Occurred To Me Some People Here May Like Mushroom Lady

Someone sedate me. I finally got around to making art of these two.

"You're h-human." "Glad you caught on to that-" "But I choose you." "Yeah?" "Yes."

i have not caught a single fish in this game outside the tutorial

Hi poolverine request if ya wanna:

Short Logan in a suit (brown with yellow accents maybe?) And Wade in high heels(he loves being Taller) and a simple elegant dress?

so i kinda turned this into transfem wade because i’m in love with her

i’ve been thinking about this request since you sent it, thank you, yes she absolutely adores being taller

but of course I had to draw Jon as big-lanky-insecure (but fiercely protective) eldritch monster

and Mr. Monster-Fucker Blackwood

also HELEN

Can't express how stress free being open minded is.

Some lesbians use he/him? Oh cool.

Some people have people inside their head and sometimes it's fictional chars? Sick your brains like a pirate ship they're all working to run.

Some people like being treated like a pet dog? Bark bark bro.

Being fat isn't unhealthy but a perfectly normal type of body to have? Kinda beautiful how different we can all be.

Something doesn't make any fucking sense? Cool an opportunity to learn. And even if I can't figure it out it's cool we still have mysteries today.

When Jon rests his weary head on Martin's lap, it feels like the clearest of revelations. The greatest of miracles. The ravaged world stands still – asleep or dead, doesn't matter, nothing matters except for the warmth of the cheek pressed to Martin's knee and the tingling of his stubble through the fabric of his jeans. Jon tosses and turns for a bit, looking for a comfortable position, and finally closes his eyes with a content sigh. The eye bags are growing darker with every passing day, just as the lines on his forehead are growing deeper. The world is at its closest to the end, and still Martin has never felt so in love before.

It seems that everything has been leading them to this moment – Jon in Martin's arms, tired but trusting and dear to him, so dear that his heart aches longingly. Martin reproaches himself for such thoughts and still can't help but thinks that he would let the apocalypse happen again, and again, and again, only to see Jon like this, to hold his hand, their fingers intertwined, to kiss the corner of his lips, to cradle him in his arms at night, hiding from the nightmares.

(They're both broken and crushed by fate, wrong and full of mistakes. Martin doesn't know whether they're going against what is destined, or right where they are supposed to be, whether they're going towards their death or a new life. He has no idea. Or better put it this way: he just follows Jon, no matter where he is heading, the way apostles followed Jesus. He believes him and in him without any doubt and is ready to die for him or with him, if it's necessary. This is how sick and twisted they are. At least, in this universe.

Maybe in another universe they weren't such idiots and found each other earlier. Maybe there Martin can kiss Jon every day and not fear lest this kiss should be their last. Maybe there they can just live – happily ever after, like in those fairytales. Maybe. Martin doesn't know. What he knows is that in this universe, in their universe, the sky is constantly watching them, the earth is soaked with sticky fear and blood, and they are the ones to fix all of this.

In this universe they are a tragedy, but Martin wouldn't change a thing in them for the world.)

“Your thoughts are too loud,” Jon grumbles, a quick green flash in his narrowed eyes. Martin bites his lip. He still forgets that his boyfriend knows and hears absolutely everything, and it is both exciting and unnerving.

“Sorry,” he says. That I think so much, that it seems to me that we have no future, that I believe in you like in God.

Jon finds his hand and presses his cheek against the palm. Martin chokes on his breath, as this act is so simple and yet so gentle that he suddenly wants to cry. (He never considered tears to be a sign of weakness, but he needs to be strong for Jon, so he just sniffles and squeezes his eyes, choking a sob rising in his throat.)

“Martin,” Jon calls out quietly, stretching the vowels in an oh-so-familliar way, and kisses the centre of Martin's palm as if kissing holy relics. No one has ever touched Martin like this. “It's alright, love.”

And just as saints on the icons cry with blood and myrrh, Martin is crying as well, soundlessly and ugly. Jon sits beside him and hugs his shoulders worriedly, kissing him on his temple.

“Martin,” he whispers softly, “my sweet, my dear, I'm here. It's alright, for now it's alright.”

Martin knows that nothing is alright actually, and that they can die tomorrow and no one will remember them. But right now Jon is right beside him, warm, soft and loved, and only this truly matters.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin exhales, his voice trembling, and it sounds more like a prayer.

Maybe, he is praying.

At least, his god will stay with him till the very end and will not leave him to die alone.

@jonmartinweek day eight: "disability & diagnosis"

i think nightmares would be commonplace with an expanse of knowledge such as jon's.

fascinating that when you tell people "you have to learn the rules to break them" when talking about drawing/painting etc everyone nods and agrees but the second you say "you have to read books if you want to write better" there's a horde of contrarians begging to be the wrongest people ever all of a sudden

cutie patooties