#like ink-tober | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luna-lovegreat · 7 months

Text

Wait...

It's November. It's November first. Yesterday was October 31st, so October is over. ...it's over. Is it over?

Inktober, artober, whumptober, flufftober, linktober, every tag ending with -tober that's been circulating for the past month... is it over? I don't know why it's just hit me but...

This matters. So I will try to get the message across, even though I'm not the best at it sometimes

Fanartists, fan writers, artists, fic writers, people making comics, every single one of you that has created art for the past month...

Thank you

This is my first October on tumblr. When I started seeing the "tober" tags, seeing the posts from artists with wips, saying they were going to make something every day to a prompt, making masterposts to update with each day, I thought "cool"

But every day this month, I have gotten on here and smiled.

And I don't mean smiled. I mean I smiled at least 20 times every time I got on the app because I saw all the art and fics. I got to see artists/writers connect stories through different day prompts. I saw people having the most brilliant ideas and creativity, flowing from their hands into their posts. I saw artists responding to continuous asks, telling them how amazing they are. I saw artists getting behind, and keeping going.

I saw Free. Beautiful. Emotional. Amazing. Original. Creative. Art.

Every day

I haven't committed to anything of this before, so I can't directly relate to what you guys were thinking and feeling. But I'm willing to guess; I think you probably enjoyed it, because most won't do such a huge project unless they enjoy it. I think you probably saw it as a challenge you were willing to fulfill, and an opportunity to grow and develop your skills.

... but I'm also willing to bet you did it for us. For people like me, who love art, but don't do this specific type, who are in fandoms, who love tracking and watching you art and sending you compliments, who take joy in your work. For the other artists (and writers!) who admire each others styles and love to learn from each other.

If anyone ever tries to tell me that humans are inherently evil again, I will strap them to a chair, pull up these posts and say look. Look at what these people did. Look me in the eyes and tell me these sorts of actions don't come from the most loving hearts. Tell me these people don't want to make others happy, that they aren't inherently good. And I will tell you you're wrong.

I have so much going on, yet somehow it slipped into my life that I was constantly looking at your art for the joy of it without me even noticing.

And how is it possible. That we have such a beautiful community of people here that we will share. And communicate. And exchange compliments. And literally do things and send asks solely for the purpose of making someone smile.

I'm almost crying by now. God I can't express it well enough! But I am so. So. Grateful

You guys brought me a month of joy! You gave headcanons, and art, and stories!

Even yesterday, Halloween, I was blown away. Because I had expected... I didn't expect anything. And then I log on and see people sending happy halloween asks, exchanging doodles of candy, and headcanons and gifs.

And some are still catching up to the schedule or whatever, and that's ok! But at the beginning of this post, when I was simply realizing it was November, I asked myself "is it over?"

Is it over?

... I don't think so. I've seen artists say they're going to continue and expand on a piece they made and especially liked this month. Some people are still continuing, catching up to a voluntary deadline. All those masterposts with your whump/fluff/link/ink tober art? I know many as well as myself will be going through, looking over your posts with smiles, catching up on some things they missed this month... it will continue in the people and artists I didn't know existed before, but now follow. In the skills and growth in creativity! In the community we've grown, and art you've made, and the art to come, at a normal rate like every other month, even if it's not October anymore!

But my artists, writers... thank you so much. I don't know if you guys know how valuable and amazing you are. How incredible it is that you exist! People say it's amazing we exist under a sky of such stars, but how incredible is it that you made a stranger on the internet smile every day! Your life is so. So. Valuable. I can't even express how grateful I am that you exist, that you somehow are selfless enough to share the most beautiful parts of yourself simply to create, and to create joy. Thank you so so much.

(And this applies to all artists, in any fandoms, not just mine. And I'm just as grateful to people who couldn't do something every day, or only one day! You still share your art, you're just as... incredible. You are incredible.)

Okay.

So I'm gonna do this, and if others want to do it in the reblogs that's great! I do not care at all about reblogging or likes, but I want to make the people that have brought me such joy some appreciation- I hope I can bring you even a smidgen of the light you have brought into my life. So I'm gonna tag all the artists/writers I know of/can think of that have done any sort of October challenge, all of you creators that have made me smile. If people wanna want to tag others in the reblogs or replies to spread love that's cool.

(Basically I don't know social customs or anything at all, so if you don't want me to tag or if I was supposed to do something different or something let me know I have no idea what I'm supposed to do)(if I like accidentally tagged someone who isn't an artist/writer or forgot someone I follow... sorry)

@skyward-floored @kikker-oma @adrift-in-thyme @blueskittlesart @zeldaseyebrows @smilesrobotlover @bahbahhh @soso-dedeck @lennsart @arecaceae175 @illcamp @breannasfluff @solarfire-art @26kabeuchi @cathianemelian @truffeart @scribbly-z-raid @uniquevoidflowers

To all the artists and writers out there: thank you so much!!! You are amazing and I'm glad you exist. Your life is precious, and you matter. Thank you so much for sharing your beauty with us, we love you too!!!!!

... yeah. Just want yall to feel loved... because you are. Again, thank you. Thank you so so much to my beautiful creators who create joy as well as art, who keep storytelling alive. Just... thank you.

801 notes · View notes

drawfee-quot3s · 7 months

Text

more like oops i inked all... tober... 'cause i'm a squid...

- julia

#doing a 30 day drawing challenge in 30 minutes #title is about to be me with the essay ive had a month to complete and have only just considered starting #drawfee #drawfee quotes #drawfee video #julia lepetit #julia drawfee

126 notes · View notes

llondonfog · 8 months

Text

twst (horror) tober — day 4 (needle)

➤ Day 4: Needle | “It’s just a tiny sting. You won’t notice it at all.”

"I do not blame you," Malleus whispers in his ear, sonorous voice saccharine sweet with sympathy. Silver trembles as if held in place, a flickering, dying flame against the madness that looms supreme over his shoulder. "Is that not what you wished for? Absolution from your prince?"

There's the ghost of a smirk lurking beneath Malleus' merciful words, they both know it. The derisive irony of it all— a prince of a stolen kingdom, lost to the cruel passage of time, and groomed so perfectly to the very model of a sacrificial soldier, bending the knee to those who could have been equals instead of superiors.

"You long for it, do you not?" Malleus continues in the way of a flood— relentless and inevitable. "For the simpler times, before you were burdened with the weight of such poisonous knowledge." Dark-tipped talons caress through his hair fondly, almost infantilizing. Silver can feel the ink sloughing off those sharp nails, spilling over his scalp and staining the moonlight gleam of his hair. He does not pull away.

The dark, at least, is familiar; it is the dawn now that he fears.

"I cannot righten the wrongs of your father, the secrets that were not his to keep from you. But I can ease the ache within your heart." Malleus sighs, a full-body release that seems to carry within it all the pent-up sorrows of the world as he rests a heavy hand against Silver's shoulder. An anchor, lined with lead. "My dear knight, what kind of prince would I be if I could not do that for you— you, who has suffered most of all?"

As if in response, the emerald glow around the needle of the spinning wheel before them beckons with a lovely, pulsing blur; a heartbeat of sorts, and he can feel his own breath slowing to match the soothing, rhythmic call.

To not think anymore...to sink into the deepest of shadows, where he could be alone forever, unable to haunt the pleasant dreams of his father with his repulsive visage so like that knight—

He thinks he lifted his arm first, but he can no longer tell as Malleus takes his hand in a farce of fealty, sliding that accursed ring on his finger in a twisted pledge of loyalty, a sick reversal of roles. "Allow me to protect you in your dreams, princeling," the murmur suffocates his senses, laying upon them in a syrupy haze. "You need not keep up this silly pretense of chivalry around me."

Silver ought to protest, but his tongue is too thick for his mouth, his limbs feel as if they've been lined with cotton, and his thoughts simply slide like oil and water if he attempts to consider anything but the enchanting gleam of the needle, shimmering before him with a kindness he does not deserve. He ought to protest, but it is far easier to feel the dull sting of metal pierce the willing flesh of his finger, to watch through fluttering lashes as crimson dark as berries wells up to drip along his skin, staining the ring affixed there, to consign himself to a sleep deeper than death— the only gift he has the right to give to his dearly beloved family.

"Sleep, dear prince," Malleus' voice comes from so very far away, and he listens, obeys, faithful to the very end.

"And may the blessing of my eternal night be upon you."

#lettie writes #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #malleus draconia #twst malleus #diasomnia #twst spoilers #twisted wonderland chapter 7 #slowly getting back on track....#twst chapter 7

100 notes · View notes

2dmax · 8 months

Text

cringetober 01 & 04 - heterochromia, angel/demon

acrylic on paper (9"x12") described in alt

above are the cringetober 2023 prompts written by awestin martinez (i cry ink), inspired by sleeprann's original post. the prompts are:

heterochromia 2. self insert 3. unnecessarily complex fit 4. angel x demon 5. ms paint 6. neko (or other animal features) 7. pinterest art base 8. tumblr sexyman 9. crossover ship/rarepair 10. fursona 11. yandere 12. niche interest 13. creepypasta 14. candygore 15. song lyrics 16. objecthead 17. fake anime screenshot 18. old art redraw 19. dolls/puppets/etc 20. hananaki disease 21. 100% saturation 22. maid dress/sailor uniform 23. meme(s) 24. MLP 25. gijinka 26. all edge no point 27. babygirl pose 28. alt fashion 29. hot villain (bonus points if woman) 30. videogame (undertale, fnaf, etc.) 31. HALLOWEEN!

doing prompts of any day that has already past and combining as i please... tried doing it day by day but i just can't. if you can't do a daily -tober challenge, don't feel bad; i don't even have a real job and i can't keep up with this shit. plus, i feel like doing whatever the hell i want is more in the vein of being cringe, anyway.

i'm really glad there is a resurgence in 00's internet culture (though typing it out, i realize a lot of these prompts are more 2010's, though the aesthetic of the post is more 00s). it makes sense for a lot of reasons. but i think it's also worth recognizing, as someone who grew up in it, this was not some golden past, either. there is no golden past. the internet in the 00's was just as, if not more, racist, homophobic, transphobic, ableist, generally dangerous, and overall shit as it is today. so i encourage people to create a better web and a better world!

#cringetober #cringertober 2023 #00s anime #acrylic paint #anime art #scenecore #webcore #manga art #illustration #art #2dmax

42 notes · View notes

emberfrostlovesloki · 8 months

Text

Writing in October

The poem is from Athene Marston, and I find it so Aaron coded. Please check out her other work.

So it's October which means it's ink-tober and prompt-tober and kink-tober and my favorite whump-tober which just means a whole lot of creative energy from me! I've got all these ideas floating around in my head. I might make a prompt list ala @imagining-in-the-margins so you can write along with me if you like.

I'm really putting Hotch and the reader through the wringer right now with my current fic, so get ready for that.

I just want to say that I'm so excited to be writing again and to be getting back into the Criminal Minds community. There are such amazing earth-shattering writers on here and I'm grateful for you. I hope you all have a great month and I'll see you soon. - Levi

49 notes · View notes

malimaywrite · 8 months

Text

for redacted-tober 2023 | day 1: vincent & home general | wc: 1.7k

cw: depictions of grief, the beginnings of a panic attack; discussions of death and loss, very brief allusion to postpartum depression

notes: includes very brief non-canon physical descriptions of vincent and a lot of non-canon backstory on him as well; banner image from 'oak fractured by lightning' (1842) by maxim vorobiev

/ / /

She saw her son every night.

She saw him in the living room when she reclined in the leathery cushion of their couch. Her husband's gruff clearing cough covered by the sound of the nightly news blaring ahead of them. The glow of the anchor never touched the Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, and Beastie Boys CDs that continued to gather dust in the dark wood storage of the TV stand. All blues and white spines coated in gray underneath.

She should get to them. She should clean them off. She should finally put them away.

Vincent always forgot to put them away.

He'd stroll in with his hunk of a boombox Sunday mornings, absolutely dragging his feet because he knew it was time to clean. Handle in one hand, the chipped plastic of too many CDs in the other. He dropped them to the floor, opened the curtains wider than she liked. The scream of the vacuum and guitars soon followed.

She often called to him to turn the noise down some. He always would. His hum and half-whisper singing broke through as he wiped off the windows, straightened the magazines on the coffee table.

Those same songs sometimes played on the 'throwback' hour on the radio now. She always heard Vincent's hum along with them. Light and heavy at the same time, soothing even mixed with the clash of cymbals.

The CDs blurred the longer she stared at them.

They rested right where he left them his last Sunday.

A hard swallow as the same Max's Rustic Pizza ad blasted in bright red along the screen, as she ignored her uneaten cake slice on the table. She braced and pushed herself off the couch with a huff, a slow breath that steadied her. Her body took longer to do so these days.

She saw Vincent in the kitchen. All in the cabinets, all in the mug that sat too high for her to reach now. The words 'Best Mom Ever' decorated the bright pink ceramic—a gift from him when was six via his dad.

Vincent wobbled over to her that Mother's Day morning all ruffled hair and bright eyed with his security blanket in tow. High-pitched squeaks of 'mommy, mommy' warmed her ears. He tried to reach for the mug she already had on the counter. Little hops to replace that one with his.

She did it for him then scooped him up to plant kisses on his dimpled cheek until he giggled.

He flashed in front of the jug of some artificial juice that sat unopened in the pantry. They'd had it for a week. Vincent used to cobble for it, horde the drink in the midst of his studies. The electric blue of it half gone within days whenever he found it. Once in awhile, her husband would grab a jug at the store, grumble about seeing 'what the fuss' used to be about.

She saw Vincent rod straight against the framing of the pantry door. Marker in her hand and black ink lining his height. Only one dash for every year until eleven when he asked to grab the stool to kneel on so he could measure her height too. His own handwriting joined hers, barely legible until he was sixteen—until he started rolling his eyes with a smirk when she started his birthday mornings with their heights.

He'd laughed on his 18th when it was his turn to measure her again. She turned to see her new height just slightly under the year prior.

“Mom,” he'd started with feigned shock. “Don't tell me you're shrinking on me?”

She'd nudged him then. He only laughed harder. A song and his beam of a smile in the back of her mind that made the kitchen less cold.

A deep breath—one that trembled on its way in and out.

Flickers of him in the bathroom he shared with guests. His tall and lanky frame practically contorted closer to the mirror to get all the black hair dye through the gelled waves of his dark brown hair. The splotches from it still dotted the dark purple bath mat he picked out—all the washes since only turning it gray. The dull gold of the doorknob still wobbled when it shut ever since he slammed the door that one night she grounded him for skipping school to go skateboard.

The glimpses of him in the hallway—running to head out the door for the school bus, rushing at the honk from his friends waiting in the driveway, shuffling half-asleep with his midnight snack. Framed pictures of him hung along the wallpaper walls. The posed picture of a bow-tied, red-faced toddler caught mid-cry. The edited floating head of him wailing hovered above him in the gray backdrop. His other bow-tied photo from his senior year, all middle part swooped hair and a closed smile. One photo with a missing tooth, one with multicolored braces. Another with him squinting through the sun on their redwoods trip, another when he led the family hike for the first time.

Her chest fluttered, breaths starting to leave her faster than she liked.

Her feet dragged across the carpet as if her body didn't want to leave the space, as if she hadn't already etched every detail of the aging snapshots onto the back of her eyelids.

Her sister asked earlier if all the pictures up made it harder. She didn't know. Her niece had a son in 2003, gave him Vincent for a middle name. He'd stopped by today—now the same age as Vincent when he—stared at the photos, told her he thought they would have gotten along really well. She did know that.

The open blinds of their bedroom windows led to the shadows covering Vincent's swing set out back. She'd pushed him as high as he could go then, as high as what wouldn't unnerve her, when his feet couldn't touch the ground. When his feet could, they sat together as he rambled about a crush, a group project, some fancy cars he wanted when he got older.

She saw him tumble dramatically off the swing, sending her heart into her throat, before running over to her—before yelling that he couldn't go to his first day of kindergarten tomorrow, mommy, because he just broke his leg. Several years later, he sniffled over a small patch of dirt near the back fence, where they buried his pet iguana Littlefoot. She told him it would hurt less later.

She may have lied to him then.

Her breaths stuttered, all staccato in the center of her chest.

Underneath that bedroom window lay an empty space. One that over forty years ago rested the gray wood of his crib. He'd leaned to look at her between the bars, a garbled babble left him. His tiny hand reached out for her.

The questions that rumbled like thunder ever since she sat scared in the bathroom with a positive pregnancy test staring back at her. What was she going to do? Would she do right by her child? Would she ruin them? Would they end up a good person? Would they hate her? Would they think she's a good mom? Would she protect them? Would they be happy?

He cried out to her, only one year old then when the rain cloud of postpartum gave way just enough for her to see the sun. To see it on Vincent's face.

She held him then, cradled him so maybe, maybe he could hear her heartbeat. He calmed eventually, staring up at her in what seemed like awe on his little face. She was sure her expression matched his. She trailed a finger gently down, down from the top of his forehead to the tip of his button nose until he fell asleep in her arms. The first time of thousands, all the way up until his anxious night before he'd drive four hours away for his college freshmen move-in day. And she held him each time. She always held him.

Her baby. Her Vincent. Her home.

Her home, her home, her home.

She didn't know when she ended up in Vincent's nearly untouched room again. Or on her side along his flannel blanket that stretched tucked into his queen size bed. Her veiny, age-spotted hands warming up the side her body couldn't.

Her breaths quick and shallow, racing now.

Some years were okay. On his 31st, they took Vincent's favorite hiking route—followed the bright orange of the California poppies. On his 23rd, 34th, and 40th, they popped over to her sister's an hour away, cherished stories between each other like pieces of gold. Last year, she and her husband headed deeper into Dahlia and got ice cream.

She didn't remember his 22nd or his 30th. She'd told her husband she needed to stop by the store for the former mid-morning, but didn't come home until early evening. The whites of her eyes red. There was nowhere to place herself. The day after the latter he asked why their car smelled like someone else's cologne. She didn't have an answer for either. He asked her to stop drinking. She was sure she hadn't had a single glass.

Some years were bad. On his 25th, she screamed in the courthouse lobby asking the clerk which judge, which shitty judge declared him 'presumed dead' when she could not bury her son. On the 27th, she fussed at her husband for not including Vincent in the 'survived by' section on her father-in-law's obituary. She locked herself in the bathroom all day on his 32nd.

Some years.

Some years the weight pressed heavy on her chest. It threatened to crush her until she was no more.

Some years her cries out to him only eased ever so slightly when a new weight sunk down the bed behind her, when her husband smelled of frosting and took to rubbing her back until she fell into a troubled sleep.

One where she got to see her baby the same as he was that last Sunday.

Today was her son's 43rd birthday.

And she missed him.

She'd miss him, miss him, miss him until there was not a breath left in her.

#redacted-tober 2023 #redacted audio #redacted asmr #redacted fanfic #redacted vincent #my writing

34 notes · View notes