he’s on duty, which is most time - it’s agonizing because at first he remembers cases, saves lives that would have been lost. But the more time passes, the hazier his memory because in the original timeline he was becoming an alcoholic. Fuck! A kid dies and he could have saved her if he hadn’t been such a drunk, if he had just remembered where the asshole lived, but it’s all a haze, and he wants to drown out his guilt, but that’s what caused this in the first place.

Good young Sammy, who spends his rare off-time in dusty libraries (and yes, the irony that he’s apparently Carrot now is not lost on him) reading gods-only-know.

It’s not like he can ask the wizards for help, cutthroat and vicious as they are now in the not-so-distant-past.

Good young Sam, who...talks to the Broken Drum’s pet Bouncer like he’s a real person and not a dumb rock? That’s a bit weird, but he’s a bit of a funny guy.

Good old Sam, who believed the testimony of the dwarf who said the humans were trying to rob him and let the dwarf go??

the PROBLEMS this man would cause, good grief. Can you imagine a moderately progressive middle aged man with some degree of begrudging diversity and equity training that he did, for all his sins, pay attention to, suddenly going back to like, 1990, going back just 30 years, and going...oh damn this is kind of fucked up, no man you can’t say that, holy shit.

Except Sam’s lived through even more rapidly shifting social moroes! There’s no seamstress guild, there’s no women allowed inside the university, there’s no black ribboner’s society. People hunted trolls for their teeth! But Sam can’t just unlearn everything, and he can’t shut up, and he has no real luck and anyway he would absolutely get himself (temporarily) fired.

FUCK. Sam has no idea what to do with that. None. Zero clue. Wanders around in a haze until that dwarf he saved from police brutality finds him and insists on repaying the debt. No, he insists, do you have any idea what debt means to a dwarf?

“Sort-of?” he replies hesitantly, and that honest admission of incomplete knowledge shows a hell of a lot more respect and understanding than any self proclaimed dwarf-expert ever did.

Gets a job as a surface man, hauling rocks into the city. It’s backbreaking work, but, in true Discworld fashion, it’s also one hell of a workout (again the irony of being Carrot is not lost him. he freezes for a minute while hauling a rock cart, when he remembers he's technically Lost Nobility too, in a strict sense, but someone curses at him in the street and he's comfortingly grounded)

And here is where this au slides into a SPECTACULAR romantic comedy, BEAR WITH ME. Because in his time on the Watch he’s already done noir, action adventure, war story, detective who dunnit, psychological horror, but guards guards only allowed him to be a romance protagonist in an extremely limited context.

Give me righteous, twenty-something-looking, can’t-say-he-doesn’t-have-style, young Sam Vimes, not an alcoholic,  being fed three square meals a day by his dwarven forced found family, hauling rocks. He is startled to find him bumping his head on a low hanging bar that he doesn’t think used to be there, eventually realizing that he’s an inch or two taller than he remembers. Huh. Guess all that bearhuggers really did stunt his growth.

Still doesn’t get what some of the looks from women he’s getting are about, sure, he’s dirty but so is everyone else. Fine, he took his shirt off, but it’s hot out, there’s far wrinklier than him hauling heavy loads, get a life. 

Happens to glance in the Ankh one day when it’s particularly slow and shiny and is startled to realize that he might be turning heads for a different reason. Oh. Right, not that he was ever a heartbreaker, but he did alright for himself... when he was a younger and his face hadn’t been broken so many times. Which...it isn't now.

Is mildly disturbed by the revelation.

Especially once things blow over at the precinct and what with high mortality rates, he ends up with getting hired again. The boys are delighted to have him back, nevermind that he’s an odd one, noone is ever quite in your corner like Vimsey, absence makes the heart fonder, no one else works that hard, and he’s not even competition for promotion. All around great guy, we should set him up with somebody and just, no.

It just keeps getting worse! He’s literate! He’s a feminist! He believes abuse victims! He’s got a tragic backstory! He’s unreasonably good in a fistfight! He’s kind to animals! Word gets around that there’s a good man on the watch and he’s just waiting for a good woman to come snap him up. The widower excuse doesn’t hold people off completely, and for some it’s its own sort-of appeal. 

Things REALLY become stressful after he rescues that carriage full of noblewoman.

What’s he supposed to do? Let them get robbed? Or worse? Chasing down and beating up 10 goons is as easy as beating up one, when they’re that stupid, getting separated like that, drunk and distracted, and he knows these streets better than anyone, really it’s nothing. And oh lord he’s Modest too.

I mean, they were genuinely greatful, as genuine as people like that are capable of being, the skill having grown rusty. And then there is something...magnetic about the man. An air of command.

So, soon enough you get Lady Marigold of Marigrave calling on Treckle Road for that gallant young officer who rescued them, she really needs to thank him. And Viscountess Elanor Thitzferal specifically requesting that he guard her at her next soiree. And Baroness Julieta van Shoeholten insisting that he come to her home while her husband’s away, for... manly protection.

Aaaah just zero sympathy from the guys. None. 'It’s become a competition, they’re just trying to see who can get me into bed first, it’s like I’m a piece of meat, you can’t send me sir, the Marquess greeted me in a nightee last time you made me go to—' and 'small gods Vimes are you even listening to yourself, shut the hell up'.

Simultaneous to this, (again this is several years into the timeline) swamp dragon accessories come into style. Which means abandoned swamp dragons scrounging on the street. Vimes takes one back to his apartment, blows his paycheck on dragon medicine, and eventually, heart in his chest, brings it to the Ramkin estate. The sunshine orphanage doesn’t even exist yet and he’s just standing outside the gates like an idiot, what is he thinking. Turns around, but her carriage is pulling up and—

well. they meet. it's cute. he's never felt so young. he's never felt so old, too old for her, too poor—

and certainly her thoughts linger too long on the awkward, kindly, handsome young commoner, but is it any wonder she doesn't quite connect it to the stern, dangerous, sexy young guard the ladies seem to be in some quiet, cuthroat competition over?

i have this gorgeous, absurd scene in my head in which Vimes is strong armed into standing guard at some high society soiree and one of the pushiest ladies insists he dance with here, or, if he prefers, if he's not confident about his skills, he can dance with her in-private at her home and he’s like [grinding teeth, looking for a way out, seeinf one] “I would be honored to dance with you.”

Steps right into some ultra-complex dance with multiple partner swaps (she never thought he'd pick this one, devilishly intimidating to one not strictly trained, and you barely spend anytime with your first partner).

But he does alright. Better than alright, for a common man, sometimes misstepping but his hands and feet always end up where they need to be. Raises several eyebrows part way into the song because he's throuwing in some slightly scandalous, no innovative, extra lifts and twirls that wouldn't become fashionable for another decade or two. Who even is that guy? Some out of towner? No, no he's in a guards uniform...how very strange.

Gets to Sybll and she's used to embarrassment during these dances, she tries to get out of them when she can... but can't always. Men awkwardly skipping the lifts, or worse, trying and failing. But him — oh it's him, the one who helped little Erold, and looked at her like—like—well like she was someone beautiful. And he's doing it again, and he's strong and there's a quiet moment where she's in the air, they lock eyes, and the rest of the room melts away.

And then the partners change again, the moment ended.

Just...living throught it all again. To the left, a dance he almost knows the steps to, throwing others off balance with erratic moves , honest mistakes, and delibrate stepping on toes. Improvising. Ruining. Improving. Getting far, far too much attention.

Hes almost excited when the first assassains start coming after him. It's like a hobby.

Everyone tells him he should get a hobby.

Interactions with young vetinari...I don't have the energy to write it all down, the slow circling in on each other, both burning with the need to fix the city, save it, their city.

needless to say he ends up fired again, life under real threat after offending some high lord.

Conveniently enough he has an employment opportunity- bodyguard to fucking Vetinari on his 'grand sneer.' The bastard knows vimes isn't what he seems, though sam is pretty sure that he doesnt know the exacts.

Vetinari hypothesis:(the ghost of keel? Keels son, with some hereditary curse? Or a larger spirit of justice possessing a string of unrelated souls? He knows things he shouldn't- mind reader? Fortune teller? Havelock once arranged for a wizard to bump into him on the street, the magical fool gave an odd double look and then muttered something about destiny looping in on itself giving him a headache. Destiny? Lost noble? And hes far too familiar with sybyl, one of the few bearable noblewomen in this city. And his thoughts on guilds, when havelock can trip him into speaking... Most of all, if hes reading him at all correctly (for all the mystery hes not that hard to read, unless thats a very clever cover) then it seems that behind those dark haunted eyes is Respect. Loyalty. For vetinari. What an interesting man. A puzzling asset. An intriguing threat. )

Did I mention the timeline is changing, healing slowly around the place where it was torn? Healing enough around scars to perhaps get some flexibility back, with some painful stretches and...massaging of said scar tissue?

And hes heading to unresting uberwald, a place where a werewolf pack still hunts humans and, truely unrelated but perhaps equally exhausting, an eldritch spirit of vengeance just might be looking to stretch its legs in a hapless vessel?

Opening drabble Vimes Vetinari Meta (Unwell) Scene from the Uberwald Grand Sneer

we would sell anything just to buy who we're not // we kill our way to heaven

taglist (opt in/out)

@shellibisshe, @florbelles, @ncytiri, @hibernationsuit, @stars-of-the-heart;

@lestatlioncunt, @katsigian, @radioactiveshitstorm, @estevnys, @adelaidedrubman;

@celticwoman, @rindemption, @carlosoliveiraa, @noirapocalypto, @dickytwister;

@killerspinal, @euryalex, @ri-a-rose, @velocitic, @thedeadthree

Penciled Lines

(Cross-posted on ao3, if you prefer to read it there. Reblogs still appreciated!)

Missa wakes up, and he thinks he might be doomed. This doesn’t scare him nearly as much as it should.

Missa is awake early—by his own metric, anyway. His nocturnal nature causes “early” for him to mean “early night” and not “early morning.” Regardless, “early” means that Philza is not asleep yet, still going through his nightly rituals. “Early” means that Philza is sitting up in (his? their?) the bed, pillows propped up behind him, notebook in his lap, sketching away.

And when Missa wakes up to the soft scritch-scratch of a charcoal pencil on textured paper, his forehead just so happens to be brushing Philza’s hip.

Missa can hardly breathe.

Oh no.

He knows that if he gives any indication that he is awake, Philza will stop sketching, close his notebook, shift himself over until he is politely seated on his side of the bed, and greet Missa with a friendly smile. Philza has done it before, when Missa wakes up early. That’s how Missa knows he’ll do it again.

Thus, Missa can hardly breathe—his breaths have to be the slow in-out of sleep. He can’t so much as twitch, either. He has to keep quiet and play dead or else he’ll be found out. Seen. Caught living the lie.

“Husband,” Philza calls him. They’re not married. They share a bed. They’re hardly ever in it at the same time. They have a son and a daughter. Neither of them know Missa very well. Philza has had an extra set of armor and a skull on his backpack for months, waiting for Missa. Missa doesn’t even know Philza’s last name.

Philza is a good man and a good friend—and Missa doesn't deserve him. Still, he takes what he can get. Curls around it. Hoarding every innocent kindness Philza extends like a starving creature: the generosity of a backpack fully stocked with equipment; the trust Philza places in Missa to watch the kids when he’s asleep; and now, the courtesy of not moving his hip from Missa’s forehead to ensure his “sleeping” isn’t disturbed. Missa clutches all of these little offerings in his greedy claws and hugs them into his chest, even as the guilt eats away at him.

Because, regardless of the lack of mutual feeling, he loves Philza. He loves him so, so much, and that is why he is doomed. He can’t afford to lose what little he has. He can’t cross that line. 

So Missa lies beside Philza, forehead pressed against Philza’s hip, pretending to sleep so he can imagine that they’re not just lying in bed together, but lying in bed, together; and later, when Missa truly wakes, he will sit on his side of the bed and look at Philza’s face soft with sleep and think about how lucky he is that he still has a side-of-the-bed to begin with.

Missa doesn’t mean to drift off. When it starts to happen, he’s hopelessly torn between shaking himself awake and thus giving himself away, or remaining how he is, silently fending off the inevitable. In the end, Missa clings to that scritch-scratch sound of Philza’s pencil on the paper for as long as he can before the fog at last pulls him under. 

Eventually, he dreams. In fact, he dreams of the calloused fingers he dreams of every night, hands like his own, an artist of Death, cradling and shading the contours of his face—a softness dashing charcoal across his jaw, and over his cheekbones, and perhaps on his lips, too, if he’s lucky. Defining every edge of him.

~*~

A deep sigh. Phil stops sketching as Missa shifts in his sleep. He tilts his head up so that the tip of his nose is now just nearly brushing against Phil’s hip. The motion disturbs the wild splay of his dark hair, revealing more of his face: eyelashes, cheeks, warmth. Tender blush of something Stygian and otherworldly. New.

Phil’s lips tilt upwards. He turns to a fresh page, and he starts again.

forgot to say this earlier but

HAPPY PI DAY!!

was gonna send a lil thing out to each and every moot in their inbox but I figured it'd be a better idea to just split the pie and tag all of you guys right here if that's alright!

@itsberrydreemurstuff, @sunnyys-jarss, @archangel-fucking-judas, @capring, @pointyfruit, @bibooby, @friskheart000, @sleepyjuniper, @saltyfryz, @artoutoftheblue, @starheirxero, @sipnoot, and everyone else!

the problem is I’m such a staunch believer in the slow buildup, the earnest enjoyment of meandering through terrible story decisions and weird nothing subplots to build up into a conclusion that explodes out from all that as fantastic storytelling and intrigue based on all that buildup, such that it makes it necessary to get through all that or you’re missing something essential, that I’m also a terrible person to talk to about what makes a story good. I can tell you plenty of what actually makes something tight and well-written and all that technical speak but how could anyone take my advice when I so so so love excruciatingly long unnecessarily complex fumbling and weird nonsense that spirals into, inexplicably, weird nonsense that makes you cry your lungs sore

I dreamt about a nursing student/nurse Wilson x Dr House AU, so I needed for it to become real (in a way) 😭

aughhhh i've been loving your short stories smmm!! if it's not too much work, may i request reader making nightmare flustered?<3

Sorry it's been such a hot minute! Summer is killer (not the good kind) around here. Was stuck traveling for almost 30 hours this last week alone. (Bad weather does not a short plane ride make, plus driving. So much driving...)

But I managed to get this put together for you! Thank you so much for reading!!! You guys are always so amazing!

Gods Too Need Rest

The study was quiet except for a slight shuffling and the scratch of a pen. Crumpled papers and several stacks of fallen books scattered across the normally pristine room. Draped over a table was the giant map usually taking up the better portion of the wall, the workings of an inkwell and feather pen resting on the old paper. It looked as though several new areas had been added judging by the loose sand still sprinkled over various areas.

Nightmare hunched over an old leather-bound book on his desk, searching its pages while occasionally switching books and taking notes. You could only shake your head. Pushing past the door with a tray of his preferred tea and a few finger foods, you made your way across the rather large expanse.

Nightmare’s eyelight narrowed at your footsteps, pausing long enough to watch your approach. You ignored it, continuing forward to clear a space for the tray. 

His words were low from his barely contained annoyance. “I will have you know, that if it had been any other, they would not have made it past that door. Consider this a privilege few possess." 

Ignoring him again, you busied yourself with the tea set, turning to force the cup into his hands. Sputtering, he dropped his quill in order not to spill the still steaming beverage. 

“You have secluded yourself in here for days.” Grabbing a little sandwich, you offered it. “It’s time you take a break.”

His answer was almost a growl as he waved your hand away, wiping the stray crumbs from his work. “There is too much left to do. I cannot simply stop on the whims of a…" 

Placing the sandwich down, you were far from impressed. Walking around, you kissed the side of his skull, managing to catch the skeleton off guard by delicately cupping his jaw and whispering next to where his ears would have been.

“The others worry about you. I, am worried about you.” Slowly, you stood up, fingers trailing away as he looked up with a wide socket. “I cannot force you to do anything that you don’t want to, but you should at least have a little something before you continue. If not for you, then for everyone else's peace of mind. It might do you more good than you think.”

You watched his eyelight dilate and constrict a few times as he tried and failed to speak. Eventually, he forced a clearing of his throat.

You weren’t sure if his face always had that much color, or if it was just a trick of the light.

“Yes, well… It is foolish to…” More color seemed to creep down his neck as he huffed and stood, noticeably looking away. “If that is all, I need to finish. You may go.”

You looked him over before reluctantly bowing your head. “Of course, my King. I wish you well.” Making your way back to the door, you paused. “You know, no one would think any worse of you. Even gods need their rest.” With a final nod, you passed through the door. You never got to hear his response.

…

“Such a bold little thing…”

…

No more than ten minutes later, you and the boys were more than pleased when Nightmare joined everyone in the living room with his tea and sandwiches in tow.

how do you know the difference between a huge anxiety attack and a panic attack?

Pearlescent Moon and Medea. Can women be villains?

Now this isn't my usual thing (talking about Jimmy solidarity), but I reminded myself of it on twitter I think it's interesting. (This comes from a school assignment I did) Now we all now Pearl, I don't have to explain her tragedy to you, being abandoned by Scott, either choosing to engage in villainy or being forced to depending on your perspective. But what about Medea. Medea is an ancient Greek tragedy where the titular female character, Medea, is cheated on by her husband. However she had left her on country for him, meaning he leaves her abandoned and alone. (Also she kills her kids but that doesn't come up) Both of these characters have villainous men around them, Medea's husband or Scar in Pearl's double life (he suggests the whole ice thing). But, weirdly, these female characters face far heavier social sanctioning than their male counterparts. Social sanctioning being the ways people in society shame people into behaving in socially acceptable ways. For example judgemental stares or on a legal scale, being arrested. Medea, seems to reenact this social sanctioning on herself, showing she really has internalised these ideas whereas we see this less from Pearl. When speaking Medea says “For women, divorce is not respectful; to repel the man, not possible.”, now this shows her internalisation but also really highlights how absolute this issue is for Medea. Divorce clearly was not socially acceptable at the time Medea was written and therefore must be "not possible" or essentially completely impossible for women to do. And this is only the "for women". Not men. I also think it's interesting divorce isn't really that big an issue, compared to things like murder divorce doesn't seem that bad but that's the thing she talks about here because it doesn't have to be a big thing for it to be a big deal for women. Any deviation from traditional societal behaviours is too much for women. Now back to Pearl, as I said rather than doing it to herself often other people are really harsh on Pearl with Martyn saying "You guys have got this whole weird vibe going on, I’m an innocent party in all this, I blame you for this. I’m breaking up with you too, goodbye, goodbye. Nether again. I’m out." after him and Pearl are abandoned by Scott and Cleo respectively. This is different from how Medea is treated because yes all the blame is put on the female charater instead of the male character (look at how many times Martyn says you, he's really enforcing it" but it calls itself out a little. Martyn here with his pun, referces the nether which he convinced Pearl to go to, and is a big reason that Scott and Cleo broke up with them. So clearly Martyn knows he has a little fault. And yes he still blames Pearl but that is mainly to move the blame off of him. So overall I still think the same increased social sanctioning is done to Pearl but the tides are shifting, allbeit slowly from that of Ancient Greece. So back to our question, can women be villains? Not really? Women are often immediately shamed and ostracised for acting villainously in any little way that it's almost impossible for them to ever be villains, although this is changing and getting less true. I think this is because of the form of humanity women get to experience. Women aren't quite as human as men in society, meaning they are not afforded the same kinds of moral greyness. Continued in reblog cause Tumblr didn't like how long it was

You know, jokes aside, the sad thing about this fandom is that back in the day it absolutely WAS awful in some areas. Especially forums. And especially Candlekeep and the RAS boards. I don't remember Lavender Eyes being too bad, but I genuinely believe that if you were around in the 2000s-2010s when the discourse around Jarlaxle's alignment and/or sexuality was going around, you deserve financial compensation and restaurant discounts for the rest of your life.

pretty sure i’ve seen romance movies with scenes like this

i get why people would opt to say walter was a terrible person since the beginning, but i think that's like, the most boring takeaway you can get about his character. he was already insecure and prideful from the start, and it's what would hurt him and keep hurting him. but like, being insecure and prideful are regular traits any regular person can have. the actions that he makes because of these traits, which in turn keep fueling his ego more and more, are what makes him an interesting character. and he was already pretty capable of hurting other people, but he wasn't doing it out of malice, but more because of careless selfishness at first. what makes walter terrifying is that the more he does it, the more he becomes aware of what he's doing, and the more he keeps going and keeps being more and more meticulous and deliberate about what he does that hurts people and even to the point when it was specifically to hurt people.

i think the traits were there in walter from the beginning—the pilot did a pretty good job of establishing how powerless he's felt all his life and just how susceptible he is to letting this newfound perceived power get to his head so easily. he even says this explicitly in 5x06 "Buyout" when he tells jesse "i'm not in the money business, i'm in the empire business". but saying he was this monster from the start kind of implies he didn't undergo through a character arc throughout the show when it's quite literally what he did. he got worse. so much worse. through mostly the fault of his own fragility.

Trying to get back into drawing so I am opening the floor to y’all. You may request a doodle of any character or ship I usually write or talk about on this blog or you may request something from any of my stories. I cannot guarantee that I will do all or any of them but I need something to work on besides the all consuming grief. You have until whenever I post a new galidraan chapter. Send an ask

also like. life update. since coming to college i think i've decided i want to be less online in general, because i don't think it benefits my mental health to be on any online website too much. i know i still have strong ties to fandom and whatnot but i'm trying to reconcile my relationship with the things i've created knowing the headspace i was in when that happened; cs is more of a diary to me than anything, at least where i'm at currently. i DO want to be on discord more this break because there's people i want to VC and catch up with-- but ultimately i think i'm like exactly the worst kind of person to operate with any kind of stability on the internet so we're going to mess around with what that looks like for me for a while. love u guys and once finals are officially up in two days i'll be back to say hi :]

Seeing this shit go around again so I'll say my peace on it

"I can't draw fat people/black people/old people/disabled people/etc etc ect" LEARN

"It's not a part of my art style" Your style sucks and you're racist. LEARN

"I'm scared ill get it wrong" LEARN and PRACTICE

There are no excuses. There's a million and one free resources, poses, tutorials, and tips on every single social media site. It's not that you can't, it's that you don't want to. And I'll tell it as it is: you're lazy, you're racist, you're ableist, you're ageist, and simply put you aren't an artist. Die mad about it and LEARN.

catching up with missed journal entries from months ago using random shit we wrote down at the time plus stuff from our search history and tumblr posts and stuff, and we got to an entry for a day that was apparently so stressful we started shaking and getting a migraine before we'd even started writing it so that's something