#love getting song recommendations

[vmures]

Have you heard this song?

https://youtu.be/NrfikKxF4Ps?si=bE4tFQ7Hko-8vN93

I had not heard it! Thank you so much for sharing it with me. I'm really enjoying it a lot. Love the entire vibe of it. It's got a great lofi sort of sound and some solid lyrics. Very much my cup of tea. 💜💜💜

[soosoosoup]

Funk branch au

Au and branch design by @bbc-trolls

[glassofpumpkinjuice]

song 2 cover

(lexington 3/30/24)

[shkika]

Does SoS play any of the guilty gear games, and if so who does she main

She'd be a fighting game fanatic and her ancients would SO make tournaments trying to defeat her in various fighters. I think she'd enjoy rushdowns...

Sadly I don't know basically anything about Guilty Gear I'm just beyond amused at the image of grand ancient tournaments where the winner faces off against none other than Sliv.

I also find it adorable if she retold these tournaments to Moon.

I think the ancients should give her a mute button or disable her own hearing maybe as a treat. The "I'm overwhelmed" button you could even say.

[suddenly-stickmin]

"Woah, it's really coming down." ___________

It's been raining a lot here lately, the clouds turn to this really nice sea-green color, so I wanted to make something inspired off of that! The music used here is "Learning Spy". I was listening to it while coloring n thought it suited the rain-vibes nicely.

[ghouljams]

I’m BEGGING can we meet Luck???

I need to see the dynamic between them and Gaz. I’m also desperate to see what being Price’s second entails.

Luck is a tricky thing. In a single lifetime a human may have a few truly lucky breaks, things they'd call miracles, but it's limited to one or two crucial moments. Luck is something the higher ups dole out sparingly, weighing their miracles against the greater order of things. Skill is what keeps soldiers alive long enough to earn a demon, not luck. So it's not luck that soldiers need. 

Still you always get assignments, soldiers to keep track of, just in case they do something of note. You watch Kyle Garrick fall out of a helicopter and witness a truly spectacular moment of luck. The sort of luck that's only reserved for soul mates and cancer survivors. You watch him survive the fall and not miss a beat in finishing his mission, and you feel your black heart beat a little faster. The powers that be must think whatever he's doing is important. Important enough to spend his luck on. 

You push another dose of luck his way, just to make sure he doesn't get shot while he's hanging from the helo. When he's finally safe and upright again your heart is pounding, fingers dug into the shadows as you listen to his breathing and decide this can't be his only lucky break. It just can't be. He deserves better than just survival. Protocol dictates that once the extraordinary luck is gone you’re not supposed to keep tabs anymore, but you can’t help hanging around Gaz.

Something in his smile when he tells the story, the bells in his laughter, the sun that shines from him, you can’t leave him. Every word from his lips is kindling on your fire. His dedication to the cause, the firm conviction in his heart, color every tone and action. 

You feed your luck to him in bite sized pieces: guessing passwords on the first try, finding safe combinations when he searches for them, an extra bullet in his chamber when he needs it. He laughs with his captain about a lucky streak and you glow with pride. That’s me, you think, your heart beating fast and eager against your ribs.

He’s not in the running for demonic intervention, maybe angelic if he does something truly magnificently good, but he doesn’t tick any of the boxes. Still holding onto his humanity too tightly, years away from the number of kills he’d need, and not a true enough believer to try summoning anything. That doesn’t stop you from looking for ways to get to him. Generally demons tend to do as they like, but you can’t just attach yourself to someone without intervention. Someone has to sign off on it. Especially when you’re giving out unapproved stores of luck to a soldier that hasn’t captured any demon’s heart but yours. 

Your stomach drops watching Gaz push his captain out of the way as an IED goes off next to them. He’s blown across the room, hitting a wall and collapsing on the ground. He still has plenty of luck, you can’t- he shouldn’t have. Your fingers shake, thinking of your higher ups catching on to your affections. Fuck.

You direct the blood that pours from his wound to trace into the sigils you need. As close to a miracle as you can provide him. The circle closes and rips you into the physical plane. You crouch next to him, hands hovering over a man you’d only been watching until this point. What do you do? How do you help?

Gaz groans, coming back to consciousness. “Don’t move,” You whisper to him, pushing the ringing from his ears. “Don’t move,” You repeat it like a prayer, for your own benefit. You move to examine the source of the blood, the shrapnel embedded in his back and leg. Nasty jagged pieces of metal and debris. You hear the pained grunts of his captain nearby, but they do nothing to draw your attention. You swallow thickly, and place a hand on Gaz’s back to hold him still. Your other hand grips the metal in his back. 

It’s lucky, you tell yourself pulling the metal free, that it missed his spine and anything vital. You toss the metal sharp and press your hands against the wound. It’s lucky it isn’t bleeding too much. You reach into one of the pockets on Gaz’s tac vest and pull a tourniquet free. 

You shift your attention to his leg, slip the tourniquet around his thigh and tighten it. Your fingers working fast to give the debris in his leg the same treatment, Lucky it missed a major artery, lucky he won’t lose the leg, lucky you got the bleeding under control in time. You’re shaking like a leaf when you finally feel like your soldier isn’t going to die.

He’s watching you when you finally, actually, look at him, his chest heaving and his eyes wide. “Who-” He starts, before the pain of his injuries stops him and he gives a wincing grunt. You don’t look like a soldier, you know you don’t. You feel as out of place as you’re sure you look, but you’ve come too far now. 

“I want to make a deal,” you tell him quickly, scooting to sit closer to him. You lean close so he can see you, and because talking is hard with holes in you.

-

Price groans, pushing himself up from the rubble. He’s getting too old for this shit. Everything hurts, but nothing seems to be broken. He’ll thank Gaz for getting him out of the way later. Gaz.

He looks around the settling dust, and spots him laying still on the ground, blood pooling around him. His stomach drops. Is he moving? Did he take the brunt of that blast? Price dusts himself off, grunts at the ache in his bones, and stops.

He watches some pretty little thing lean over his sergeant. Their lips move silently, a hand pressed to Gaz’s chest. Gaz says something and they smile.

“I need medical now,” Price tells his comms, “Gaz is down, we need an evac.” The demon over Gaz turns to look at him, their eyes searing red, before they melt into shadow.

“That’s going to be a problem,” A soft voice whispers in his ear.

-

You perch on the edge of Gaz’s cot in the medical tent. A miracle the doctor had said. Your miracle. You don’t regret it for a second, you have your deal, you have your soldier, and you have all the luck in the world to spend on him. You broke the rules for personal gain like any good demon would and you can see no way this could possibly backfire for you.

Gaz is positively covered in bandages. All things considered he looks good, a few blood transfusions really brought his color back. You’ll do proper introductions when he’s feeling better, but for now you’re happy just to sit and talk to him. The tent flap is pulled back quick enough you don’t have time to slip back into the shadows.

“Captain,” Gaz tries to push himself up, Price raises a hand. Gaz sighs and lays back. Price is silent as he makes his way into the tent. You pull your feet up to avoid his shadow as he walks past you. Something about it makes you nervous.

“Sergeant,” Price pulls up a chair next to the cot, “We need to talk.” He waves a hand and your heart stops watching a demon step from the shadows behind him.

You are in so much trouble.

[hecksupremechips]

Come back home when you have some sense

You can throw your life away just not at my expense

You’re not the son I raised

[diathadevil]

'' EI NÄIN, EI MISSÄÄ NIMES NÄIN ; SUL ON FINKUT PYSTYS HETI KUN SÄ TUUT ! ''

I like the song Kovis a normal amount okay.

[minticecodes]

I'm slowly getting through devil may cry v and got inspired enough to doodle again. Sure they aren't polished but I love looking at others' sketch dumps, it's like looking at a smorgasbord of ideas. So here you go. Read more for close ups of the other doodles. The ID in alt are the same as written in the text.

[I.D. Digital art. A boy in a shirt hoodie, Nero, sits cross legged as he leans backwards to smile up at his companion. Said companion is a tall horned knight, Nelo Angelo, kneeling behind Nero. Nelo gazes to the side, but braces his broadsword by Nero, and his cape drapes around where Nero's sitting. Nero is rendered in light blue and red, Nelo is rendered in light blue, and they're brightly illuminated. End I.D.]

(Was thinking of 'Love Seeketh Not Itself to Please' by Indigomoods on ao3 while doing this one).

[I.D. A number of digital art sketches, most prominently featuring Dante and Vergil from the Devil May Cry series. From top to bottom, right to left:

Headshots of two boys, Dante and Vergil. Short comic of a man (Dante) ruffling a boy's (Vergil's) hair. Sketch of two boys on a couch, one (Dante) looking concerned at the other (Vergil) in foetal position. Branches curl under the couch. Sketch of child Dante and Vergil in red and blue, running hand in hand. Thumbprint sized chibi child Dante and Vergil. Nero and Nelo sitting together.

Semirealistic headshot (DMCV Vergil) in blue. Boy (Dante) curled in a fire, and fire demon (SDT Dante) gazing at his palm against a black background. Loose sketches of a man's head, roughly scribbled out except one, and an angry cat with a sword. They're labelled in blue and red writing. Side profile of a young man in blues (DMC3 Vergil), face shadowed, a yellow ribbon curled in the background. Side profile of DMC3 Vergil. End I.D.]

[I.D. 4 black and white digital pen cartoony sketches of child Dante and Vergil. Head and bust shot of a boy with slicked back hair and black turtleneck (Vergil) looking right. His brows are furrowed, eyes narrowed; he looks unimpressed. Below is a head and bust shot of a boy with shoulder length hair and white shirt (Dante) looking left with wide eyes and a fang toothed, wide grin. Centre close up of a cloaked boy (Vergil) glaring up, brow furrowed. His hair hangs over a shadowed face. One narrowed eye is visible. Right sketch is of a cloaked boy (Vergil) hugging a book to his chest, referencing a Visions of V panel. His one visible eye is wide as he gazes down with a small expression. End I.D.]

[I.D. Coloured digital art over a black background. Two panels. Panel one is child Dante, arms hugging his legs as he sits within a fire raging around him. He's buried his face in his arms. Panel two is an adult Dante in his demonic SDT form. He gazes down at his clawed hand while the fiery core in his chest glows as the main source of light, casting shadows and red light against his armoured form. The tips of his claws seem to glow in the reflected light. End I.D.]

[I.D. Messy sketch of child Vergil and Dante, running hand in hand. The two look at each other with smiles, Dante with a wide grin and Vergil with closed lips and determined brows. Their full expressions aside from the smile cannot be seen; Dante's hair whips back and covers his face while Vergil's face is eyeless. They're softly rendered in light blue and red, and bright lighting. End I.D.]

[I.D. Messy sketch of child Vergil and Dante sitting on a couch, shot from behind the couch. Dante directs a concerned gaze to Vergil, his hand braced on the couch back as he leans closer. Vergil only looks down. His arms are curled around his knees. From the angle, his expression cannot be seen aside from a small frown. Under the couch slithers Qliphoth tree roots. End I.D.]

[I.D. Chibi doodle of child Vergil and Dante, holding hands. Light blue and red ovals were airbrushed on the page, and a pen lined out their features. They have round cheek patches, like budgies. Vergil has a cartoony pout and a book tucked under an arm, labelled with a V; Dante has a toothy grin and is making a bunny ears hand sign. End I.D.]

[I.D. 'DANTE' is evenly block printed in blue pen. Underneath are what looks to be the start of three portraits of Dante in black pen, but they're roughly scribbled out. The most detailed of the three scribbled out portraits is Dante's grinning side profile. He had sunglasses on. The only intact portrait is a shot of Dante from behind, from the chest up and face not visible aside from a grin. Carried on his back is the Devil Sword Dante, rendered in more detail than Dante.

Meanwhile 'VERGIL' is written in orange/red pen, but strikethroughed. Written above instead is 'PURR-GIL!!', an arrow pointing at a doodle of a cat holding a roughly drawn katana(Yamato). The cat is grimacing with furrowed brows. It has spiky fur on its head, a spiky curled tail, a thorn pattern on its arms resembling Vergil's coat sleeves, and fat round blushy cheeks. End I.D.]

[I.D. Semirealistic rendering of DMCV Vergil from the neck up in three quarter view. He's painted in blues, with soft red shadows. He glares at the viewer, brows furrowed. His irises are a soft red, and he has eye bags. His lips are somewhat glossy. To the side is the blue color palette. End I.D.]

[I.D. Stylised depiction of DMC3 Vergil glaring downwards in profile, from the chest up. He's rendered in blues, his face shadowed from the light against his back. Running over his skin are cracked gold lines, reminiscent of kintsugi. In the background curls a yellow ribbon in the same gold. He's wearing a sleeveless turtleneck and cravat. End I.D.]

[I.D. Stylised black and white lineart of DMC3 Vergil glaring in profile, lips sneering, from the neck up. He's in a coat and cravat. End I.D.]

[I.D. Messy comic.

Panel 1: DMCV Dante ruffling child Vergil's hair. Dante's face is out of the panel

Vergil (grimacing): "Dante!"

Panel 2: Vergil's staved off the hair ruffling, lifting up Dante's hand with both his hands. His brows are furrowed as he looks up at Dante. In the background is a laughing sound effect, that tapers off. 'HA HA ha...'

Panel 3: Adult Dante gazing down at child Vergil, arm hovering over him. His expression seems sad, despite the small smile.

Dante: ... I missed ya, Verge.

Vergil gazes up at Dante, a small question mark by his head. End I.D.]

[mamulgogi]

Redraw of my favourite panel from issue #21 of Posehn & Duggan's run

[welcometogrouchland]

[ID: three images of fanart of the owl house. The first image shows Eda during kings tide. Half of her is fading away into dark feathers from the draining spell, and she's looking distraught into the distance. The lyrics "our mother has been absent" are written next to her.

The second image shows the silhouette of king and the collector, floating in the distance. The backdrop is the moon, but changed to look like the collectors logo/iconography. The lyrics "ever since we founded Rome" are written beneath them.

The third and final image shows Luz in her season 3 poster design stepping out of a bright white portal onto a dark background. She's stylised to have no eyes but is smirking with a determined expression. Written above her is the lyrics "but there's gonna be a party when the wolf comes home". End ID]

(@toh-described) CAN I GET A FUCKING WAHOO(T) FOR SEASON 3??? 🦉🔮✨

[ride-a-dromedary]

the darkest of nights, in truth, still dazzles.

a halsin fanmix  [listen]

01. Heart of Spring - david arkenstone | 02. Cé Hé Mise Le Ulaingt? / The Two Trees - loreena mckennit | 03. Pussywillows, Cat-tails - gordon lightfoot | 04. Maybe Tomorrow - f&m | 05. Don't Stop Me Now - queen | 06. I Was Born Under a Wand'rin' Star  - bryn terfel  | 07. A Tenuous Bond - derek duke | 08. Closer - nine inch nails | 09.  Into the Darkness - jeremy soule  | 10.  Colorblind - counting crows | 11. Natural Light - ludovico einaudi | 12. Under the Greenwood Tree - royal shakespeare company | 13. The Grove - bear mccreary | 14. Blood Upon the Snow - hozier & bear mccreary | 15. A Quiet Darkness - houses | 16. Spellplague - alderfall | 17. Empty Chairs at Empty Tables - jonathan antoine | 18. Only Everyone Can Judge Me - crywank | 19. Blue Skies - kathryn calder | 20. The Buzzard - old blind dogs | 21. Constant Craving - k.d. lang | 22. The Cave - mumford and sons | 23. Jim Cain - bill callahan | 24. I Won't Back Down - johnny cash | 25. The Ash Grove - laura wright | 26. The Wind - yusuf/cat stevens | 27. To Someone From A Warm Climate (Uiscefhuarithe) - hozier | 28. The Logical Song - supertramp | 29. Tapestry - don mclean | 30. Big Yellow Taxi - joni mitchell | 31. Eat Your Young (Bekon's Choral Version) - hozier | 32. The Flock - david maxxim micic | 33. Changes - david bowie | 34. Ri Na Cruinne - clanaad | 35. The Moments of Happiness - ken page | 36. My Back Pages - the byrds | 37. If This Journey - tom hanford | 38. Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There is a Season) - Live - pete seeger

[zmediaoutlet]

soon or never

for @wincestwednesdays - choices

A hand on Sam's shoulder. Hard at first, making him jerk like waking up from a coma, and then softer. "Hey, hey." He blinks, sniffs, wipes his own hand hard over his face. Takes a few seconds to see: the sun sliding toward setting, over a long low motel, with a nearly-empty lot, in which the Impala's parked in front of room number eleven, the engine off and Sam pulled out of a dead sleep with Dean, yes, still holding his shoulder. Warm through his spare jacket.

"Where," he says. Croaks. Jeez.

"Boise," Dean says, and Sam frowns. That's—three hours from Grangeville, the way Dean drives. He thought they'd be a lot closer to home before they stopped for the night. He squints over the seat and Dean's mouth goes thin, and then he shrugs, and takes his hand off Sam's shoulder. "You were moaning in your sleep. Not the fun kind."

Room eleven is blue carpet, blue thick curtains, blue blankets on the two queen beds. Two. Sam's still kind of dizzy. Not enough sleep and too much bloodloss. Dean brings in all the bags himself, moving around where Sam's pinned in the entryway, and then he says, "You planning on taking up work as the human statue?" and so Sam moves—to the table, with its blue-upholstered chair. He tries not to flinch when he sits but that's a lost cause. He keeps holding the bandage on his side. Even with all the stitches it feels like his guts might just spill out, everywhere. Ruin all this blue.

"Dude, you are out of it," Dean says. A thin kind of jocular. Somehow when Sam wasn't paying attention he lost his jacket, his boots. Rolling up his bright-red sleeves. "You getting your weird antibiotic thing again?"

Could be. A little dizzy, a little off. His stomach warm, partway to queasy. There's a hole in it, so. Queasy isn't so bad, as these things go. "Guess that means you're not gonna want the hot & sour I just ordered, huh," Dean says. Sam wrinkles his nose and Dean huffs. "You're gonna have to use your words at some point, buddy-boy."

"I'm not your buddy, pal," Sam says. Throat crackly again but he tries to smile.

"I'm not your pal, champ," Dean says, eyes crinkling at the corners, but he's hardly smiling at all.

Dean brings Sam a glass of cool water from the tap. Sam sips, careful. He's watched for a second, for what Sam doesn't know—in case the glass explodes and cuts him to ribbons, in case he chokes on water and suffocates on dry land—but then Dean seems satisfied that he won't immediately expire and goes to dig in his bag, set on the bed closer to the door. The room full of light, suffusing gold against the sea of blue, and it's good just to sit and look at his brother. The tips of his hair backlit amber. That red shirt, which somehow escaped the day without bloodstains. His square capable hands, tugging out pajama pants, and his forearms ringed in bruises, and his face the familiar set of—just getting to the next thing, and the next thing after that. Like if he sits down he won't ever get up.

"Why am I always the one getting hurt?" Sam says. Dean jerks. "Hole in my gut, last night. My arm, last year. Basically in a coma the year before that. When's it your turn?"

Dean leans one thigh against the bed, pajama pants held up against his stomach. After a second just looking at his bag, he says: "Broke my leg, back when that Levi nearly caught us at Bobby's."

"That when I went into a coma the first time?" Sam says, bright, and Dean snorts and says, "Don't think that was the first time, Sammy," but he says it a little more relaxed.

The water did help, and the sitting up in the light, and just—Dean. Here, and not somewhere with a monster where Sam didn't know what he was doing. If he was okay. Sam takes another moment to drink him in, until Dean finally looks up from his bag and meets his eyes, and Sam smiles again and Dean—Sam doesn't know what that expression is, but Dean's here instead of in some black pit in his head and so that's good enough for Sam.

It's hard to take his jacket off sitting down, strains his gut. "Don't pull your stitches," Dean says. "Hey, don't roll your eyes. That's some high quality fake insurance paying for those stitches."

"Doctor would've done it for free," Sam says. A grunt. He gets free of the second sleeve and drops it on the table. Boots then, but—

"Oh, this is pathetic," Dean says, but soft, and Sam stops toeing at the heel when Dean's suddenly there, on his knees on the blue carpet. His hand sure, dragging down the back of Sam's calf, and Sam picks his foot up obediently when Dean taps the heel and lets Dean tug it off. He makes a face and—yeah, that's not great. He sets the one boot down, though, and Sam gives him the other foot and Dean pulls him clear, and then just—holds Sam's foot, braced against his thigh. Fine with Sam, who wiggles his toes inside his socks. "Don't try to fumigate the room, man," Dean says, nose wrinkled. "Swear, you could've just waved these things at the werewolves and they woulda gone down, quick."

"You love it," Sam says. Dean licks his lips, and presses them together. His eyes some other place.

Dean's fingers flex around his ankle. Sam presses down with his toes, rocks a little, and when Dean looks up Sam raises his eyebrows. Dean shakes his head, but he slides his hands up Sam's shin, and then go around the back of his knee, up the back of his thigh. Squeeze there, hard. Hard enough it hurts, but then the muscle shocks into softness, and Sam sighs, and so then back down to his calf, Dean's fingers moving in hard firm circles. To the tendons in his ankle, squeezing, so that Sam scoots down further into the chair, his body turning slowly to jelly. "Oh, yeah?" Dean says, quiet, and picks up Sam's other foot to set on his other thigh, and repeats the whole process—not making it sleazy, or like he's trying to get Sam going, but just—making all the parts of Sam that are sore as hell after nearly two days in the dark hunted woods back into something that feels like his again. Or like Dean's again. Hard to tell anymore where the line between those lies. These days Sam isn't looking that hard.

When Dean's finished with the left leg he slides his hand back up Sam's calf, hooking there behind his knee. Quiet on his knees, and quiet in the room, too. Not even the sound of traffic outside. Just the two of them breathing, in all this blue. Dean's bruised forearms, and his throat ringed in murky purple, too, and dark under his eyes. The doctor, after stitching up the bullet hole but before she gave Sam the bottle of antibiotics, telling him to look out for his brother.

He lets his feet slide off to the outside of Dean's thighs, and reaches out a hand. Dean ignores it but lifts up on his knees, between Sam's legs, and Sam touches the corner of his scabbed eye and his jaw with too-thick stubble and drags a thumb down the column of his throat. Feels how it bobs. Waits, then, relaxed in the chair, while Dean unbuttons his flannel shirt, and lifts his undershirt, and touches the bandage. Running his fingers along the tape.

"Gonna rip some hair out when we gotta change that," Dean says. His eyes tight at the corners. "Free wax day at the spa."

"Lucky me," Sam says, dry, and watches the air go out of Dean.

He could ask. Right now, he could ask and he'd get the truth. Only—what's the point of asking a question you already know the answer to?

"Hey, Dean," he says, soft. Dean's eyes meet his. Everything in them, unsaid. Sam smiles, small. "When we get home, am I getting another massage?"

Dean scoffs. Stands up using Sam's thighs to brace—"Oof," Sam says, gamely—and Dean says, "You're gonna be lucky to get any at all, if you don't shower off all that werewolf stank." Sam smiles bigger and Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh, yeah, you're adorable."

A knock on the motel room door, then—the Chinese delivery—and before Dean goes Sam catches his forearm, squeezes. Dean takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he says, quiet.

Sam watches him take the delivery, tip the kid in cash. The room filling immediately with the smell of fried wontons because Dean always asks for a triple serving. "You eating, or what?" Dean says, dumping the bags on the table, and Sam sits up straight, ignoring the strain on his gut. "I'm eating," he says, and Dean sets the carton of soup firmly in front of him, and Sam thinks—if he hadn't made it back in time—

But he did, and Dean's alive and sitting here, bitching about how they put in way more broccoli than beef, so there's no more call to think about it. He eats his soup, and steals Dean's wontons.

[ricky-mortis]

I feel like every ship with Ted is a crackship bc this man simply should not be in a relationship (until he’s had extensive therapy at least)

Oh- I mean yeah, for sure. However! I do think that one of the great parts of some of these ships with Ted is his opportunity for growth. Just me personally y’know?

I think that while yes, he is in fact in desperate need of therapy, it’s hard for him to actually get to the point of actually seeking it. I imagine he gets there after a lot of talking things out with his partner, and a lot of getting over his pride. He is very self-aware, he absolutely knows that he is messed up, but he sees his way of dealing with it as reasonable, it’s how he’s learned to pretend he’s content. In reality, he knows he’s not, but- is he going to do anything about it? Hell no. At least that’s his perspective until he enters a relationship that isn’t one-sided or strictly sexual. 

I see him learning how to be loved in a way he’s only expressed outwardly. He hadn’t received these kind of feelings since the whole Jenny incident, and it’s scary. But through this he can get over that fear of being left again, of falling for someone who would just leave him at the drop of a hat before he can really get out how he feels. And then he can see that therapy can actually help him. (Now it has been a good two months since I’ve watched Time bastard so this is all entirely based off of my memory and HCs for him).

But yeah, I just like to think about him and that sometimes, ESPECIALLy within the context of Holy Bastard. I don’t see them as a long term thing, but I definitely see it as a relationship that they both grow from. I have a whole note on my phone about it that’s filled with what is essentially the plot of a fic I do not have the skill nor dedication to write.

All that being said, yeah, Ted definitely needs therapy, but I don’t neccessarily think it has to come before a relationship.

Idk, I don’t think I’m very well-spoken but I think I’m getting my meaning across. I adore Ted and think his character has so much terrific potential. 

[foxnotarabbit]

Okay I have no idea if anyone will see this but after having the aftg series laying around in my room for more than year I decided I'm ready for the pain but guess what I was NOT.

Anyways, since it's an habit of mine to create playlists on Spotify I decided to make one for our dear foxes.

[kindahoping4forever]

Galantis and Michael spoke with Rolling Stone about the origins of Lighter and the collaborative process