Sea of feels

[jskfkqlkxkqlwkzlnwlqkwlznwosn-d]

ranking some of obito’s iconic looks and explaining why hes the UNDISPUTED KING of fashion

“sorry im late i spent 20 minutes crying because i thought i lost my yugioh cards”

nothing crazy here. could be way worse, could also be better. he’s just a cute kid who’s pretty much not even traumatized yet, what do u expect ? u can tell he has potential tho, because that was basically his ‘2007 fashion’ phase and he handled it pretty damn well since he wasnt an absolute disaster like most of us were at his age. 6/10

#goth

dark. stealthy and witchy. the pic speaks for itself. ‘i have come back during the lunar eclipse to summon some demons and murder those who have forsaken me’ energy. was wearing that mask with a hood and cuffs with CHAINS like u actually fucking cannot come up with a better look for this event. makes sure u KNOW about the fact that he knows how to hold a newborn baby AND how to sacrifice it. poetic. everyone was gagged. he was only 14-15 years old. a pioneer. u could never. 10/10

“do my mental illnesses make me look hot ?”

this kid looks like he dresses in the dark and hes also definitely starting to forget that mirrors even exist. im not roasting him right now. im being serious. u can tell that at this point he was at his lowest. probably had no gotdam idea how his clothes looked on him because he was avoiding every reflective surface he ever came across. let his hair grow because he could hardly bring himself to do basic shit, let alone think about his hair. and yet he still looks pretty nice. what a legend. that outfit is pretty bland but the realistic and depressing reasons why it even exists make it quite endearing (dare i say easy to relate to ?) and pretty iconic. 7.5/10

“h-hewwo?”

that outfit must be so cozy. like it rly looks so comfy wtf ? also looks really nerdy. the thing is, it can either be a good or bad thing and it only depends on the person wearing it. this outfit can basically make you or break you. the whole tobi bullshit showed the fact that he can make it look good even while hes behaving like the biggest chaotic dumbass nerd ever so at this point its safe to say that no outfit has ever been a threat to obito. but anyway lets be real, who gives a fuck either way ? the only thing that matters here is the fact that he looks REALLY huggable in this. also dont get it twisted. i ABSOLUTELY can tell this man smells dusty and musty no matter what he’s wearing. do i care ? no. 8.5/10

“Actually, I’ll have you know I am Madara kin.”

outstanding. his blue nail polish was a great choice and looked spectacular on him. doesnt care about glove etiquette and wears a ring over it because it’s an aquarius’ job to break the boring ass rules baby ! now for the most important part: he was bold enough to modify THE timeless, iconic outfit and managed to make it more functional (and personal) without messing with its original swag at all, which resulted in another iconic look. effortless designer shit. and its so avant-garde too ? i dress like this irl. obito is too ahead of his time and thats why he hates the world. #aquariusking. also he revealed that look during a storm and it had a goddamn hood too like what more do u need ? unfortunately, he only allowed us to witness this legendary outfit’s fierceness for 0.2 second because he knew this sad, worthless, hopeless, basic world couldn’t handle how good it looked. left us all shook. 10/10

*future - mask off (LoFi remix) plays in the background*

i wish it was his theme song. soundcloud sadboy aesthetic GOD. also lost an arm which obviously automatically adds a hundred points to the classic, legendary akatsuki outfit. has survived 600 billion bombs, has SO MUCH sauce, and yet all u can think when u look at him is ‘this dude definitely has an edgy, emo, chill anime beats blog on tumblr dot com’. and u know what the best part is ? that thought gets 100 times more powerful once u actually figure out who that guy is. i honestly love the vibes he gives off. u can tell he makes sad LoFi/trap type beats and writes sad rap lyrics about the world in his spare time. this man has definitely posted one of his depressing freestyles on soundcloud while he was high. it only has 12 favorites, and they are actually from the 12 different soundcloud accounts i have created in order to support him. 1110/10

‘proper spongebob’ meme but just deep fried enough for u to feel like something doesnt feel quite right

looks like hes desperately trying not to look too edgy bcuz hes on his way to meet his future spouse’s parents. still stays true to himself with this dark color scheme tho. this look clearly screams ‘im ready to bust my third eye wide fucking open’ and the details in the mask prove it. spiritual king. went for the total traditional aesthetic to fit the whole ‘im gonna ascend and become god now’ mood. understandable. we KNOW he could modify it and turn it into something iconic and unforgettable if he ever feels like it though. no more nail polish because he knew damn well it would’ve been quite the fashion faux-pas with all this dark purple he’s wearing, and also because any other color wouldnt have added much to this look anyway. he clearly knew what he was doing but this legend got us all used to life-changing outfits so basically, this would be a 10/10 on a basic bitch but it loses points on a superior fashion king like him because hes able to do even better. 8/10

“the world is finally ending but u bet ur ass fashion never ends”

i told u he really could do better. ugh. HIS MIND……… he deadass teared his sleeve off to make his traditional outfit just unstructured enough for his tastes…….. can u get more aquarius than that… this man increased his sex-appeal with the classic wrist-length glove and bare arm combo, fully aware of the fact that it was also going to look perfectly edgy with that long mantle he’s wearing. rebellious, sexy, murderous but never trashy. literally transformed the entire outfit’s energy with one (1) move. only a real fucking fashionista would be able to pull this shit. and then he makes things even saucier, dropping the mask to unleash decades worth of scandal and making this mythical outfit even more unforgettable than it already was….. no one was ready to get their wig snatched and ruthlessly beaten into the cold hard ground like this. the 4th shinobi world war was nothing but wig and scalp slaughter with a little bit of actual murder on the side. the reason why lee is canonically bald ? thats obito babe. 90% of the scalp cruelty was his doing, not only because of the drama he created, but also because this man has no FUCKING idea what skin care is and hasn’t felt sunlight on his face for 20 years and yet he still looks prettier than all the petty basics on the battlefield. what the fuck kinda eyelash curler was he using ? was that mascara ? was that all natural ? we wont ever know. LEGEND. also, purposely got his own heart ripped out by someone who means a lot to him for the emo aesthetic; of course not without coughing up blood on his own outfit like the true fucking artist he is. and dont even get me started on the fact that the fabric of his clothes was literally created to make his fights look even better. id willingly let him beat the shit out of me and kill me for the sake of the aesthetic. 100000000000/10

for the monster fuckers

so woke. hes starting to transcend fashion in a way most human beings cant comprehend. also his muscles got a sick ass pump. monster bf material. is he confused or is he about to kill u ? the answer is yes. lost part of his consciousness and his ability to speak, which makes him seem even less human than he already looks. is super silent and looks very lost in general which makes him ultra cute and attractive. what im trying to say is this was sexy as fuck so why is no one talking about it ? 10/10

“behold my aquarius god complex”

A E S T H E T I C. he has ascended. looks sad in that very divine way. ‘weeping mary’ vibes. has finally achieved that celestial martyr aesthetic he’s been going for. his perfect, mystical, assymetrical being is here to educate u thots on the fact that assymetry has NEVER been a flaw in the first place. the ripped pants and bare feet combo goes amazingly well with his energy as a person and everything about his appearance here makes him look unreachable, eternal and exalted. i wish he’d showed up to the met gala 2k18 to stunt on all these uninspired hoes and also to end the world. AES/10

[jskfkqlkxkqlwkzlnwlqkwlznwosn-d]

“die or die dude you either DIE or you DIE”

mesmerizing. breathtaking. tragic and poetic. u can see his soul radiating from him and its exhausted and captivating. spent his last moments in the snow shirtless to make sure we could clearly tell that even a billion snowflakes from a goddesses’ alternate dimension or whatever tf that was supposed to be couldn’t look as immaculate and gorgeous as he did. his red eyes created a stunning contrast in this whole ‘purity’ aesthetic, but i couldnt get a decent pic of him with his eyes open while he was sitting in the snow so fuck it. he just looked so damn good. do u know how good u gotta look in order to effortlessly make someone ignore the fact that u fucked their entire life and that ur also the reason why their parents are dead ? and then to somehow also make that same person call you the “coolest guy ever” ? POWERMOVE EVEN IN DEATH. 1000000000/10

“t͙̺h̩̩͙̪̼̹̭͡i̢̼͙͓̝͍̮̘s̘̗̯̜̤͢ ̣̠̻̬̗̣̗i̯͉̬̞͎̻͚s̢̖͕̰̲̖ ̷̻͇̼t̴͖h͎̪̙͈͟ͅe͢ ̵̜̤̖̪̤͕̩i̫̖d͚̗e̤̝̱̗a͓̼̗ͅͅļ ̱̲̤̮ḿ͉̠a͕̦̪͡l̫e̼̣͓͍͔͘ͅ ͚̩̟b̭o̡̲d̦̳̗͖̯̣͢y̧̰̱.̦̺͢ͅ ̬͔̣̳̬̯y̺̖̰̯̺̥o̝͇ú ̞̦̞̪mi̳͉g̡͕h̨͚̬̖̞̺t̥̼̦̫̗̹͉ ͙̮̝ń̗̫͕͖̝o͙̲͈̪t̤͍̰̗ͅ ̙̹͍̭l̶i̲̺̺̰̗̩k̛̺e̮͕̮̣̪̗̮ ̤͖i͖̻t̷͎̮̱̝ ͏̩̝b͉u̬̣̦̤͉̻̩t ͏̖̦̦̬̥̝t̛͙̜̗̫͉h̻̼͕̝͕͍͚is̹̥͚̘̻̝ į͈̝͈s͎̰͇͚̝̘͕ ̠͇̫͎̥wha̧̰̰̦͔ͅt͖̘̻̺͕͉ ̤̣͠p̞̩e̸̲͓͉̣a͎k̻̞̼ ͖̭̱̕p̮͍̼̪͇͓e̲̤̭̬̱̬r͏̹͓̯f̮̪o͖͚͜ṟ͎m͖͖̖̀a̳͎͔͖͇͡ńc̴͎é͉̳̰̠̻ ̱̥̙̜̖ͅļ͚̳̤̲o̯̜̰ok͈͉̥̱s̨̻̮ ̜li͈k̠̠̦̣͇̜͖e͖̟̩”

finally someone who can reach my impossibly high standards. timeless beauty. theres also obviously smth really kinky going on here but this post isnt about kishimoto’s fetishes. body positivity KING. his body needed to grow the size of a house and he didnt even blink. he just accepts his body’s needs. “oh, thats what we’re doing ? sure” and goes with it without a word while his body just crashes into the ground like the boulder that crushed him when he was a kid. cinematics parallels baby. obito lived long enough to see himself turn into the person he swore he’d never become; the boulder itself, which is incredibly deep. woke af. doesnt care about society’s bullshit beauty standards. doesnt care about anything actually. at all. probably doesnt even know how to speak. doesnt know who he is either. where is he btw. whats going on. who are all these people.  +∞̢̯͒́̓̄ͭ̅/́ͯͤ͊͊͛͏̦̰̩1̻̐̋̀̎́0͖̽̓̈͝

[kamuikissed]

fanart of @butter–peanut ‘s absolutely wonderful fic, “The New Recruit” ! GO READ IT HERE https://archiveofourown.org/works/37030297

[junodoom]

wen ning birthday comic 2025, continued!

Part 1

Part 2 (You are here)

And, fin!

Part 1

[junodoom]

happy wen ning day!!!

i can’t fit all the pages of this comic in one post so it’s getting halved. this is part one. read left to right!

Part 1 (You are here)

Part 2

Part 2

[zooophagous]

I had a tattoo client ask if I ever used AI to design tattoos for me. Man I spent the better part of a decade doing shitty bit work as a graphic designer and now that I have the space to do whatever I want, I'm gonna let the computer generate random garbage for me? What next should I have a computer that eats my dinner and fucks my wife?

[zooophagous]

I feel like people get so hung up on the results of a thing that they don't appreciate that the process of making it is, actually, enjoyable.

It's like if you have a friend who likes to bake, asking if they'd like to just buy cupcakes from the store instead of making them. The end result of the cupcake is secondary to the joy you get from having made cupcakes.

Art isn't a slog or a chore or something I want to avoid. Art is fun. It's rewarding. It feels good to do it. You may as well be asking me if I want the AI to watch television for me, it doesn't make any sense, I'm not participating and would gain nothing from it.

[nathanwonderwolf]

Morpheus Death of the Endless and undead Hob. Dying on the battlefield, Robert tries to avoid death by literally spitting blood in his face. Morpheus is not angry, rather interested, makes a deal with him. He gives up the ring until Robert takes it off of his own free will, he cannot die. Robert enjoys it for a while, until the consequences come in the form of growing madness, captivity… and another undead. S.S. Morpheus takes life with a kiss on the lips.

inspired by song Pyrokinesis - Anubis Ring Happy Halloween to everyone 🎃🎃🎃

[cuubism]

part two of 'two times hob ran into dream outside their regular meetings and one time dream called on him intentionally'

WWI era, discussions of war, and past loss of children

--

Hob is in a somber mood. Funerals will do that. Hob may never be taken by death himself, but that does not mean he is not touched by it—if anything, death sometimes seems to sting harder for knowing he is fortunate enough to avoid it.

Especially the death of a young person.

He steps out of the church, steps slower and quieter than normal. The heavy church air slips off him like a cloak dropped to the floor, the scent of incense gives way to motor oil, to horses, to nearby bakeries’ yeast and flour. The father of the young man killed—a work associate of Hob’s—hurries off with his wife to a waiting car, hat held low to avoid the show of tears. Hob doesn’t follow, but he’ll drop by later or some time tomorrow, see how they’re doing. Commiserate.

There wasn’t even a body to bury, the boy blown to pieces over in France. Hob can’t imagine it.

He’s making his quiet way down the bustling London street, hands in his pockets, trying to pay attention to everything around him to avoid remembering, when a man strides briskly out of a passing doorway and nearly collides with him.

Hob catches him by the arm to steady him. “Easy there, mate.”

The man whirls to look at him, and Hob finds himself staring into the face of his stranger. He startles back, dropping his arm. 

He’s spent the last two-and-a-half decades wondering if he’d ever see the stranger again, after the way things had fallen apart at their last meeting. Hob doesn’t know if he’s still angry with him, still hurt, if he intended to show up at their next meeting or not—but Hob can’t be unhappy to see him now. He’s never unhappy to see him. And he’d gladly take another look, any look, over never seeing him again. 

“Hob Gadling,” says his stranger, seeming taken aback. But he doesn’t immediately sneer down at Hob or storm off, so Hob will take that as a win. 

“Stranger,” Hob greets. Normally, he can’t resist a smile upon seeing him, but it’s hard to muster one today. Whether because of their fight, or the somber circumstances of Hob’s presence here, is hard to say. “Fate seems to keep throwing us together.”

His stranger frowns, looking up and down at Hob’s all-black attire, his no doubt drawn expression. It is, admittedly, out of character for him—more the stranger’s style than Hob’s own. “You appear troubled.”

Hob grimaces. “Funeral,” he explains. “Young boy killed at the front.”

“Ah.” His stranger’s face tightens. “Yes, there have been many deaths of late.”

Hob finally takes note of where he’d been coming from—the entrance to a hospital. He gestures to the doorway. “You alright?”

“Merely accompanying my sister in her work,” explains his stranger. “She is skillful and resilient, but these times have been trying.”

“She a nurse?” Hob asks. It seems too mundane a profession; any sister of his stranger must share some of his supernatural powers, whatever those are. But perhaps her talents lie in healing? It would explain the hospital.

His stranger’s lips tip up in a wry smile. “Something of the sort.”

Silence stretches between them for a moment. Hob summons his courage, buoying himself on the fact that his stranger hasn’t run off. “If it’s not too presumptuous, could I ask you to join me for tea? I… think I might have some apologizing to do.”

It’s hardly the day for this, but like hell is Hob going to waste the chance.

His stranger deliberates, his light eyes catching the weak London sun as they search Hob’s for… something. 

Then he says, “Very well.

--

The café is light and airy in jarring contrast to the serious mood hanging over London these past many months. Hob has hope, he knows the wartime will pass eventually—hopefully without the utter destruction of all combatants—but sometimes it feels that each war is only worse than the last. More horrific, more vicious—and the steady stream of news in the papers, reminding them all every day, hardly helps. Hob remembers a time when any news beyond the most local of happenings was sparse. He never thought he might think that was better.

They get tea while, hundreds of miles away, countless young boys die in trenches far from home.

Hob kind of wishes he had something stronger than tea.

“You are troubled,” says his stranger, again, the tiniest line creasing his brow. Is he worried about Hob? That would be funny considering how he behaved when Hob merely tried to say they were friends. 

The thought sparks something hopeful inside him, though. Lord knows Hob spends enough time worrying about his stranger, ridiculous though it feels to do so. He worries about him being alone. He worries about him feeling the loneliness Hob himself is sometimes struck by, stuck in time as he is while others age and die. Only it must be magnified a hundredfold for his stranger—Hob, at least, is still human. His stranger is other. Who does he have to keep him company across the centuries?

It's sort of a nice thought, to get a bit of that worry in return.

Hob raises his hands in surrender. “Fear not, dear stranger. I haven’t been disabused of my love of life. It’s just a sad day, is all. We all have them. Reminds us to be grateful for the life we do have, eh?”

His stranger relaxes, slightly, into his chair. “Not all share your outlook.” 

Hob sighs. “Eh, can’t blame ‘em really. It’s not exactly been the best year. People are losing kids, lovers… and for what, more pointless squabbling? Not everyone has several centuries of life experience to put things into perspective, either.”

“I recall you saying to me that you did not think you had changed,” says his stranger, consideration in his tone, and wow, he’s really going to bring that up, huh? Even remembering what Hob had said right after? “But I do believe you’ve become quite wise.”

Hob can’t help but preen internally at the compliment, but he grimaces and says, “Yeah, about that, I’m not so sure it was wisdom on display last time we spoke. I’m sorry for, well, how I approached that.”

“But not for your words?” questions his stranger, seeming more curious than angry. 

Hob’s never been able to lie to him, nor would he want to—his stranger is the only person he knows he doesn’t have to lie to to stay safe. “I don’t believe I spoke falsely, no. But nor was it right of me to— to put you on the spot. To put words in your mouth. For that, I am sorry.”

His stranger studies him. He looks very handsome today, his suit simple and dark but perfectly cut as always, hair a bit longer than last they’d met and ruffled up by his hat. The appreciation is not quite at the forefront of Hob’s mind as it might usually be, given everything going on, but he never fails to notice. Not that noticing will lead to anything—well, not for another two thousand years, at a minimum, given how they’ve gotten along so far.

At last, his stranger says, “I forgive you.”

Hob lets out a long breath, carefully held for years. Now are you going to apologize for storming off instead of talking things out? he thinks drily, but of course he won’t. Hob has long accepted the fact that he cannot expect normal human behavior from his stranger—his friend, he will be so bold as to say in the safety of his own head—who is so very inhuman.

“This funeral,” his stranger continues, changing the topic before Hob can decide whether he wants to continue or close that conversation. His eyes narrow on Hob, considering and… sympathetic? “It has reminded you of your son.” 

Hob leans back in his chair, breath catching raggedly in his chest. He’s been trying so hard not to think it, but of course the thoughts have been there, anyway. 

“You see everything, don’t you?” he observes, and his stranger merely inclines his head. “Even if you don’t speak it. Yes. You’re right. I think of Robyn whenever I see a young man die. I think of him when I see a father standing over the casket of his son who was lost to senseless, stupid violence, yes.”

“It is not a loss… that one gets over,” says his stranger, haltingly. Hob thinks that for all his friend is oblivious about normal human life most of the time, sometimes, sometimes, he understands it better than anyone else. It’s like he draws from a deep well of feeling greater than his body.

Or.

Wait.

The weariness of his shoulders as he says that. The look in his eyes, that banked, ancient loss that ages a man fifty years in a day.

Hob recognizes that look from his own mirror.

“You—” he starts, then forcibly stops himself. Instead he tries to convey, the way his stranger does, through looks, through implication and feelings shared outside of words. Speaking from experience, my dear, sad stranger?

His subtlety is rewarded by the barest tilt of his stranger’s head, the brush of his lashes over his cheeks as he looks down. And, well.

God.

“It’s not,” Hob says. “No.”

His stranger taps the side of his teacup with a slim finger. Thinking. “You are resilient, Hob,” he says at last, “to continue on so boldly after such a thing.” 

“I was brought low by it,” Hob admits, “but loss also puts things into perspective. At one point, I had lost everything—everything, but my own life. Why would I give that last thing up? That, and the opportunity for better, which is ever present.”

“I repeat that you are uniquely resilient,” says his stranger. “I am glad of it.” 

Hob smiles, then, despite the cold loss of the day. “You always ask me if I would give up my immortality. There was only one time when I thought of it.” 

His stranger looks at him sharply, tension creeping into his shoulders, but Hob continues, in the same, soft tone—

“Not because I had grown tired of my own life. No, it was when Robyn was born. I held him and I thought that I would give it to him if I could, to spare him the touch of death, to let him see the long beauty of life that I had seen. Then, again, after he died, I thought, if I had given it to him, I would have saved him. Would that it were possible.” He still thinks it, sometimes, on certain days. “It is what fathers do for their sons, is it not?”

“Some, perhaps,” murmurs his stranger, watching him fixedly. “You did not ask, upon our meeting in 1589.”

Hob rubs at the back of his neck. “Is it a request you would have granted if I had?”

“That is not my request to grant,” says his stranger. Not quite regretfully, but not happily, either. A neutrality born of conflicting feelings rather than indifference.

Whose, then? Hob wonders. So you truly are not the devil, then? You are not Death?

“I do not know if it will help you to know,” continues his stranger, “but I will say that I do not believe it would have been granted. Not for lack of sympathy, however. Not at all.”

Hob offers him a pained smile. “Who am I to understand matters of life and death?” he says. “I wouldn’t claim to. Thank you, though. It is a kindness, I think, to know that it was not in my power to save, or to fail him in that way.”

His stranger nods. 

“I suppose when I think about it,” Hob continues, “immortality that could be so easily passed around may invite more danger than protection.” 

“Indeed. Humans do love to pursue it, for all that it is a foolhardy pursuit.” He tilts his head and looks at Hob slyly. “For most, anyway.”

“You just have to be stupid enough to do it,” Hob says, and his stranger hums with amusement. “And have a chance meeting in a tavern, hm?”

“Chance, yes,” says his stranger. “Speaking of. I’m afraid I must depart. I have elsewhere I must be today.”

“I won’t keep you,” Hob says, though with disappointment. He reminds himself that he was never meant to have this time with his stranger anyway, it’s a gift— a chance.

His stranger’s lips twist, just slightly, as if he himself is not so happy to leave either— and that itself is a gift, too.

“But I would see you in ’89, if you still meant to come,” Hob adds.

“I believe I did,” says his stranger, meeting Hob’s gaze. And what a better parting than their last. “I will meet you then.”

--

As Hob lets him go at the door to the café, his stranger hesitates on the threshold. “I am… glad that I ran into you today, Hob,” he says, the words foreign in how personable they are. The closest, perhaps, that Hob’s stranger has come to speaking to him like a friend. “It is good not to let another seven decades elapse on such terms as we last left them.”

Hob tucks his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels, the warmth he feels at such a small, but meaningful thing breaking out on his face despite his best attempts at moderation. “I feel the same, stranger.”

His stranger hesitates again, deliberating on something. Then he says, “Dream.”

Dream of… what? Hob thinks, perplexed, and his stranger keeps looking at him with that bottomless expression of his. 

Then the order of the conversation hits. “Wait— is that your name?”

His friend—Dream—nods once. “Friends should know how to call each other.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Or so I have heard.”

“Well met, then,” Hob says, holding out his hand to shake, a proper grin on his face now, no moderation about it, “Dream.”

Dream takes his hand, squeezes it with that same tiny, almost shy smile on his face; they have never properly touched before, and oh, Hob is grateful for this moment.

“Until we meet next,” Dream says. And between one blink and the next, he’s gone.

[sicumerat]

For the sandtober2023 prompt “Costume”. I had to redo this one a few times, but I’m finally satisfied with the result. For some context: they’re at a ball, in the realm of Faerie. Nothing like a slow waltz with your best totally platonic buddy, uh?

[amielot]

Touch starved.

[teejaystumbles]

I imagine this to be an alternate 1889, where Dream reacts to Hob's question much more favorably - after flaring his nostrils he changes into a nightmarish form and looms over Hob, expecting him to flee, but Hob only stares in awe and can barely restrain himself from reaching out and touching Dream's bone white limbs and porcellain face - "more tea, then, love?" he asks with only a tiny quiver in his voice, and Dream, stunned, sinks back down in his too small chair and admits defeat.

for Sandtober #12 "red", the DN House of Horrors "tea set" and the Monsterfucktober Bingo square "anthropod"

[nynevefromthelake]

Samhain magic🍂🥀 (may be the part of Hades and Persephone au or something different as you see it). More explicit version under cut

Found that rendering bodies is more difficult difficult for me than complicated outfits. But I want to practise

[lucky-tea-777-blog]

The Knight of Dreams.

Maybe it was medieval AU？

Or maybe it's a knighthood for Hob，From Dream . hhh

[teejaystumbles]

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 illustration

[lilith707sposts]

Artist: @rileyyppp, by tiktok 🛐

[lord-morpheus-ravens]

That Richard Siken quote was too good to pass up.

[sefarlen]

Love 🪽💓😈

[sefarlen]

I'm sorry for everything

I don't know, I just wanted to draw something... (⁠ ⁠ꈨຶ⁠ ⁠˙̫̮⁠ ⁠ꈨຶ⁠ ⁠)