hopeless aromantic hyperfixations

21 I He/Him I Aro Artist I 🇵🇭 I Chronic Shipper Bluesky/TikTok: whattamanza Twitter: TheNeroManza Don’t edit, ss, or repost without permission!

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Dear Dad,

inspired by the letter his brother wrote to their father that he spoke about on the high performance podcast

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my favorite quad lock duo

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grabbed by the horns

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red means i love you

saw this love art trend going around and knew i had to draw charles with it

find the reference image below the cut

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forged in silver; molten red

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he runs hot at night

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glasses al41 sketch

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lawblad switching shirts

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mika häkkinen painting study

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just lawblad things

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f1 driver pairings as songs with lyrics related to space

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vcarb admin lovingly annoying liam

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gr63 warmup sketch

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cradle

(full image is on my twt)

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Red-Eye [on AO3]

9-1-1 | POV Eddie Diaz | General | 337 words | Poem | Sexuality Crisis

if you like my writing, please consider showing it love on ao3!

I catch my reflection and stop. My eyes are red. Not the red that blooms in grainy Polaroids where everyone looks half-haunted by a faulty flash. Not the red of springtime pollen  or a rogue eyelash scratching at the surface. This— is the color of 3:17 a.m. The color of staring at a ceiling until it darkens at the edges. The color of revisiting old memories and finding fingerprints where there weren’t supposed to be any. The color of asking yourself:      what do you want,           what do you want,                what do you want, until the question wears a groove through your skull and sends you to the ground in panic. I thought realization would arrive like a package with my name on it. I hoped it would sound like recognition, a note struck somewhere in the distance that my body would know to follow. Instead, every road keeps splitting. Several figures that look uncomfortably like me  stand at different corners of an intersection, waving, fighting for my attention. And I am awake enough to see them all, but never enough to know. Never enough to choose. So I spend the night cross-examining myself, turning every feeling this way and that, over and over like a coin that refuses to land, searching for evidence until my fingers go numb. By morning, the mirror reports the damage. Thin rivers of red thread through the whites of my eyes. Proof that while the rest of the city slept, I was excavating myself with bare hands, digging for a person I was certain lived somewhere underneath. I do not know who— or what—I am. Only that I am tired.  Only that dawn has arrived again. Only that the stranger looks back with red eyes not from irritation,  but from spending another night  trying to become someone else before the sun came up. Another night standing at the edge of a truth, and wondering whether it will still be there once I finally look at it in the eyes.

[whattamanza]

kiss me under the neon lights

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every breath interwoven