i was trying to replicate the style of one of my favorite artists they don’t post anymore but their homestuck stuff is great check em out (daverose warning tho) i love how they draw noses
im like balls deep in AH hyperfocus rn but i just wanted to come back to say, softly and with tears in my eyes, that alpha dave and alpha rose loved each other desperately and were tainted with the knowledge that no matter what they did theyd both die in the face of an unstoppable force in the name of an unwinnable resistance, side by fucking side. anyway thanks for stopping by goodnight
I hate to leave this website like this. I have a lot of mutuals and a lot of friends on here and up until the most recent announcements I had full plans to continue using this blog
But like. Idk. I don’t really feel comfortable continuing to use a dying skeleton of a website while they sandblast away every bit of not-ad-friendly content and fuck over everyone in the process. I don’t want to be here making them money while they essentially gut the eight-something years i and a lot of other people have put into their blogs
this fucking blows. it sucks super bad. but im done with it! tumblr has never given a single fuck about its user base and things are objectively going to be getting worse from here on out.
i’m not gonna delete my blog but more than likely it’ll get muted on the 17th anyway, so. whatever.
I’ll be on twitter @ twitter.com/honklust and my nsfw twitter @striderfucker if anybody wants to follow me over there. i’m just like………..so fucking done w this site
Daverose rlly is like the ghost of every indie movie you ever felt a little too close to your heart, melted down and injected directly into everyone in this fandom
some type of au where dave is the cinnamon-gum-chewing bleached blonde douche sporting one missing lens on his ray bans and jade is the big eyed girl who elbowed it out in the mosh pit along with giving him a NASTY bloody nose but shes laughing so hard through her apology it feels really disingenious and then when she’s stuffing toilet paper in his face in the bathroom he feels faintly dazzled by things like the complicated looking braid her hair is in and the little bullet tattooed on her finger and also he smells like pretzels and beer and she smells way out of his league and he goes home with her number written in ballpoint on the inside of his wrist
no offense but dave strider keeps a shoebox under his bed full of various candid photos he’s taken and developed of rose in his makeshift bath/darkroom and he can remember the specifics of every single one because of how in love he is with her
He collects bones and feathers and takes pictures of dead things, flattened out against the asphalt like tragic, gruesome little mistakes and sometimes he finds himself there, in those terrible images, guts spilled out and drying in the sun. some days he thinks he’s more the subject than the photographer.
Sometimes he thinks maybe life is just one big Ford F-250 and god is a texan in a wifebeater and a pair of anime sunglasses going 90 in a school zone and Dave, well, Dave is a possum that chose the wrong moment to cross the street.
He never brings up his art - if you could even call it that. It’s just a thing he does. A morbid little compulsion he indulges, taping up trash bags over his windows so he can develop the film (old fashioned, maybe, but he likes the feel of it, likes the tactile experience). He spends more time playing with corpses and carefully rearranging his jars of wet specimens than he does with the turntables his brother had bought him (a well-intentioned gift, maybe, or more likely a quiet bid to have something else to hang over Dave’s head)
Rose is the only person who he talks to about it. He sends her snapchats of his newest arrangements, his little strings of developing Polaroids hung up in his closet. She understands and she doesn’t strike him with too much sarcasm over it - they both know where to draw the line. They’ve both been raised by people who showed them exactly how to cross lines.
She supports his little hobbies and he coos in long, rambling nonsense passages over her newest knitted projects - when they’re younger (11 and 12 and 13 and scared) and she’s a little more emo she makes little stitched dolls for both of them - poppets, perhaps - and he jokes that it’s like a voodoo doll and sleeps with his under his pillow until he graduates college.
these days the majority of daverose content we all produce is some unholy combination of jokes thinly veiling a deep need, overt insincerity to the point of it wrapping around itself and becoming sincere once again, absurdist abstract concepts that draw from a hundred things that aren’t anywhere near being homestuck related, all with a desperate kind of nostalgia that doesn’t even define what time or place we’re longing to return to, and i think that’s something close to describing what daverose as a ship is.
pixelskylines
vaporwave
stormborns
areudirty
janainaart
ellievsbear
kaledo-art
