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#but there’s also knitting!

theshadowrealmitself · 2 years

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Love giving oc’s dramatic backstories then giving them normal lives afterwards

Human: Yes, I was first officer on the spaceship where our captain tried to sabotage our ship and leave us for dead, because he didn’t actually think we’d find an alien species so his plan was to head back to earth pretending he did and that they murdered the rest of his crew, so that he could not only become famous from the whole thing, but also collect the life insurance from all of us.

Human: I was the only one who didn’t drink the spiked beverage during our party, so when the alarms went off signaling that the ship was failing, I was the only one who was able to wake up and go fix what I could, where afterwards I discovered his betrayal and my captain (who I thought of as my best friend) tried to kill me.

Human: I was able to fight back and shove him into an escape pod, which he used to, well, escape, but not before pointing out that he had damaged the ship’s interior too much and that we most likely wouldn’t make it back to base.

Human: After he flew off, his pod was attacked by a hostile alien species, and he was killed before he could enjoy the irony of his story now being somewhat true. With the oxygen starting to fail, a dangerous ship with unknown technology attacking us, and the life of my unconscious crew in my hands, I, as the new acting captain, did the only thing I could.

Human: I steered the ship into a nearby wormhole, and when we came out the other end, we found ourselves back at Earth, but over a thousand years past when we had left it. And now we have to adjust to this new future where we don’t only have to learn about a whole bunch of alien species’ cultures, but also relearn our own, as human culture has changed drastically in this time.

Human: But that’s not what we’re here to talk about! I just want to welcome all you students to “Intro to Knitting”!

Random Student: ….what?

#no fandom #oc’s #this conversation wouldn’t actually happen as this oc is hiding what happened to their captain #because they don’t want the rest of their crew to experience that betrayal #so as far as everyone else knows their first captain passed away while doing everything in his power to protect them #and that he had willingly handed over the title of captain to the oc #because the oc had his pin #(the pin was ripped off his suit when he was choking them)#so now they’re dealing with that trauma and guilt alone #(guilt because they had been the one to shove the captain into the pod declaring it a mutiny as they couldn’t let him kill the crew)#(and it was by him being in that pod and trying to leave that he got killed by the alien species)#also yes there was a dramatic speech where he tried to convince the oc to leave with them and lie to everyone about what happened together #so a lot of trauma and guilt and disgust at this person whose memory is constantly being honored around them #because they can’t tell anyone about what a creep he actually was #but there’s also knitting!#yay!

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uncanny-tranny · 6 months

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You! Internalize that you do not always need to "improve your art/craft" now! It's great to learn and develop your skills, but you do not need to come from a place of hating where you are now! You certainly do not need to force yourself to improve if it is coming in between you and enjoying the things you do. Improvement for improvements sake does not have to be the only goal, nor the only one that "should matter"

You are allowed to have motifs, enjoyment, ameturism, and "less skill." Kill and devour the capitalist in your head that dictates that you must always improve for everybody else's sake and your "productivity."

#art #i've bought some knitting needles and i don't plan to be a goot knitter. i want to be a 'good' crocheter though #i think i denied myself learning to knit because it 'should mean' that i improve upon my skills every picosecond of the day #look - i want to be a good crocheter for MY sake. i want to be a mediocre knitter also for MY sake #i want to be like squidward - able to do so much art in a vast array of mediums without being the best #also squidward is a *good* artist and a mediocre clarinet player and that is GOOD #he's genuinely a very talented artist. his music is a different beast though <3 #a jack of all trades is a master of none - but better is he than a master of one #gentle reminders

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egophiliac · 5 months

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ok so as someone still relatively new to TWST (and someone just taking the events as they come to EN instead of keeping up with the JP side) and as a Jack Howl simp

I am of the (CORRECT) opinion that he should absolutely get an Applepom look because... fwuffy. and hat with ear holes. and he'd be SO insistent that he's used to the cold and doesn't need it but he will take it once it's insisted on because he's polite and won't refuse Gramma Felmier

Also I think a fun twist on the "someone's sled breaks and their plushie tears so they have to come up with another idea" bit from the other event is that Jack goes wolf mode to pull the sled (because as said in his starsending wish he pulls sleds back at home on breaks to try and get faster as a wolf!)

I'm biased though because I need more Jacc in my life

Thoughts?

thank you anon for bringing the mental image of harveston Jack into my life. he would be SO fluffy...so warm...he would haul so many apples...

also while I love the imagery of him pulling the sled, I feel like that would probably get them insta-disqualified. :( unless they can somehow 1) convince the judges that this enormous talking wolf is actually a very well-made plush, and 2) get Jack to go along with it (I do think Jack would instantly respect Marja as being more alpha or whatever and would have to, like, choose between his sense of JUSTICE, or going along with cheating at this sporting event so an authority figure doesn't get mad at him) (...wait this is just the plot of episode 2 again) (DANGIT)

#art #twisted wonderland #marja would never stand for cheating though. this is NOT how she became idia's sports anime waifu.#that said we deserve a jack in cuddly winter knits #maybe next winter-themed event...#if i remember right he also canonically snowboards and now i suddenly want a card of that #i want to see whatever weird fantasy twist on snowboarding they would do for an event #jack: for contrived reasons i need 3-5 peers to join my traditional hometown competition where the boards are made of candy or whatever #no you don't understand it would be like...peppermint-themed and extremely cute. i actually do very much want this now.#(sorry to keep doing the marker-style stuff i'm just having fun with ~brushes~)#(also sorry for taking forever with this) (stuff is busy right now!)#(eyes slide away from inbox timestamps...)

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carterthefrog · 5 months

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idk who needs to hear this but if you knit or crochet you do not need to stress about it all of the time. that defeats the purpose of having a hobby. yes sometimes i do projects that require learning new stitches and making several runs to the craft store and searching for a specific brand of yarn and counting stitches and recounting stitches. but i also have a blanket that i call my "idgaf blanket" and it's literally just a giant gloriously repetitive chain stitch blanket made of a conglomeration of whatever yarn i happen to have scraps of. my rules are no undoing for dropped stitches, no overthinking color patterns. for just this one project, i simply crochet it because i like the feeling of crocheting. sometimes i just need to work on my idgaf blanket and that's okay and when it's done i'm sure i'll appreciate it a lot more simply because it never gave me anxiety

#crochet #crocheting #knitting #fiber crafts #i crochet but im sure that the spirit of the idgaf blanket can be applied to any hobby #yes you should challenge yourself and make beautiful art you can take pride in #but also you don't have to stop creating whenever you don't have to motivation to do so #don't be afraid to have an idgaf blanket #fiber arts #crafts #art

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possumtion · 2 months

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Bones knits but they’re all ugly sweaters (Jim and Spock loves them anyway)

•

Jim keeps ripping his sweaters

(Prompt fill for the @mcspirkevents bingo card: “Knitter McCoy”)

#my art #star trek #star trek tos #spock #jim kirk #leonard mccoy #mcspirk #spones #mckirk #spirk #star trek the original series #mcspirk bingo #dont ask me how they know mlp #also i fixed the knitting in the last panel #still dont know how to knit tho

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lazylittledragon · 3 months

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Love your bg3 comics! I hope you don’t mind some world/lore building questions!

I was wondering why Kit looks so much more like Dorian than Astarion, and it got me thinking about how vampire genetics work. Do you think that the only physical traits that get passed down are ones from before becoming a vampire? That said, what do you think Astarion looked like before he was turned, and did Kit inherit any of those traits?

i think that would make sense!! i feel like pre-vampire astarion probably looked about the same but less pale and gaunt (personally i hc that he just went grey really early and i’m also in the brown-eyed astarion club)

honestly though, the real reason kit didn’t get anything from astarion is because the redleaf genes are too strong and they all look exactly the same

(he still got the teeth and the fluffy hair though)

#ramble #bg3 #dadstarion #dorian comes from a family of sentient photocopiers #kit could still have astarion’s eyes though in this case #i think he inherited more personality than looks #he’s an introvert and likes to steal things #also i just realised his little outfit in the last one is the perfect dorian/astarion combo #the big poofy shirt with the knitted vest

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grahamcore · 1 year

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i genuinely would like to see a study on how the fuck the hannibal nbc fandom has remained not just active but thriving online when the show ended in 2015. other more recent shows have come and gone in the years since then but we’ve still got new fics and art and posts happening daily?? how does that happen

#the only other equivalent i’ve seen is supernatural. but that’s supernatural yknow. they built fandom in a cave with a box of scraps #and the hannibal fandom is so much smaller as well but i also think that contributes to us being very close knit?#i also genuinely think that the whole “oh you can’t be normal about hannibal” thing is for real. i don’t think it’s a passive interest #but yeah if anyone has insight please lmk because it truly baffles me #hannibal #hannibal nbc #will graham #hannigram

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faeriekit · 1 month

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The Foster Mother

Now on ao3 and VHS release

There was, supposedly, someone waiting for him in the green sitting room.

“…Why?” Tim asked. Most of the usual suspects had already come by to give their “condolences”—former Drakes Industries investors, curious about the newly orphaned heir; fellow socialites, once again flocking in to give and receive sympathies for their “close friends, the Drakes”; gawkers come to see what they could scavenge off of a dead family’s home, never mind that their child was alive.

“She claims to know you, Master Tim,” Alfred offered, kettle in his hand. He spent a moment deciding between different two canisters of tea; a sign of possibly difficult future conversation. “Her interest in your father's estate seemed quite…minimal.”

…Alright.

Tim was still in his formalwear. Dissolving Drake Industries would take at least another year, and plenty of future hours cementing the future home of certain resources in their dissolution, but the outfit probably was more appropriate for whatever oncoming conversation that was about to ensue than his planned change into Dick’s old hoodie and board shorts.

Okay. Tim steeled himself. The self-determination…mostly worked. Whatever. He trudged up into the green sitting room from the kitchen with his usual introduction ready on his tongue.

And then Tim walked into the room.

And then Jazzy was there.

Tim had been three, and Miss Jasmine had been his had been his third nanny. He’d outgrown the wetnurse early on, and his second nanny had been dismissed, so although Miss Jasmine was the third nanny, she was first nanny Tim could consciously remember.

She’d had red hair. She’d been very gentle with him.

She got him up in the morning and put him to bed at night; for the first time, there had been someone who sat with him until he was asleep, reading all sorts of books his parents had left to engage him with as an early genius. Then, when those were over and done as promised to his parents, they got unauthorized books from the library: silly books with made-up words, dinosaur books, books about teddy bears and adventures around the world.

Tim hadn’t been allowed to travel the world. Tim hadn’t been allowed a teddy bear. His parents had thought it would encourage undue attachment.

(It had been the same reason he’d never been given a pacifier.)

Miss Jazz had given him a knitted bunny. She’d said her dad had made it especially for him.

The toy’s name was Bunny and Tim remembered him being very soft.

She didn’t smile all the time, but smiles were rewards that were easy to earn. He finished his meal and she smiled. He finished an educational puzzle and she smiled. He was quiet all through her phone call and she smiled, and answered all his questions once she was done.

Jazzy had been the first person in his life who was there all the time. She’d kissed his forehead after the bath and kissed his scraped knees; she’d carried him in his arms when he was tired and sometimes even when he wasn’t. His parents had wanted him to be independent, proactive, and not clingy, but Jazzy had been someone who he could run to from his bed when he’d had nightmares and someone he could cuddle on her lap with when he’d cried.

She was gone when he was seven. He didn’t remember why. His parents had probably never told him, but still; he'd assumed he'd have found out why eventually.

Jazzy looked the same right now as she looked in Tim’s memories, although she was likely no longer a college student at a nannying gig. Her red hair was pulled into a high bun, her dress modest and conservative from her neck to her ankles. There was a backpack beside her foot. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, on the high-backed loveseat in the green sitting room.

She looked up when he came in.

Tim. Stopped in his tracks.

It didn’t matter. Jazzy—Miss Jasmine stood up as soon as she saw him, eyes alight with worry. Foggy memories were swimming to the forefront of Tim’s brain. He couldn’t move.

“Tim?” Ja—Miss Jasmine asked, teal eyes raking over his frame. Tim froze where he was. He didn’t move, wide-eyed and terrified for no reason at all when Miss Jasmine got closer to him, at a distance that was more appropriate for a conversation.

She stood there. Watching him. It felt like his mother had just come home from her trips with Dad, and a ghost of old terror wafted through him as he waited for her to decide he’d done something wrong. Her voice got softer. Her eyes got softer. Why was Tim feeling so wrong-footed?? It was only a former staff person!

“Tim?” her voice was so gentle. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—“

“M’s Jazz,” Tim croaked. Which. Wasn’t the level of formality he’d been going for, but better than Jazzy. He wasn’t a toddler anymore.

Miss Jasmine was so tall—honestly, was she taller than Bruce? She’d seemed insurmountable as a child; he hadn’t expected her height to truly be so statuesque as an adult.

(Or. Well. Almost an adult.)

She didn’t quite kneel down, but she did stoop lower, as if Tim was small and he needed to be on equal footing in order to have a serious conversation.

He could see all her freckles. Tim swallowed. It was too familiar. Everything about her was too familiar.

“You’re so big now,” Jazzy whispered, looking at his hair, his suit, his polished shoes. He didn’t feel it. “Oh, you’ve grown up so well.”

Thanks, Tim almost said. Something stopped him—something thick in his throat, to impassable to break through.

“I—“ he tried. He coughed. “Why…you… You’re here?”

Jazzy threw him an incredulous look, and then an incredibly wry one. “Well,” she drawled a little too primly, in the way that Alfred occasionally made obvious statements, “I’d think it obvious that when one’s parents have passed away, that those who care about you might come to check and see if you’re alright.”

Which. That didn’t make sense. Jazzy hadn’t come back for any other reason; she hadn’t come back for his mother’s funeral, nor when his father was injured publicly by a villain. Why start now?

“And,” Jazz added, seeing his visual confusion and distrust, “Your parents can’t exactly threaten me with a kidnapping charge for visiting you when they’re dead.” Pause. “Which I am sorry about. My condolences.”

Which. Whiplash. What a statement.

“Uh,” said Tim, who was rapidly losing control over the situation.

Jazzy stood again, and went back to her seat; she didn’t set herself down, though, as she only stooped to grab her backpack. “I am sorry for being unable to visit, although I really wanted to; you were at a very vulnerable age and had already moved into a class a year above you, and your parents should have been less hasty about replacing your main caretaker. The assassination attempts were unwarranted, but they did drive the point home that attempting contact was perhaps discouraged.”

“What,” said Tim. “Assassin what.”

“They were ninjas,” Jazzy offered, as if that was an answer. “Except the last one, which was a former marine. The point is that I do care about you, and wanted to ask if you had any idea where you’re going now that your parents are no longer…available guardians.”

Tim’s mouth opened. It closed.

Jazzy waited patiently.

“…How have you been?” Tim tried, resorting to a part of the script they hadn’t gone through yet.

Jazzy’s laugh was tired, but no less real. It was nothing like listening to his parents titter politely; he didn’t think Jazzy would even know how to fake a laugh. “Well, my brother told me that my former bosses had died, which was somewhat stressful. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy: I live with my brother and worked with him for the last few years. I was going to pursue medicine, but…well. The assassination attempts made it hard to interview for scholarships. I suppose that I could return to that now,” Jazzy mused, attention now elsewhere. She pulled the backpack off the floor and up into her grip. She opened it, and flipped through its contents. “How are you doing? I know that Wayne Manor fosters, but your parents were always rather…hands off. I thought the difference in levels of attention might be overwhelming.”

It was. Tim should be surprised how clearly she sees through him—

—But Jazzy used to watch him stim for almost a full hour after school, twisting Bunny’s arms back and forth until he could calm down. Seeing other people all day had been too much for him. Coming home from his parents’ parties had been similarly stressful.

She’d never been mad at him for it. She held him while he talked and stimmed and talked and talked and talked, and brushed his hair sometimes, or if it was very late and he was very young, helped him brush his teeth through all the medieval execution facts he could name.

“It is a lot to get used to,” Tim agreed quietly. He didn’t want to be ungrateful. He didn’t want to let on anyone about his plan to leave.

He had an out. The papers had already been filed; there was an actor waiting to play his uncle for a custody battle, ready for the fight.

Tim was ready to up and go. It was no hardship to leave all the good things here; anything beat making Bruce stick his fingers into Tim any deeper than they already were, compromising the dynamic they’d already established.

It was for the best.

“I can imagine,” Jazzy sympathized easily. “And I wanted to offer—well. I know there’s probably a lot of choices available to you, but my brother and I recently moved back to Gotham proper for the time being. He’s teaching astronomy courses at the university and I’m filing paperwork for Arkham patients. It’s not so privileged a home, but it’s quieter, and more central in town.”

…Tim’s heart skipped.

He. He couldn’t stop staring. Jazzy stared back at him, quiet and sure. Sure of what, Tim had no idea, but…

Why? Why would she want Tim? There was no way she would be able to get to his trust fund without his help, and he for sure knew better than to enable her ability to leech from him. The last time she’d known him, Tim had been a snot-nosed kid who cried all the time and couldn’t be normal for twenty consecutive minutes. His parents couldn’t even stand to be on the same hemisphere as him as a child. What appeal did this have for her?? What could having a teenager with severe baggage living in her house do for her?

And it’s not like there was any chance she knew he was Robin!

“Oh,” Jazzy suddenly interrupted. “I brought these for you, by the way. Your parents had tossed them out at various points; I’ve washed them since, of course.”

She handed him the backpack by the handle.

…Tim peeked inside.

On top was Bunny, still a washed-out faded sort of pink. He looked as fresh as he had the day when Tim’s parents had ”cleaned out” Tim’s nursery—in other words, a faded, a little gray, and slightly discolored from an old spaghetti stain. His button eyes were big and blue.

And beneath him were books that hadn’t passed his father’s muster as appropriately masculine reading material: The Velveteen Rabbit, with the cover a little scarred from a fierce attack of wet wipes. There’s A Monster at the End of This Book, with a goofy-looking Muppet on the cover, gold spine beat up beyond belief. Art Tim’s teacher at the time must have laminated and sent home; Tim’s dorky, crayon cat proved he would never make it as an artist, but attached to it was a photograph of a grinning boy with a bowl cut and a missing tooth.

Tim stared. There’d been purple marker on his hands and face. His grin looked…really bad, actually, like as if he was baring his teeth because he didn’t know how to smile. There was no formal grace there. Nothing to show the neighbors, nothing worth framing to put into the line of sight of the investors in the office.

Jazzy had kept it and brought it home with her. Jazzy had fished it out of the trash, and brought it with her to give back to him in Gotham.

It was crinkled like it’d been folded, over and over again. Further down in the bag was a crumpled certificate dedicated to “Timmy Drake, for: knowing a lot about octopi”, and a baby blanket Tim didn’t even remember. It had rocket ships on it. It looked as if someone had cut into it with scissors, although it had been obviously and brightly mended with red embroidery floss later on.

Jazzy had only been his nanny until Tim was seven. She had simply been gone one night, and Mom and Dad had been home for ten nights after without help before giving in and hiring Mrs. McIlvane and Mrs. Edith. Ms. Edith had never been so…permissive…with Tim as Jazzy had been.

Tim swallowed. He carefully put everything back into the backpack, unsure if he even wanted to keep it or not. It wasn’t like he could leave it here; he’d be gone, ideally, before the week was out. There was no point in taking it with him if he only planned to live with a stranger until he was eighteen.

“J…” Tim tried. He cut himself off before he could get too informal without prompting. “Miss Jasmine—“

“Just Jazz,” Jazzy corrected politely.

“—Why are you here?” Tim asked, ignoring how she’d technically already answered. He didn’t believe her. “What made my parents fire you?”

Jazzy’s expression turned…soft. Tim couldn’t look at her. Something horrible was welling with it, and he didn’t know how to cope.

“I’m here because I care about you,” Jazz repeated, and knelt beside him. She looked up into his face, and took his hand. Tim didn’t know why. He was practically an adult—he didn’t need this!

“And I was fired because your Mother overheard you calling me ‘Mommy’ on accident when you were tired. I suppose she was insulted, although I’d never know why; it’s not like she was ever home to bond with you in the first place.”

Tim’s throat closed. He missed his mom. He missed waiting up for his parents’ flight home, seeing their headlights outside the window, and knowing they’d bring home gifts from overseas. He missed using Mom’s perfume, and knowing he’d used more of the bottle sitting on her dressed than she ever had, but that it still smelled like her. He missed hearing his Dad telling all sorts of adventure stories and promises through the phone to be home for the holidays, even if Tim knew there was every chance he’d find some other way to spend the time back in Gotham.

And there was some small child in him who missed Jazzy, who hugged him and walked him to the library and made him soup from a can instead of fancy dinners and, who’d never needed to be waited for in the first place.

Tim looked at Jazzy’s round, freckled face.

He swallowed.

Tim moved out before the end of the week, as expected.

#dp x dc #Jazz fenton #tim drake #that one time Tim specifically hired a fake uncle so that Bruce couldn't adopt him #free to a good home #Jack Fenton knits btw #I'm not going to continue this but i thought it was a cool premise and needed its time. Have fun with it if you want to!#this is dedicated to all the fulltime nannies at the library who are fully just college girls raising babies #dpxdc #dcxdp #Jazz said is anyone going to raise this baby and was targeted by ninjas for it #I don't have any future plans BUT there is a moment where Dick tries to sneak into her apt to 'check it out' and she fully Gets Him with a #TBI and a Fenton CreepStickTM #also. parents who try to shape their kids by denying them every form of human comfort and access to their interests. You're dead to me #also also also I'm still a Tim Drake Autistic truther #not NOT inspired by the Say Uncle by Megarakles. This one's for you fellow fans #also. if he goes with her. He gets parented for the first time ever and it Sucks Ass lol.#faer fic

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inkskinned · 1 year

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the rise of AI art isn't surprising to us. for our entire lives, the attitude towards our skills has always been - that's not a real thing. it has been consistently, repeatedly devalued.

people treat art - all forms of it - as if it could exist by accident, by rote. they don't understand how much art is in the world. someone designed your home. someone designed the sign inside of your local grocery store. when you quote a character or line from something in media, that's a line a real person wrote.

"i could do that." sure, but you didn't. there's this joke where a plumber comes over to a house and twists a single knob. charges the guy 10k. the guy, furious, asks how the hell the bill is so high. the plumber says - "turning the knob was a dollar. the knowledge is the rest of the money."

the trouble is that nobody believes artists have knowledge. that we actively study. that we work hard, beyond doing our scales and occasionally writing a poem. the trouble is that unless you are already framed in a museum or have a book on a shelf or some kind of product, you aren't really an artist. hell, because of where i post my work, i'll never be considered a poet.

the thing that makes you an artist is choice. the thing that makes all art is choice. AI art is the fetid belief that art is instead an equation. that it must answer a specific question. Even with machine learning, AI cannot make a choice the way we can - because the choices we make have always been personal, complicated. our skills cannot be confined to "prompt and execution." what we are "solving" isn't just a system of numbers - it is how we process our entire existence. it isn't just "2 and 2 is 4", it's staring hard at the numbers and making the four into an alligator. it's rearranging the letters to say ow and it is the ugly drawing we make in the margin.

at some point, you will be able to write something by feeding my work into a machine. it will be perfectly legible and even might sound like me. but a machine doesn't understand why i do these things. it can be taught preferences, habits, statistical probability. it doesn't know why certain vowels sound good to me. it doesn't know the private rules i keep. it doesn't know how to keep evolving.

"but i want something to exist that doesn't exist yet." great. i'm glad you feel creative. go ahead and pay a fucking artist for it.

this is all saying something we all already knew. the sad fucking truth: we have to die to remind you. only when we're gone do we suddenly finally fucking mean something to you. artists are not replicable. we each genuinely have a skill, talent, and process that makes us unique. and there's actual quiet power in everything we do.

#also pay plumbers more. and electricians. and other devalued occupations #idk that this makes sense #but im like #people being so fucking pleased with themselves about the fact they can ''fake'' art #n im like #sure #but what if we stop making things for you huh #what if we stop giving u this stuff anymore #what happens to ur ai art? does it keep growing? does it keep making choices?#why do u need to see us as machines?#''i want X to exist but i don't have the skill to do it''#okay spend literally years of your life studying #''i don't want to do that''#okay pay someone who DID do that #''no i don't think it's a real skill''#okay so. YOU can't do it. and a LOT of people can't do it. but you think WE should be able to?#FOR FREE?#either it has value or it dont baby make up ur OWN mind #btw studying here is not used academically. i think if ur like. constantly knitting.#thats studying #do u spend hours reading and find urself taking notes and learning about writing #ur studying #do you follow other artists and spend a lot of your time trying new things (even unsuccessfully)#that's also studying #etc #was weird to write this thing about choices and then be like. wait why DO i like that

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