#but she doesn't know that

[slothquisitor]

Me: DnD is a collaborative game, and there is no winning DnD.

Also me: Winning DnD is creatively using a character ability in a way your DM did not anticipate so you can watch the slow-dawning resignation in their eyes as they realize that you have foiled all their plans.

This is brought to you by my DM forgetting that echo knights can use a bonus action to swap places with their echo which allowed my little fighter to escape a kidnapping situation by summoning it behind the group of enemies and then pulling a little switcharoo and running like a bat out of hell.

[cryptid-time-bby]

I just know that Clarissa would be FUMING abt missing the release of Speak Now (Taylor's Version)

[pinktinselmonstrosity]

forgot to tell you guys about when i was cooking a burger the other day and my chinese flatmate said i was "just like spongebob"

[peculiarbeauty]

SHE WAS A PRISONER to this dream that revisited her many of a many nights. meeting a handsome prince confined to seldom hope. ( trapped ! trapped ! ) but he was like her , wasn't he ? within a reality that he did not mean to stumble upon. he was the red rose plucked away and discarded of his thorns so he could not fight back.

oh , he was lovely. more lovely than any amount of royalty she could come close to. " you are here .. " she says , attempting to relish in the moment just for it to be stripped away , causing her dysfunctional dream to take shape in the presence of a terrifying beast. HE WAS THE ONE WHO IMPRISONED HER . . . and now , he has imprisoned this other poor soul.

but she will not give up. she will find this prince once and for all.

for many nights , her nightmares would cause her to wake up screaming and sweating profusely from the terrors of not being able to save this other lost soul who had been so disgracefully betrayed , but not tonight. SHE REFUSES TO FAIL TONIGHT. this prince , he must be real --- and trapped here. trapped somewhere in the castle.

he is possibly hidden deep within a dungeon. and just like that , beauty has made her decision to be as quiet as a mouse and slip out of the lavish bed that was so humbly gifted from the master of the house.

a candlestick is obtained , and the creak of the door has her heading off 'pon the castle grounds for answers. at night , everything within the castle was rather dark and gloomy.

it was different within daylight hours where some bits of hope could be found. to say that she was afraid to take these steps onward would be a lie , but if there was a prince within this castle held against his will , she must be the one to break him out and get him to safety.

perhaps . . . perhaps they could run away together. start a new life away from the horrendous life she is living now.

down , down , down the stairs she goes. she will remain vigilant to check about , for the beast did seem to be just as quiet and observant of her.

no signs of life were seen , and so she heads on into the deepest parts of the castle. a place he has hidden from view. a place she was forbidden to go . . .

she looks upon tattered walls and empty chains of nothingness. it was intimidating , but no signs of life could be foretold here. this place once hosted parties , but life does not live here anymore.

A GASP at a shattered mirror and a slightly tattered painting can be seen. ( whoever did this was frighteningly afraid to look upon the beauty of a man in it . . . )

she is slow to uncover more of the painting , eyes to widen at the growing sincerity in the eyes of another she has met once. ONCE UPON A NIGHTMARE . . . a sweet , sweet nightmare.

the candlestick drops , and she is left without a light. she fumbles backwards falling into an all too familiar patch of fur that stands behind her.

her heart begins to pound rapidly , the fear reflected in her eyes with the quick turning of her person to find him . . . the master.

plotted starter for : @whiimsicaldream

[desperatepleasures]

one time I used the ben affleck smoking reaction image in the family group chat and my mom replied with the funniest possible response which was: "mommy doesn't know who the guy is???" and that phrase has not left my brain since. I'll see blorbos on my dash that I don't recognize and I'll be like well it seems mommy doesn't know who the guy is.

[starfoam]

//Man developing a doomed character is fun

[no-entry-access]

when she says it's not his fault her parents died but technically it sort of is

[possamble]

hiii everybody are you normal about Falin showing Laios the same little spell that Marcille showed her? are you normal about Falin remembering it fondly enough that it was one of the first things she showed her brother while trying to teach him magic?

[tsibeyantiger]

I never fully realised how heartbreaking this "I choose the prophecy" thing is. Imagine you are Annabeth. Imagine you are fourteen and the boy you have a crush on since over a year just broke literally any rule, travelled across the whole country and held the dam sky to save you, and you hear him say: "I'm gonna die in two years, because otherwise this poor little boy would have to carry the burden of the prophecy and I can't let this happen."

Edit: I feel like y'all still aren't sobbing enough, so I'd also like to remind you that six months later, Annabeth goes into the labyrinth and gets the prophecy "and your love will face a fate worse than death".

[magentasnail]

ok pause from bill art time for some mystery twins art !! specifically, 12yo selves meeting their current day selves!

[technically-human]

Red string of fate

Be strong, Niko

[teaboot]

Okay so I may have been struggling under a miscommunication issue

[mirrorhouse]

You have taken the whole of me. I could never accept just a piece of you in return.

[artkaninchenbau]

People keep on asking for more Baby Robin and Papadile so here is more Baby Robin and Papadile. Now never ask anything from me ever again

[astralpenguin]

self care is writing a fic that you’re literally the sole target audience for

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.