#how to draw a flashlight

[puhpandas]

some drawings of Fozzie!!!

fozzie is flashlight duos dog from my flashlight duo au + this fic specifically

[nombitenary]

when camping in lovely clearings, make sure to keep an eye out for hungry giants. looks like christopher decided to give these folks a warmer tent. how thoughtful.

[frootlooptime]

ive alr seen like 3 appalachian mikus but heres my worldwide miku contribution anyways,, southern girl winter miku

[happyvoltz]

mike schmidt

[art-from-the-juice-box]

gen loss >:] and a written out talking to myself because i think it’s funny that it looks like a star wars intro

[dimmestmorn13]

cranberry pie || flash warning !!

gif under the cut

he's just trying to bake cranberry pie!

merold: dumbass! why not open the lights?? hallritt: sanah said I should save on electricity & all merold: (screams into his hands)

[flamboyant-king]

My power was out for a couple days so I drew on a big ol cardboard with mini gel pens!

[narutosux]

#Kloktober Day 11: Horror Movie Game Crossover

dead by daylight crossover would be so good dont lie to me. Toki gets left on first hook every game because Skwisgaar and Nathan are too busy on gens. Pickles is opening chests and not paying attention. Murderface is 100% facecamping as killer, probably trapper or billy. But, I think he would really suck at facecamping and if someone DID try and rescue he would probably miss his hits, but... no one bothers to save off hook.

[mementoasts]

jonathan sims head archivist of the magnus institute london

[puhpandas]

the gregory from my icon

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

actually I don't think you guys understand. the last time I was genuinely absorbed with a book was probably Les Mis, which I listened to as an audiobook throughout half of 2020, and the last time it was an actual paper book would have been Legacy (KOTLC book 8) which came out the first Tuesday (Thursday??) of November 2019 and for which I disregarded every responsibility I had to speed read it in one day. I've had such a hard time reading the past couple years, like really just so distracted and fixated on other things that I've had to actually set timers to make myself sit down and read a goshdang book, and I'm just. gobsmacked. absolutely appalled that I picked up a book off a thrift store shelf just because I recognized the title, flipped to the first page out of sheer curiosity, and have now dedicated more time to reading in the past three days than I have in possibly the last entire year. it's not even the kind of thing I would usually pick out to read!! I'm not quite sure what to do with this tbh

[seven-thewanderer]

Okay I never really planned to ever say something relating to me working on a drawing, but I have to share this

So I was drawing something (that I won’t specify what exactly), and it related with that upper spot in Monty’s Gator Golf, which I think is called a catwalk, idk

But I grabbed 3 references for it.

As I was inserting them into the image as references for me to use. But I have a specify way I like to put references in. I don’t like them to be overlapping, and I don’t like there being an awkward gap in between 2 references. So, I zoom in really close to make sure that the boundaries of each image are touching, but not overlapping or leaving a gap.

So i insert the first 2 images, nothing wrong, everything’s going well.

Then I get to the third one. I thought everything was fine, but then I looked at it, and I jumped so badly

Apparently, when I grabbed this image as a ref, I didn’t see a problem

I SEE IT NOW AND I HATE IT

[zincbot]

i use more drawing references than anyone alive

[tasteleeknow]

LIVING IN THE RUINS

minho x fem!reader. 2k words. minors dni. best friends to lovers. soft!minho. angst. fluff. jealousy. emotional hurt/comfort. smut with feelings, in a tent.

“Excuse me?”

You blink at the stranger in front of you. She seems to materialise before your eyes. You’d zoned out again and missed the attention your best friend had clearly been receiving from strangers in the crowded room. “I was wondering if I could get your number?” she asks, eyes fixed on Minho’s. She blinks quickly a few times, her long dark lashes fluttering much like your heart in your chest. 

She hasn’t looked at you once despite your close proximity. You’re so close to the object of her attention in fact, your thigh brushes against Minho’s jeans under the table. 

He shifts beside you, sitting up straighter in the booth. “Oh,” he says, clearly taken off guard as well. “Thank you. I mean that’s — I don’t—” 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks with a small tilt of her head. 

“No,” Minho answers quickly, incapable of lying. His discomfort radiates off him. You’d spent years learning his emotional tells. “I mean—” 

“He’s not into women,” you interrupt, finally drawing her attention to you. She blinks before her eyes drop down to your chest and back to your eyes, like she’s completely taken aback by your presence. It’s impossible, you know that logically. Still, she puts on a good performance. “Sorry,” you add. 

Her lips curve into an unconvincing smile. “No worries,” she says. “The hot ones never are.” 

The whole exchange is as short as it is ordinary. How many tipsy girls work up the courage to ask the pretty man across the bar for his number? You would bet money on it happening multiple times over somewhere across the planet at any given moment. It’s normal. Mundane. Still, you know it’ll chip a little more of your carefully built wall away. A chisel to stone, slow and steady. The only problem is that it’s been chipped at for years. You can feel the fragility of it these days, each chisel etch feels alot like when you’re down to the end of a game of jenga. 

Any move now will cause it to crash and fall. 

She hadn’t considered for a moment you might have been together — not when she’d spotted him across the room, clearly with you — and not when she’d gotten close and blatantly ignored your comfortable proximity to each other. Her question about his relationship status had been an afterthought, a possibility she hadn’t considered until faced with a response other than ‘yes’. She’d been expecting a yes.

The thought that he might be with you, might be attracted to you, was unconsidered. You wonder if she’d discussed it with her friends. ‘No,’ they might have said. ‘There’s no way he’s with her.’

Minho is quiet as the petite brunette turns on her heels and disappears back into the mass of people. His red ears give his embarrassment away. 

You nudge his shoulder, rocking him out of his trance. “Hey,” you prod. “Alright?” 

The smile he offers you is a little lopsided — very Minho. “Always,” he says. 

—

Your annual camping trip is just like the year before. Your small group of friends sets up camp in your usual spot. Everyone climbs into their usual tents. Everyone assumes you and Minho will be sharing, as always. 

You’re not sure why it hurts so much. They assume that nothing would ever happen between you. None of the other girls share a tent with a guy they aren’t dating. You’re the exception. Because Minho would never want you. 

He notices your low mood later that night. The group separates in the dark to play flashlight tag and as you find yourself wandering a secluded patch of the campsite, you know he knows. His attention is on you instead of where he’s walking. You almost scream when he falls into apparent nothingness. 

“I’m fine,” he quickly reassures you, pulling himself up from the ground. “Just dropped my glasses.” 

“God, you scared me.” 

It takes you both at least ten minutes to find them, relying purely on touch alone. It's too dark to see much at all without a light and using your phones would give your position away. 

You’re grateful for the darkness when you reach up and place his frames gently on his face. It hides the heat in your cheeks when you brush chocolate brown hair behind his ears, ensuring you’ve placed them properly. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, close enough that his breath warms your lips. 

You’re also grateful just to be near him, you realise. Just to know him. You love him. 

You love him. 

It’s an earth shattering realisation to have while playing flashlight tag in the middle of nowhere. You need to escape. You can’t. You’re sharing a tent with him. 

The situation isn’t helped when later in the night one of the girls with big bright eyes and a gentle smile makes a very clear move on him. You were used to it. People loved him. 

You loved him. 

It’s a stupid thing to cause the wall to finally crumble. It’s humiliating really. But when he laughs at something she whispers in his ear: it happens. 

It falls. 

You’re pathetic without it. 

All you can do is hide from him, escape to the tent and pretend to be so tired you’ve fallen asleep before he can investigate. It’s not something you do. Not with Minho. He knows you so well hiding from him is just as stupid as it is pathetic. He’ll know. 

Still, you can pretend. He won’t know as long as you’re unconscious. You can put it off until morning. 

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep. You lie there staring at the canvas of the tent for what feels like hours, the sounds of him tossing and turning continuing for so long you almost give up. 

But then he’s still. His breathing seems to even out. He’s asleep. 

That’s when you let yourself cry. Quietly at first; silent aching sobs. 

What a time for the wall to crumble. You wonder if you have the energy to rebuild. You’ll have to find it. The alternative is letting Minho go entirely, removing him from your life and letting the ruins erode away over a long, long time. 

Not an option. 

“Hey,” Minho’s soft voice calls. Shit. You wipe clumsily at your eyes and sodden cheeks. “Hey, what’s going on? What happened?” he questions as his palm rests gently against your shoulder. 

You should face him. You can’t hide. You know it. 

“No-thing,” you whimper, breath catching between each syllable. It’s that awful breathless kind of sobbing, the type that leaves you unable to inhale fully, let alone speak. 

He rolls you over onto your back. He isn’t rough — but it’s with enough strength you’re completely unable to resist him. 

“What is it?” he says again, tone much more forceful now. He isn’t letting it go. He looks down at you with wide eyes, like he’d never been asleep at all. 

You shake your head. 

His gentle thumbs move to your cheeks to attempt to wipe away the mess you’d left behind. He rests on one arm, leaning over you so he can give each cheek the same treatment. It’s a curious instinct, to wipe away someone's tears — like it has any effect on the person’s pain at all. It’s the best we can often do, you suppose. 

“Just focus on breathing,” he says. “Just breathe.” His hand stays against your cheek, fingers resting on your neck by your ear — featherlight. 

Breathing is easy, in theory. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. His lips part to join you, guide you. His lips are still a little red from his bedtime routine, his tinted vaseline usually lasting him the entire night. 

“That’s it,” he soothes when you finally manage a few steady breaths in a row. “That’s good. You’re okay.” 

They’re simple words of comfort. The kind of thing anyone would say to a person in distress, but they settle something in your chest. You were okay. He was yours in a way that was more than nothing. He cared in a way that felt so genuine it was hard to be dissatisfied with the nature of it at all. 

“Did something happen today?” he asks, still leaning over you. It’s a vulnerable position to be in. It mirrors how you know this conversation will go. Your wall is a crumbled mess. You have no defences against him. 

“Not really.” 

His eyebrows pull together. 

“Nothing worth this,” you clarify. 

“Tell me.” 

“It’s not… It’s embarrassing.” 

His lips curve in a tiny lopsided smile, just a hint of amusement. “Friends are for sharing embarrassing things with. And I’m your friend,” he says. “Aren’t I?” 

You blink quickly a few times, desperate to keep your tears at bay. Then you nod weakly. 

“Why do you look so miserable about it?” he says, tone light and teasing. 

Your lips wobble a little as you struggle with the words attempting to burst forth. They pound and burn and demand to be set free. You lose the battle. “I love you.” 

He blinks, eyes flicking across your face. 

The gates are open now. You’re turned loose. “I love you so much,” you sob. “It hurts. It hurts everyday and it just keeps getting worse and I can’t—” 

His lips cut you off, a warm, heart-stopping, and very much welcome interruption. He’s kissing you. He’s—

“Stop,” he mumbles against your wet, salty lips. “Stop hurting. Please.” His next kiss is unbearably soft, a brush against your upper lip. “Please,” he whispers. 

You nod dumbly.

He rewards you with a collection of gentle kisses across your cheeks, replacing the remnants of your tears with the sticky wetness of his moisturised lips. You imagine the slight red marks he must leave behind. 

He settles over you properly at some point. You’re too distracted by the path of his lips to notice exactly when. But then his arms are by your head, caging you under him in a way that makes you hope for the universe to halt all progression forward. This was enough; everything. 

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips finally. “I’m… sorry for letting you think I don’t. I’m a coward.” 

“No,” you chastise quickly as you tangle your fingers in his hair. “Don’t say shit like that.” 

“I—” 

“It hurts me… and you told me to stop hurting.” 

His head drops to your neck… then, with a soft press of his lips to your skin, “Then I’ll never do it again.” 

Every move he makes is gentle when the slow, indulgent kisses turn into exploring hands and whispered pleas for more. Each of his whisper-soft words of affection sweeps away a crumbled section of your wall, clearing the space to build something entirely new. He’s warm, so warm as his bare torso rests on yours — as he finally presses inside you and sucks a mark into your neck to join the rest he’s left. “Doesn’t hurt?” he asks, stilling as he fills you completely. 

“No,” you gasp. “No, you’re… it’s—” His lips take the words from your mouth, a little messier than he’s been before. When his hips roll into yours you can’t help grasping at him like he might suddenly get up and leave — fingers tangling in his hair desperately.

“I got you,” he mumbles against your lips, heavy breaths mingling with your own. “I got you…” 

When he eventually spills inside you, flooding you with more of his warmth, you’re crying again. But this time it doesn’t hurt; this time it’s a release. The tears that he kisses from your face afterwards — they wash away the rest of the rubble.

[forgetfulmachineart]

[ID: A mostly cool colored, digital three page comic of teen Gojo Satoru talking to young Tsumiki Fushiguro. Page one: Gojo makes a sandwich for Tsumiki who's leaning on the kitchen island. Tsumiki says "Thanks for the snacks, dad" and Gojo responds "No problem, Tsumi." In the next panel Gojo complains "Man... I wish Megumi didn't hate me so much. At least you call me dad..." Tsumiki comments "Megumi does that too, though?" In the third panel, Gojo activates his Six Eyes like a flashlight and yells "When!? Where!? Do you have it on camera!?" to a surprised Tsumiki. Page two: Tsumiki thinks about the various times Megumi has called Gojo 'dad,' including when Gojo gave them a bad hair cut, when the divine dogs bit Gojo, when Gojo made soup, and lastly when Megumi asked Tsumiki to ask Gojo to make snacks which is all represented in blue tinted drawings. In the last panel she has a devious smile and is labeled "8 yr old who just realized how funny she can be" Page three: Tsumiki cheerfully says to a gleeful Gojo "In your dreams!" The second panel shows them zoomed out with a lighting strike going through Gojo's shattered heart while Tsumiki has a cat like smile. In the third panel with a light orange background, Tsumiki is smiling while Megumi comes up behind her and asks "Why's dad crying?" /End ID]

Before this happened

Edit: It has kindly been brought to my attention that Tsumi means sin in Japanese I'm so sorry Tsumiki I should've taken five seconds to check I just wanted matching nicknames with Gumi 😭

[moonstruckme]

Okay my inbox is doing that fun thing again where it disappears the ask I was looking for only to reappear after a couple of days, but luckily I had it copy + pasted and I think it was from an anon anyway, so thank you very much for your request!

Request: undercover spencer and reider?? fake dating??? tension???? the brainrot i have for this man is ridiculous

cw: serial killer, no killing in the scene but they do talk about how he's killed people in the past

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 825 words

Spencer’s fingers are intertwined with yours, your knees touching, and yet you have to ask: “Are we being…canoodle-y enough?” 

“Enough for now,” Prentiss’ voice is dry in your earpiece, but you can hear the humor in it. “We don’t have any movement yet, and it’s not like you’ve got any competition.” 

That’s fair enough. While you and Spencer have been sitting on a park bench playing couple, the rest of your team has quietly cleared every real couple out of the area. The serial killer you’re trying to lure out seems to have a thing for this particular park—as do teens trying to light a spark away from their parents’ homes. Your unsub likes to find some young sweethearts in a secluded area, then kill the girl while the boy watches before offing him, too. Your team is hoping that you and Spencer look young and in love enough in the dark to pique his interest. 

And you can’t help that you’re no longer a teenager, but luckily attraction to Spencer Reid isn’t difficult for you to fake. 

“It’s getting late,” you whisper to him. “Doesn’t he usually strike around eleven?” 

Spencer’s pupils are large and reflective in the darkness. “He’s regimented,” he replies, just as softly, like you’re lovers whispering sweet nothings in the night, “but in the past, his window has extended from eleven to eleven thirty. We might have some time.” 

“Do you think he’s here already?” 

“Probably.” His hand coasts up your arm, a tentative teen trying to make a move. It draws a line from your elbow around your back to settle on your waist. Spencer’s mouth is close to your ear. “He likes to stalk his victims for a while. He’s probably making a few passes around the park.” 

You swallow but do your best to look comfortable, leaning into his side. “Right. That makes sense.” 

“You seem nervous,” he says. 

“Do I?” 

Spencer hums, and his forefinger makes a couple of slow strokes on your side. The movement is so small you wonder if it’s for your unsub’s benefit or yours. 

“I know this is your first time being the bait, but no one’s going to let anything happen to us.” His voice is hardly a murmur, breath sweet and warm on your cheek. “Hotch wouldn’t let us do this if he wasn’t sure they could protect us.” 

“Yeah,” you breathe. Spencer adjusts his grip on your waist, and your heart flutters. You really hope you’re attacked by a serial killer before he figures you out. “Yeah, I know.” 

“We’ve got a jogger in dark clothes headed your way,” Derek says through your earpiece. “Look like you like each other, kids.” 

Your breath catches as Spencer’s free hand comes up to catch your jaw, turning your face gently into his. Your noses tease each other, the nervous beginnings of a kiss in the making. You have the sense that if you inhaled it would close the space between your lips. 

“Close your eyes,” Spencer murmurs. 

“What?” 

“It’s only believable if you close your eyes.” 

You trust him. Your eyelashes brush against his skin as they flutter closed, and Spencer caresses your cheek as if in approval. You’re acutely aware of every nerve in your body. Your blood rushes fast, the hairs on your arms upraised and your brain buzzing, but the atmosphere around you is as quiet as if you’re frozen in time. 

Then the bushes to your left rustle. 

Spencer’s up and in front of you in a flash, but not before JJ’s shining her flashlight and pointing her gun at the unsub. 

“FBI! Put the knife down.” 

The man hesitates. You grab Spencer’s sleeve, thinking for a moment to pull him back, but the unsub is still too far away to even entertain taking either of you hostage and now Hotch is on your other side, repeating JJ’s demand. You breathe a soft sigh of relief when the knife makes a dull thud on the grass. 

“Good job, lovebirds,” Derek teases as Hotch puts the guy in cuffs. “I wouldn’t have thought this perv would go for anyone not already half naked, but you two were so convincing he chose you anyway.” 

“Probably just for lack of better options.” You look down under the guise of brushing off your pants.

“No, you were great.” Spencer’s voice is sincere. It’s praise given casually, with no awareness of how it affects you. “It’s hard to keep your head in those situations, but you did really great.” 

You shrug, bashful. “Yeah, well, you did most of the work. I definitely wouldn’t have known what to do if you hadn’t taken the lead.” The double entendre has blood rushing to your face, but thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice.

But of course, Derek does. “That’s what I’m always saying.” He drops one eye in a wink, teasing coating his voice. “You’d never know it, but pretty boy here’s got moves.”