#pandapopplay

Happy birthday to the wonderful and truly amazing @pandapopplay 💜

I wasn't sure what to draw, so I decided to go with the @nightlifecomic beans, Darcy and Warren, since I'm honestly loving the comics you and Kat are coming up with! Hope today has been and will be a good day for you

Hello! This is just a small little post of just me appreciating some of my favorite art in the Septic Art community... please go check them out and give them some love~! Here are my top 5:

1. Whabooski:

2. Pumpkin-D3m0n:

3. PandaPopPlay:

4. CoolMadiDraws:

5. Chocolate.Tweet:

Inspired by the post originally made by @luci-morningstar812 and @septicstacheedits, and particularly inspired by @pandapopplay art in response to it (original accidentally deleted, but my reblog is here)

A bright light flooded the room, causing her to hiss in pain, and clutch at her eyes. Green stained her hands for a moment as the last of the darkness retreated from the room, the vivid colour fading as the blackness fled.  

Blinking back to awareness, she breathed out a lungful of air she didn’t realise she had been holding. How long had it been this time? She stretched tight muscles, revelling in the freedom to move however she wanted for a time. Right at the extent of the stretch, a sharp pain at her wrists brought her up short.  

Right. She thought, resigned. Those still exist.  

It was one of the few lucid moments allowed to her. Even now, she wasn’t aware if he did it on purpose, or if this was just the time that he was focused on someone else. She plucked at the strings around her wrists. She was able to feel them now, feel the wrongness of them. All too soon she’d slip back into that bright darkness where her thoughts weren’t her own. Her plucking and picking grew more desperate. A part of her knew that they wouldn’t come loose – not anymore. They’d been on too long, had tightened too much, a knot pulled firm by the constant tension, made worse by trying to untie it.  

She didn’t have long. He’d pull her back again, by those same strings. The rough wire was starting to rub, to irritate. She wanted them off, wanted the scars to heal and fade – if that was ever possible. But they’d already started to heal. Healed not to smooth skin, but into ruts. Permanent cuts, she supposed. That’s what he liked, after all. For everyone to look like him. To spread his image.