𓆩 ꞥ ē ꝟ ē ɍ ꞩ ł ē ē ꝑ ⱥ ꞡ ⱥ ī ꞥ 𓆪

So just a quick update, I am tentatively reopening comms at least for a little while. Several expenses have cropped up since last month (I was in an accident, lost my car, and the woman that hit me made things difficult to get her insurance to pay out) and every little bit helps while I'm setting aside money to buy a new (used) car as well as start paying my mom back for helping me pay for a rental car this month (after the at fault party's insurance stopped covering the rental). I've set up a goal for, at the very least, the money I need to cover the rest of the cost for a decent car.

I miss my car.

For those who want something but don't really know "what", I have set up a new commission type on my Ko-fi page, which is a Skeb-like commission type.

What is a Skeb? Essentially you give the artist a character (canon or an oc) and maybe a pose or vibe you're looking for, then the artist will draw it as they see fit without sending any work-in-progress sketches and there is no communication with the artist until it is completed. There are little to no edits/corrections after the fact as well. It's very much a "trust the process, trust the artist" type of commission, where sometimes the artist will experiment with art styles or painting styles and they can vary in general quality while still retaining the overall quality of the artist in question.

Several of my commission types have limited open slots as a means to keep my workload under control, and some do have higher turnaround times due to complexity. I have a couple of higher complexity comms on my waitlist I'll be tackling first, but simple comms will be handled on a first-come-first-serve basis alongside the complex ones.

W H A T D O E S N ' T K I L L Y O U . . .

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎independent & selective dual - muse for

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎nick furcillo & dylan lenivy

              ☽  ☉  ☾         ─────     He wanted to swim. It had been a year of avoiding being in the water, avoiding being seen…and it didn’t help that his last time swimming ended with him being dragged into a nightmare and nearly drowning.

Kinda put a damper on the experience, really.

The campers would be leaving in the morning, everyone was (supposedly) asleep, the near-full moon was bright overhead, and he had easily hopped the brick barrier through the hole in the fence surrounding the pool. The pool was contained, far safer than swimming in the lake, and if he needed to make a hasty retreat it would be a far simpler escape. He just had to be quiet so he wouldn’t attract the attention of the campers in the nearby cabins. He wouldn’t swim for long, he told himself, just a few laps and maybe float for a bit.

It’d be the least stressful thing he’d done all summer, so far. Sneaking off in the dead of night, every night, to investigate the “Hag of Hackett’s Quarry” and the disappearances of multiple hikers, not to mention the two counselors that never showed in spite of being “on their way” and numerous reports and sightings of strange, violent “creatures” roaming the woods only to vanish without a trace…

He’d thought that getting away from Springwood would have given him some freedom from the deadly and bizarre, but like always he was proven wrong.

Getting his shirt off was…maybe more of a mental ordeal than he’d expected. The idea that even just the moonlight was bright enough for his scars to be seen was stressful. They were so distinct, still puckered and angry even after a year, how would he even explain them?

Fuck it.

No more thoughts, he carefully dove into the water, trying not to make too much noise, and his tension fading as soon as he was enveloped by the cool, surrounding pressure and weightlessness, letting himself sink, hovering just above the floor of the pool for a moment. He watched the moonlight play over the ripples and the bubbles, almost glittering like silver. 

It was a feeling he missed, staying under until his lungs began to give that familiar burn, and he kicked off the floor to the surface again. He laid on his back, floating along the surface and just watching the sky, ignoring the rest of the world for just s few more minutes…

            ☽  ☉  ☾         ─────    Quentin chuckled softly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Not intentionally. Um…mostly was just looking for a place to hide. I can go though, it’s no big deal..”

He wasn’t the sort to impose himself on someone. He’d call it shyness if it didn’t feel like it was doing himself a disservice; he wasn’t incapable of socializing, and under the right circumstances he was quite good at it. He’d been an athlete, used to travelling for competitions and interacting with teammates as well as the other teams. He was personable, he had friends.

Of course, things were just more difficult after…certain events. He didn’t like thinking about them, much less talking about it.

Just had him on edge, that was all.

“I don’t uh…I don’t sleep at night. Been finding places during the day to sneak a half hour nap or two here and there…” Quentin shrugged, the awkwardness coming back. “Mr. Hackett doesn’t really check the Hut often.”

Dylan leaned against the wall, his head cocking to the side slightly as he spoke. “No-” He responds, shaking his head. “You can stay… I don’t mind.” He understood the need to get away sometimes. 

His hands go back to work, fidgeting with the radio. It had been acting up, which wasn’t too big of a deal. He could work with it, but it could be better. Plus, he likes to be busy during these social interactions. Keeping his hands at work helped him not feel so awkward. 

           ☽  ☉  ☾         ─────    Quentin arched a brow as he listened to Dylan speak, continuing his mission to make what would essentially be a “nest” on the other side of the shack, just out of sight of the window. The mention of bears dragged another sleepy chuckle out of him.

"Heh...no, no bears. I, uh...” He fell quiet for a moment, tucking his bag against the wall and sliding down to lie on his back, using the bag as a rather lumpy pillow. “Mn...I kinda deal with insomnia. PTSD-induced. I don’t sleep for long when I actually manage it...I can’t.”

It was probably the least offensive way he could describe what he dealt with on a daily and nightly basis without going into too much detail.