#just something

[wishfulsketching]

Quick doodles of dungeons and daddies S1 cast cause I'm re-listening to it. It's such a great Not A BDSM Podcast, Sometimes A DnD Podcast.

[astrolovecosmos]

Spark of the soul - Aries

Endurance of the soul - Taurus

Curiosity of the soul - Gemini

Nurture of the soul - Cancer

Power of the soul - Leo

Purity of the soul - Virgo

The touching of souls - Libra

Transformation of the soul - Scorpio

Enlightenment of the soul - Sagittarius

Burdens of the soul - Capricorn

Freedom of the soul - Aquarius

Completion of the soul - Pisces

[lover-of-mine]

Here's the thing, do I want Buck on the floor crying? Yes, because it would be fun to watch and Oliver should be allowed to let loose a little bit yk? But I truly just want Buck to do something for himself and stick to it. I mean, that man didn't even pick his own apartment. Do I want him hyperventilating screaming crying throwing up? Yes. But truly I just want him off the hamster wheel.

[1800titz]

LADYBUG MAN

“Hello.”

Jana twists her head over her chin and double-takes. There’s a tall man stood at the rear-passenger door of the sun-bleached corvette — presumably, the owner — and her six-year old is staring him down, fingertips mucked up in pollen and the hood of the car coated in naked evidence; trails of sticky fingerprints dragged in lines down the scarlet bonnet.

“I like your car,” she hears her say, and twists to see a twinge of a smile coat the man’s mouth.

“Thank you.”

The door creaks and clicks.

“—Sorry.”

The man glances in her direction as she approaches — lingers in the trail of emerald when she grasps onto Dixie’s hand, half-apologetic and half-amused, dusting the palm of her hand over the pads of the child’s fingers.

“Sorry, she — likes to …touch everything and talk to everyone.”

Jana spares another glance upward.

He doesn’t look like the image her mind had conjured as the owner of the vehicle. Maybe it’s because her brain wasn’t built to draw up a man of his stature from scratch, borrowing figments of stolen faces stowed away. That’s what a mind does, isn’t it? It borrows. Sculpts from what’s already stored and etched into folds of memory. She’d remember a man like him, memoir mirrored and tucked back behind her skull.

It’d go something like this:

Handsome, tall, wide; firm with muscle layered by cotton and denim. Good looking with his clean curls, haloed by the rays of the sun, jade like the evergreen foliage in the distance seated in his sockets. Good looking, despite the silvery knick under his eye, marred tissue sculpted across the cresting apple of his cheekbone. Good looking, despite a thin scar indenting over the slope of his nose. Pocks catch the sunlight and glint back. Most prominently, Jana notes his ear — the left one; swollen, injured cartilage that had been left untreated years ago and settled into a deformity that his tendrils tuck behind.

His mouth exposes nice teeth, straight and ivory, nearly unfitting with his brutishly visible ailments. His massive arm is cradling a crate of tomatoes, nonchalant like the one-handed feat of strength is a casual skill.

“S’alright.”

He’s santalum and cardamom musk, spuming seemingly from his pores — a clean scent that catches on the breeze and traverses, even through the void of empty space between them (a proper two feet, surpassing the respectful six-inches-for-Jesus rule. It wafts in the zephyr). Who are you, mystique. What is your little life?

She’d remember a man like him. Everyone knows every face in the poky expanse of her little county, and this man isn’t familiar.

He sets the crate into the backseat of his convertible, stretching over the boundary of the door, aided in the lack of its roofing.

“Does your car go fast?” Dixie chirps.

The rays bask on the inching of his simper, too, face downcast.

“Not really. It’s a little too old.”

Talc flickers from the bleached leather coating the interior, to the kid, and then up to her mother, where it stays. He peers at the bonnet, tipping his head as he nears it.

“You’ve done some artwork,” the man observes, using that voice utilized with kids — the kind that implies every half-assed attempt is an impressive feat. There’s a lopsided rendition of something decorating his hood, curved lines enclosing blotched stippling. “What’ve you drawn there?”

“A ladybug.”

“A ladybug,” and then, without missing a beat, “That’s quite good.”

Jana eyes him, and then glances down — Dixie beams up at the stranger like he’s hung the moon.

Slowly, he drags a pointed index through the sheath of pollen beside her artwork. His knuckles are firm, callused scarring stretching over every joint; hard like a rigid ballpoint pen coated in flesh. The tip of his forefinger circles and spots. Dots and drags. His eyes flick up, and then back down to the murky artwork. When he takes the pad of his digit away, vermillion shaping through the ragweed sculpts a pair. Two ladybugs, side by side, one to match the other. There’s a lip-sealed smile cresting at his mouth when the man nudges his chin toward the addition, thumbing at the residue over his callused index. Warm, like basking in sunshine.

“There. It’s got a friend now.”

[doodlefox2]

you miss the person you loved

[hiimgin]

It's just... Something.

(I started playing The Witcher and thought why not try to portray Link in this world's clothing)

[womp-womp-waa]

I just want a time when all of the group get to see Aiden vulnerable. Idc when or in what context just give it to me

Like is it because his roots are growing out in the facility and he hates how it looks. Or maybe his depression came back and he's now got the help of the others. Or does he just finally break under the pressure of it all.

Idc how it happens, but PLEASE give me something

[sukunastoy]

Well, I finally put in my two week notice at the one job I hate. Been there for 10 years and things just got worse and worse and worse.

10 years of my life wasted there. Thought if I put in effort and time, I’d be able to move up. Turns out they don’t do that for people…and if they do, they offer you less than a dollar for taking on so much more responsibility. What a fucking joke.

[cult-of-the-eye]

I need Sam to go through something horrific soon this curiosity needs to go somewhere

[ailani-reillata]

“Love.

How could she even think that word? How could she even let her mind imagine such a horrid thing? Beyond the Code, how could she even let herself pretend that someone had looked at her with…People didn’t look at Ailani with love. Not the kind of seeing love she was describing. People tolerated Ailani, they were amused by Ailani. But people didn’t love Ailani.

In history books, love, all-seeing love, all-consuming love, the kind of love she wanted, that was the kind of thing that people started wars over. Love is what drove beings mad. Love was bloody enough to stain the galaxy six times over.

And yet…

Wolffe believed in her. He had let her rest when the entire galaxy had forced her into endless strain. 

And she wanted to love him for it.”

-begged and borrowed time: the acolyte

[kstarlitchaotics]

There needs to be more individual Dick & Tim fics

[lilcreaturethingfromthewoods]

Subtitles:

Westley: Death cannot stop true love.

Alan: It can.

(If anyone wants to know, this is from a channel on yt called Cinema Therapy, where Alan and Jono, a filmmaker and a therapist, analyse people and relationships in films. I would absolutely recommend their channel to everyone, and here is the link to the video: Movie Couple Therapy: THE PRINCESS BRIDE's Westley and Buttercup (youtube.com) )

(also, i originally meant to make this a rivetra meme because i am thoroughly obsessed with them but instead you guys get this thing. enjoy)

[noideawhatever]

They say a trampled flower has the strongest scent, but my dear, so does a lifeless body.

- Kadambari

[adumpofdumbstuff]

@gingaaaaa

[brosif40]

This game we play, so mysterious

Even when I lose myself

Somehow, I know I have not lost you

[theparadoxart]

Let's hug each other tightly till one of us finally cries their heart out <3