#not my art can’t find source

[small-but-mightyy]

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

smell pickup line based on the gasoline one because i cannot get it out of my head.

you're a black sharpie and baby? I'm in my office cubicle trying to get high.

We can’t start smell posting it’s going to get out of hand.. too out of hand for a Sunday night

coughs. Anyway

Gabe is a gold sharpie.. like the one for the print signings (I am executed before I can continue)

[rowenas-my-fave-child]

A really bad comic

[mumblesplash]

getting better at drawing when you’re not trying for realism is kinda funny bc it’s like wow now my art looks even MORE like the exact midpoint between old-school disney and late 2010s anime. i didn’t think it was possible and yet i’ve done it again. inspiring

[densoro]

.

[celeryb1tch]

spencer reid x student!reader

18+! this post contains nsfw content

when spencer gets home from work he finds that you haven’t finished your essay, so he tries to ease your mind.

content: lots of pet names, fem!reader, you’re getting an arts degree lol, age gap but not too intense since this is early-ish seasons spencer, slight degradation at the end, reader orgasm, oral and fingering (r! receives), overstim, forced orgasm.

(i’m literally gay but i’ve been so delusional and in love with this fictional man lately i had to write something to get it out of my system!!!)

—

when your boyfriend came home from work, tie loose and satchel abandoned on the kitchen counter, you felt a wave of embarrassment flush you. you were still working on the same essay you had been last night; the one spencer made you promise you’d finish today.

“how is my pretty girl?” he asked, laying back beside you on the couch. when he leaned over to kiss you chastely, your stomach churned and you shut your laptop quickly.

you could feel hot tears start to pool in your eyes, biting back the sob you so desperately needed to get out. spencer took one look at your face and sighed, wrapping an arm around you.

“oh, baby. you didn’t finish it?”

“i tried!” you protested, your eyes squeezed shut to avoid seeing his disappointed face. “please don’t be mad at me.”

spencer’s gentle hand cupped your cheek, running his thumb across it lightly. “look at me, angel. i’m not mad.”

the floodgates opened when you finally dared to look at him, seeing his mouth pressed in a flattened line. tears streaked your face and it only added to the embarrassment. your boyfriend was a capable man, and here you were crying because you couldn’t finish a stupid essay before he got home from his 9-to-5.

he tried to hold you closer, but you struggled against him. you didn’t deserve his comfort or his sympathy. he settled for running his free hand through your hair soothingly. “hey, just talk to me. what went wrong, can i help?”

you shook your head, fighting through a hiccupped sob to answer. “i couldn’t find the last source i need. i was sifting through articles for like four hours, and i just gave up.”

ever the problem solver, spencer smiled down at you softly. “okay, let me take a look. you know i have fairly good research skills, they’re kinda required for my job.”

“you don’t get it!” you huffed, frustration evident in your voice. “you go to work all day and i can’t even find one source. one! i shouldn’t need your help for everything.”

recognition flashed in his eyes, and then he really pulled you in. it was useless to relent, you could feel the determination in his touch. he shushed you softly, one hand wrapped around you firmly while the other drew patterns on your back. when your breaths slowed and your sobs subsided, he pulled back to hold you at arms’ length. “baby, you are one of the smartest people i know.”

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, and spencer grabbed your chin to ensure you couldn’t look away.

“i wouldn’t lie. no one i know is as sensitive as you are, as empathetic and in touch with their emotions. that’s what makes you so good at this program. i certainly couldn’t complete your degree.”

and you knew how bad at concealing the truth your boyfriend was, so reluctantly you believed him. “thank you,” you just about whispered.

his eyes cast pure adoration on you, even as your tear-stained cheeks were red and raw. “your incredible brain is one of the reasons i fell in love with you. so if you can’t find anything, there must be a reason. could you please just let me take a look?”

spencer had indisputably won you over, one arm still holding you to his side as he opened your laptop on his own lap. you relaxed into him, head pressed to his chest where you could hear his heart beating perfectly. with a hum, he scanned your tabs in a matter of seconds, scrolling to the bottom of the search result page at a speed the computer could barely keep up with. “i know what it is, but you’re not going to be happy.”

lifting your head, you squinted at your boyfriend inquisitively.

“you were typing the date wrong, honey. the last two numbers were flipped.”

you felt that feeling of incapability rush through you again, your eyes stinging in preparation to cry. but spencer was right there to prevent you from shutting down, hand on your head passing slow strokes in comfort.

his lips hitched into a small sympathetic smile when he looked down at you. “my poor girl, worked yourself up so hard your brain stopped working. too much essay writing this week.”

and of course, he was right. you’d been running yourself ragged recently trying to keep up with deadlines, not to mention the extra work you’d taken on early to prevent overwhelm for finals. when you’d told him your plan, spencer had advised against it. he didn’t want you sacrificing your sanity now for a bit more time with your boyfriend in a few months. but never not supportive, he relented and instead helped you draft a schedule to complete everything.

you couldn’t feel too stupid with spencer’s sweet voice telling you that you weren’t. “it’s not even due until next week, remember? i just wanted you to finish it tonight so i could take you out to dinner,” he confided sheepishly. “you’ve been working so hard, i wanted to reward you.”

despite knowing it was physically impossible (as spencer reminded you often), you could feel your heart swell from the overwhelming love you felt for your boyfriend. you pecked kisses all over his face incessantly until he swatted you away, blushing crimson from the unexpected affection. “okay, where are we going?”

spencer hummed mischievously in faux thought, tucking your wild hairs back from your face. “you didn’t finish your essay, so i actually think it’s only fair to punish you. at least before i take you out anyway.”

a heat bloomed in you, both in your cheeks and between your legs. it was rare that your boyfriend was anything but tooth-achingly sweet with you, saving his more dominant side for certain circumstances. apparently this was one of them. “oh, really? how are you gonna punish me, sir?”

he pulled you into his lap, mouth finding your neck immediately. “if you’re going to be stupid, i might as well treat you like you are. i know how much you like it when i call you a dumb slut, despite the fact that we’re both aware of how intelligent you are.”

your core ached with need, fluttering at his words. “that’s kinda fucked up, huh? i shouldn’t want that.”

“actually, it’s fairly common, especially for women with a high amount of stress in their everyday lives. most people enjoy some form of degradation and or praise when having sex.”

“spencer,” you groaned. his beautiful brain always had to get in the way of the fun, not that you seriously minded.

he smiled, pressing his lips to yours again. “sorry, baby. yes, it makes you a very naughty girl.”

despite the pure love in his eyes and his touch, you felt a pang of arousal when he degraded you. it felt good to be demeaned by someone who thought so highly of you. so you let him pin you against the couch, clothes long forgotten, and relished in his nasty words as he sunk to his knees before you.

your laptop was somewhere on the ground, still open to that unfinished document. but it was the last thing on your mind when you felt spencer’s mouth trailing down your front. his fingers hooked your panties, pulling them down with a string of arousal attached. “fuck,” he grumbled. “you are a little slut, aren’t you?”

you struggled to respond as his fingers passed through your folds, thumb toying with your clit lightly. “mhm, yours.”

“that’s right, baby.” all of the showy dominance dropped for a second when he smiled up at you, that familiar twinkle of passion in his eyes. and then he ate you out.

all you could do was grip the bedsheets, small whines leaving you each time he ran his tongue roughly up your clit. he’d take a moment to kiss your inner thighs, slipping two fingers inside to hit that sweet spot when he wasn’t lavishing it with his mouth. it wasn’t long before you were on the edge, feeling the knot snap in your stomach. with a start, you gasped through your orgasm, spencer’s hand finding yours to soothingly stroke his thumb across your knuckles. but as your breaths slowed, he didn’t.

“spence, i’m done,” you panted, hand gripping his hair.

“no you’re not.”

with a roll of your eyes, you tried to pull your hips away to no avail. his fingers were still pumping into you at a relentless pace. his head raised to meet your eyes, slick across his lips. he looked wild like this, disheveled, so different from your normal boyfriend, who was almost too sweet for his own good. “i told you this was a punishment.”

even knelt between your legs, this spencer was in complete control. his gaze was locked on yours, watching every tiny movement when he skimmed his thumb across your clit again. your core reignited when you realized what was going on. he was going to force you to cum again.

“please, too much” you whined, free hand pushing the top of his head away in a superficial effort. you couldn’t think properly with the intensity of the overstimulation.

spencer licked his lips, voice gravelly in a tone it only reached when he was purely aroused. “you can take it, honey. i know you can be a good girl for me. don’t you wanna be good?”

you nodded silently. there wasn’t much you could do but let him fuck you stupid.

“that’s it. gonna make you dumb, yeah? i’m gonna fuck you until you can’t think.” his head dipped down, resuming his wet, sloppy kisses to your clit. and with the combined effects of his words and actions, you were cumming again quickly.

you were unabashedly moaning now, jaw slacked open and eyes screwed shut. you were far past the point of caring what you looked like to the man furiously devouring you between your legs. your hand gripped his tighter, feeling his fingers pound a bit harder in acknowledgment.

your second orgasm felt like being catapulted into the atmosphere. it was sharper, practically knocking the air from your lungs. it took you a few moments to stop panting.

spencer grinned up at you, a sight for sore eyes in your clouded vision. “thinking about anything, baby?” he asked. and when he only received a small shake of your head, “good.”

his mouth returned to your core, soft kitten licks causing you to twitch and wince away. he squeezed your hand firmly, giving you a stern look. “only cleaning you up this time, promise.”

once you weren’t dripping arousal down your thighs, spencer pulled you onto him when he sat back down on the couch. all you could focus on were his warm, strong hands tracing sequences on your skin. he loved to imagine binary code, mapping it out on you because he knew the motion calmed you down.

you were barely conscious, brain buzzing like tv static in the post-sex bliss. you heard spencer chuckle to himself before saying, “so i think we’re getting takeout.”

[mooshywrites]

hi there~! if its not too much trouble, can I request a halsin x reader fic where reader/tav falls in battle fails a saving throw and requires a revivify? either pre-established relationship in Act 2 or established in act 3 would be okay~ i just love comforting and protective Halsin 🥺

Revivify

Reader x Halsin

Masterlist

Art commissions

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

A/N - such a wonderful prompt, I almost cried at the request ;~;

Warnings - Minor spoilers, combat, blood, death and reviving, injury, angst

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

“I almost lost you.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Sun filtered through leaves casting a dappled blanket over the soft grass under your feet. you took in a deep breath, inhaling the soft scent of flowers and damp soil. There wasn’t many moments on this journey that you could take this kind of pause. To remember the tranquility the world could offer.

It had been a few days since you and your party had reached Lower Baldur’s Gate. A few very long days. Between trying to find the origin behind the smattering of murders, gathering allies in your fight against the Elder Brain, and typical strange happenings that followed your companions like no other, you hadn’t had time to breathe let alone relax.

Halsin gave you a knowing smile as he stood along side you in the garden, his shoulders looking much more relaxed than they had been in weeks.

“Nature seems to always find a way to remind you of her beauty,” he murmured.

You looked around the garden once more, taking in the sereneness. In the distance, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the seemingly ancient trees, carrying with it the faint sound of conversation. You turned to see couples walking through the pathways, just as at peace with the world as you were.

“We can’t let ourself be lulled into complacency,” you sighed, your jaw becoming tense with focus yet again. “We’re up against some nasty people. We must be vigilant at all times.”

“Who would try to kill us in a city garden of all places, my heart?” Halsin asked, giving you pitying stare.

You avoided his gaze. As much as you longed for moments of peace like this, moments you could share with him, you knew the ever looming threat couldn’t be ignored.

“Even if,” Halsin continued. “We could handle ourselves in any-“

His words were cut off by a scream across the clearing, blood curdling and insistent. Your attention snapped to the source, your heartbeat quickening instantly. There stood a group of hooded figures, standing over a now silent body.

You tensed yourself, ready for attacks as more cloaked figures began to appear around you. You shot Halsin a look, checking around you to see if your other party members were ready for what looked like to be quite the difficult fight.

Without a moment of hesitation, you drew your weapon and took a defensive stance. Halsin was quick to follow, his expression determined. The air crackled with tension as the hooded figures stalked around you silently, their movements precise and almost synchronized.

As the first attacker lunged toward you with a gleaming dagger, you parried the blow expertly, feeling the impact reverberate up your arm. The fight had begun in earnest now, with spells flying and steel clashing against steel. You could hear your companions engaging in combat around you, their grunts and battle cries mixing with the chaotic symphony of violence unfolding in the garden.

Adrenaline surged through your veins as you focused on each opponent, their faces shadowed by the cloak. The shroud did nothing to hide the pure and pointed murderous malice in their eyes. Halsin fought beside you, wild-shaping as soon as the fight began. Even in the form of a large bear, his movements were calculated, precise.

One by one, the hooded figures fell before your party, their attacks repelled and countered with lethal force. You had taken a few blows, ones you knew would leave you quite sore when this was all over. Your muscles were beginning to burn with exertion, your voice raw as you threw your entire body weight behind your attacks.

Just as you thought victory was in reach, a movement in the corner of your eye caught your attention. Halsin had been hit hard enough to pull him back into his elvish form, the Druid panting as he fought two of the cultists. Nervousness rose through your chest quickly, worried he wouldn’t be able to handle the both of them.

Thankfully, he made quick work of one, turning to look to you amidst the chaos. His mouth moved in words you couldn’t hear, his expression suddenly panicked. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The only cultist left was the one in front of him. Then why was he looking at you as if he had seen a ghost? It took a moment to realize he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking behind you.

It took you a moment too long.

Blood pumped loudly in your ear as you began to turn, time seeming to slow when the shrouded figure came into your view. You brought up your weapon, your arms heavy as if they were pushing through water.

It was too late.

You felt something impact your side, the cultist smiling devilishly at you. You stumbled back, your brain fogging over slightly. You felt no pain, only a growing chill just below your ribs. You looked down to see the dagger pierced through your armor, blood dripping off of its handle.

Your blood.

Your vision began to blur, darkness creeping into the edge of your vision. Numbly, you clutched at the dagger, trying to contain the blood you were losing.

Your heart pounded as you tried to focus your eyes in front of you, looking around in a haze. You could hear Halsin’s voice, though it sounded miles in the distance. You could tell he was still fighting off the remaining enemy, the clashing of metal and grunts making their way through your disoriented state.

The world spun around you, and you fell raggedly to your knees, your grip on the dagger slipping. The wound in your side felt as if it were swallowing you whole, the ice cold chill spreading as you lost more blood.

You looked around, desperate for a way to survive, to continue fighting. But the air around you seemed thick with the scent of death, your healing potions long since depleted. You could feel your breath growing shallow, your throat tightening with every painful gasp.

Most of all, you felt tired. So incredibly tired. The ground beckoned to you like the world’s most comfortable goosedown bed, begging you to give in to sleep.

As your vision darkened completely, the last thing you heard was Halsin screaming your name.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Everything was dim for what seemed like an eternity, a comfortable silence enveloping you. It felt as if you were asleep, the deepest sleep you had ever had. Your wound no longer stung, the air no longer drenched with the smell of blood.

Absentmindedly, you wondered if you were supposed to be sad in this moment. It was hard to feel any kind of grief in a place so comforting. So quiet. You couldn’t even remember what could have made you sad in the first place.

A light flickered in the corner of the emptiness, rousing you from your contemplation. You stared at it, watching it glow brighter and more insistent. You brought your hand up, shielding your eyes from the blinding radiance.

Suddenly it felt as if you were falling, hurtling through the empty darkness. The light seemed to stretch endlessly towards you, a beacon in an endless abyss. As you plummeted towards it, the darkness around you began morphing into the shapes of trees and stones.

Forcefully you hit the ground, your breath knocked out of your lungs.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You awoke with a start, your eyes opening back in the blood soaked garden. You took in ragged breaths, the red hot pain burning at your side causing you to cry out.

“Hold on, my heart,” a pained voice whispered against you, a warm green glow coming from their hands as they held you.

Through the blurred tears in your eyes, you could see Halsin holding you tightly, a smoldering scroll next to him. Your memory came back to you in pieces. The fight, the dagger.

The darkness.

“Did I die?” you asked incredulously, your voice like knives through your throat.

Halsin’s eyes squeezed shut as he continued his healing spell, his mouth in a tight line. “Yes,” he answered, his voice barely audible. “I had a revivify scroll, thank Silvans.”

Your heart clenched in your chest at the words. The remaining terror in his voice left you unable to speak.

Halsin continued to heal you, his focus unwavering. You tried to speak, but the problem wasn’t the rawness in your throat, you mostly just couldn’t find the words to say.

You had quite literally been dead. Worst of all, Halsin had watched you fall.

When he finally finished, you breathed a sigh of relief. The pain in your side was gone completely, the warmth of your blood returning to the wound. You snuck a glance up at Halsin as he looked down at you, his expression pained.

“I… I’m sorry,” you managed to choke out, the words catching on your tears.

Halsin clutched you tighter, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and horror. “No, I’m sorry, my heart,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I should have been there for you. I never should have let that happen.“

You reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, feeling your heart tug at the thought of how scared he must have been. “We were all in that fight together Halsin,” you said softly. “This isn’t your fault.”

He shook his head, his eyes filling with tears before he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You held him close, feeling a sob catch in his throat.

“I almost lost you,” he broke.

The weight of his words lingered heavy between the two of you as you held the large Druid, the gravity of what had happened sinking in. The reality of your mortality felt even more tangible than ever before, a chill running down your spine at the close encounter with death. Halsin’s arms holding you so desperately was both a comfort and a stark reminder of how fragile your lives truly were in this dangerous world.

“I’m here, Halsin,” you assured him.

The Druid began to catch his breath, pulling back and giving you a weak smile.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice still strained from the tightness of his emotions. “I’m not letting you go ever again.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, craving a little levity in the situation. “You can’t keep me in your arms forever.”

Halsin’s face softened at your light heartedness, his hazel eyes twinkling with affection. He gently combed his fingers through your hair, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb.

“I’ll have to resort to locking you up then,” he quipped, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

You allowed yourself another breathless laugh, the tension in the air finally starting to dissipate. You nuzzled closer to the Druid’s chest, willing yourself to relax.

You were here, you were alive.

Halsin had saved you.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Cuddles and Snuggles?! 👀

Sign me up lol

I have a request if you feel inspired by it 👀

6. trying to crawl under their shirt with either Wrecker or Kix.

Because I would very much like to hide under their shirts than deal with the outside lol

If you think of someone that fits the prompt better, then do that instead! (Or you can entirely disregard this ofc lol)

😘💜💜💜

A/N: Moonie! I had this whole ficlet planned out, and then we chatted about this wonderful Wrecker art by @pinkiemme, and it took over my entire brain. So thank you both for inspiring me. 🖤♥️

Pairing: Wrecker x Reader (GN)

Rating: T (but as always, minors DNI)

Wordcount: 573

Warnings and tags: fluff, cuddles, established relationship shenanigans, very slightly suggestive dialogue, mild language

Summary: Wrecker is just so warm.

Suggested Listening (English translation here):

This fic smells like: Work From Home by Memoire Archives (cappuccino, caramel, biscotti)

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

You rolled over to find an empty bed. You groped blindly through the blankets, but Wrecker was nowhere to be found, and based on how cold the sheets were, he’d been gone a while. Grinding the palms of your hands into your eyes, you sat up, searching blearily for him. There was no sign of him, so you stumbled out of bed to form a rescue party of one. It wasn’t long before you saw the soft blue glow of his datapad as he curled up on the sofa in the darkness.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice coming out in a hoarse croak. 

He looked up and smiled. “What’re you doin’ up?”

“I got cold,” you replied. “Can’t sleep?”

He shook his head.

“I’ll make us some caf,” you said.

“Already got some moogan tea,” he replied, holding up a steaming mug. 

Screw the caf, then, you decided, immediately crossing the room to plop down next to him. You leaned your head against his shoulder, wrapped your arms around his waist, and draped your legs across his thigh, tucking your feet against his calf.

“You really are cold,” Wrecker said with a laugh as he felt your frigid toes.

“Warm me up?” you pleaded, giving him the softest, most pathetic tooka eyes you could muster at such an early hour.

“C’mere, then,” he replied, adjusting your position so he could hold you a little closer while still staring over your head at his datapad.

“Reading something good?” you asked.

He kissed the top of your head. “Candy Crush.”

You laughed quietly and snuggled closer, teasing your chilled fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. He flinched away involuntarily, but when you pulled back, he let out a little grumble.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You just surprised me. Come back.”

You didn’t bother to put up even a token resistance, instead diving your icy hands enthusiastically back under his shirt. 

“Gods, you’re so warm!” you murmured, burrowing closer and sliding your hands further and further under his shirt, until you were practically wearing it with him.

“I do that on purpose so you’ll cuddle up to me,” he replied, holding back a laugh. “Comfy down there?”

“I’m working on it,” you replied. “You’re a really good heat source.”

“And you’re a really good icicle.” He set down his mug and wrapped his free arm around you. “You tryin’ to climb all the way inside my shirt?”

“Our shirt,” you replied, your voice slightly muffled by the fabric. “Besides, I’m not trying. I’m succeeding.”

“Well, maybe I should just carry you back to our bed so you can have a real blanket.”

“No, this is fine,” you replied from inside his—ahem—your shirt. “It’s cozy. I live here now.”

You felt the deep rumble of his chuckle against your cheek as you nuzzled your face against his chest. “You gonna pay rent?”

“Nah, I’m sleeping with the landlord. He’d never evict me.”

"You got that right." He shifted, and you heard the soft clatter of his datapad as he set it on the floor, then both of his arms closed around you. With seemingly no effort at all, he lifted you up and rolled the both of you over so you were tucked securely between him and the back of the sofa, wrapped in his embrace. He yawned loudly, and you knew he’d doze off within minutes. "Now stop squirmin’ and go back to sleep.”

 ---

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More Bad Batch fics: Hunter fluff; Hunter spice; Crosshair hurt comfort; Crosshair fluff; Tech cuddles; more Tech cuddles

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[strwberri-milk]

April Showers

Rafayel x Reader || Fluff, Cuddling || 1 112 words

In which the two of you indulge in some cuddles in the rain.

You thought you were used to all of Rafayel’s little eccentricities by now. As much as you loved him you could never determine which ones were from his upbringing as a Lumerian, or the fact that he’s rich beyond your wildest imagination with the self control of a toddler on a sugar high.

He’d been quite adamant for the last little while that you not wander out too far on his beachfront property. You’d seen the construction crews coming and going for quite some time now so you assumed that he was in the middle of some new art installation as per usual. You knew not to question his inspiration for it came as easily as it went.

Today you’d turned up at his house despite the pouring rain, Rafayel’s frenzied texts begging for your attention once more. It’s standard procedure – he acts like he’s about to drown without you being near him and then is perfectly fine once you’re there. You never mind, you never did. You liked having his attention on you, knowing that it’s a hot commodity.

“Rafa?” you call out to the empty house.

It’s darker than usual. Even if he was working with his studio’s lights off, you’d be able to find some source of light near a wet canvas. Rafayel always made sure that his colours were as accurate as possible. You ignore the rise of anxiety in your chest at the lack of his response, deciding to up the ante.

“Babe? Honey? Sweetheart? Love of my life?”

Usually, the sweeter your nicknames were for him meant he’d come barrelling down the hallway and bowl you over with the weight of his body. Now, no matter how hard you listen you can’t even hear the sound of his breath, deciding to brave the weather and step outside to see if he was on the beach.

Strangely enough, it seems whatever construction was being done was finished. You thought that the trucks were missing from his driveway due to the weather but the pristine sand and building you didn’t recognise proved differently. Rafayel wasn’t an architect as far as you were concerned so you doubt that this was meant for an exhibition of his, cursing his inability to buy umbrellas and braving the torrential downpour to head towards the marble pillars.

As you approach, you can’t help but be taken aback by the precision carved into the surface. Even if he didn’t construct it with his own two hands you knew that it had his artistry all over it, delicate patterns and sculptures attached to the smooth stone by him. You’re so enraptured by the works of art that you barely notice the lump laying on the cushioned space of the sunken gazebo.

Rafayel lays in the newly built space, listening to the sound of the rain and awaiting his knight in shining armour to come keep him company. He jolts a little as you slide in next to him having not heard you finally arrive at his side. His smile is bright enough to part the clouds for a moment, pulling you into his side and pressing a kiss to your wet cheek.

“You’re drenched. How did that happen?” he asks, your breaths mingling in the shared space.

“You were missing. I had to come find you and unfortunately, I can’t control the weather. What is this anyway? I didn’t know you were one for backyard barbeque sessions,” you tease, putting a cold arm around his waist.

“It’s a gazebo. I designed it and had it built. Thankfully they finished it early so now I get to enjoy it in the rain.”

“You’re so weird. Nobody looks forward to sitting in the rain like you do,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“I told you already,” he says hotly without any ill will. “It doesn’t rain in the ocean. I’ll never get sick of the way it sounds, how I’ll never be able to capture it on camera, the way it feels on my skin. Just admit that you take it for granted and move on.”

“I do not take it for granted. I’m allowed to be grumpy right now anyway – I’m all cold and wet!”

Rafayel does feel a little bad for not warning you and you know he does by the shedding of his cardigan before he slowly peels off your wet shirt. You don’t mind the gesture, letting him button the soft fabric around your upper body as he pulls you back into his chest. He reaches blindly until finally locating a dry towel hidden in a compartment near the two of you, drying off your hair and draping it over your legs with a soft apology.

“I forgot to tell you to bring an umbrella. I got so lost in the sound of the rain that would have fallen asleep were it not for you sneaking into here next to me.”

You can’t be mad at him anyway, not when his voice takes on that wistful tone and you see the lost look in his eyes. He liked to run circles around you, pretend that he’s an open book when really, you’d only begun to scratch the surface of the man he is, not the one he wanted you to see. It evokes a sense of melancholy in you, burying your face in his neck and losing yourself in his presence.

“It’s alright. I’m not actually all that mad at you,” you reassure regardless, finally feeling the chilling bite of the rain ebb away.

“It’s romantic. Laying here with you and listening to the rain. If I didn’t already, I totally would have fallen in love with you.”

His soft laughter makes your heart flutter. You look up to meet his lavender-blue eyes bright with mirth as he gently noses against your cheek.

“Well, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind the next time we’re arguing,” he says playfully.

Normally, storms would make you nervous. The only thing that made you capable of driving over in the first place was the knowledge that Rafayel would be here to help sooth your anxiety. The thunder and lightning did nothing to help your already anxious mind from going a mile a minute but here in his arms, none of that mattered.

You rest your ear on his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat amongst the scattered rain soothe you into a well needed sleep. Rafayel looks down at you affectionately when he realises you’ve gone limp on him. His hand rests by your ear, pinky gently stroking your cheek as he presses a kiss on the top of your head.

[unorthodoxfaithxx]

Struggling Yandere Musician finding His Muse

He’s a musician, through and through, taking inspiration from everything. His past life experiences, past lovers, art, other music, nature, you name it. And he’s a good musician too, maybe not the best at piano but certainly a god on the acoustic guitar.

For some reason, he’s been having trouble making music as of late. Nothing comes to mind and he feels screaming into the void every time he picks up a pencil and paper. No lyrics come about, no melodies, nothing.

He falls into frustration and self loathing. Why can’t he come up with anything? Why won’t the notes come to him anymore?

It all changes when he meets you.

You attend one of your local cafe’s open mic nights where you hear him perform for the first time. He’s playing a  usual, perhaps even lackluster routine, and as much as he wants to enjoy it, he can’t. He finishes without a flourish, and is welcomed by claps from listeners. 

Being as forward as you are, you cheer the loudest, which catches his eye. He’s surprised by your enthusiasm, it’s much welcomed after going through a rut of self doubt and no creativity. The two of you shake hands after his performance and he gives you an autograph, as thanks for the pick-me-up. 

A little routine builds between the two of you. He performs, you listen. After every open mic night, the two of you chat with drink in hand, savoring one another’s company. 

It’s safe to say that you’ve been hooked ever since. You listen to his music on your favorite streaming service, and attend every open mic night you can now. 

What you don’t realize is he’s been hooked too. On you, that is. 

You’ve become his muse without you even realizing it. Have you noticed his songs have become sappier? More romantic? That’s all because of you. 

He can finally play with a refreshing state of mind. The thought of you has him wanting to sing his heart out, play for hours on end just to see your smile. 

When you happen to bring a male friend along to the next open mic night, he feels crushed. How could you do this to him? Didn’t you realize you two had something special? What was he supposed to do? How could he change your mind?

His performance is angry, passionate. It doesn’t ruin his music, rather it fuels his creativity and he probably would consider this the best performance he’s ever given. 

In his head, he thinks he’s losing you, his only source of inspiration and light in his bleak, creative-less world. He has to do something.

When it’s over, he catches you at an opportune time, your friend having gone to the bathroom. 

He asks that the two of you talk outside, and naively you say yes. 

Before you know it, your body is pressed flush against him and a wall, in the back of the cafe. 

“You’re not going anywhere, my muse.”

[theoutcastrogue]

[From a 2014 article by John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats. He's talking about how a random spam email ended up inspiring a part of his book Wolf in White Van. Later, in 2020, the album Getting Into Knives came out, and I think it inspired its artwork too.]

"It took years for me to be able to just reflexively delete spam, or filter it so that I never see it at all. I blame the spammers for this; the quality of their work took a sharp nosedive at some point. But during whatever period of the internet’s growth you’d call the early 2000s, it seemed like you’d still get some winners: things that had been typed up by a person, sent out to a bunch of email addresses they’d bought or rented for 5 or 10 bucks from the only guy who was ever going to make any money in this particular exchange. Most of them went directly, if manually, into the trash; but once in a while, there’d be one that seemed to earn, at the very least, the minute it’d take me to read it.

The one I’m remembering here was subject-lined SUPPLY OF KNIVES. [...] The subject line opened on an all-caps email that boasted, in ornate, antiquated English appealing to the reader’s more refined sensibilities, about the high quality of the knives on offer at an external website. You shouldn’t click on links in spam email. I live my life on the razor’s edge! I clicked the link.

I want to tell you about these knives: They were beautiful. They were weird. They had elaborate designs in the handles, moons or stars of wolf heads, and special grips, and a variety of points. They were made from metals whose pedigrees were described lovingly, and had been struck — smithed? wrought? — via processes I knew absolutely nothing about, but that sounded fantastic, difficult, arcane. It’s the joy of specialized language: When you’re an outsider to it, it can’t help but sound cool.

Of course this is the whole idea of any operation like this. SUPPLY OF KNIVES could well have been, and probably was, a company in Ohio who’d stumbled across an old warehouse full of knives, and knew enough about sales to describe these things in the most exotic terms they could find. I’m pretty immune to pitches: Who likes to feel like he’s being pitched? But somebody involved with SUPPLY OF KNIVES had had just enough authorial flair — that, or true faith — to caption each knife’s mysterious, blurry accompanying JPEG with a description whose constant recourse to specialized vocabularies seemed to say, “You’re not even reading this unless you already know about this sort of thing. Let us therefore speak like the fellow travelers we are.”

It was like a trade catalog for roadside bandits in need of knives.

I can’t speak for everybody, but I know that when I was a child the life of the roadside bandit seemed like a pretty romantic way to go. I looked at all these knives and read the descriptions and was just generally delighted about the whole thing, so I saved the email in a “memorable spam” folder I used to keep that had maybe two other emails in it. A few years later, Apple came out with this robotic-arm-screen iMac you never see any more, and we were long overdue for a new computer so we got that; and then, after a while, I got myself a laptop, because I was traveling all the time, and eventually both the old iMacs ended up in the basement, and they were both asleep but alive until fairly recently, as far as I knew.

But when I went to check for the email, it was gone. The old blue iMac is dead, bricked, lifeless. Searches on the term “supply of knives” on this laptop and on good old robot-arm-screen find nothing. The backup CD for the blue iMac drive is probably in a drawer around here somewhere, but that’s like saying, “The coin I had in my swim trunks’ pocket is probably somewhere in the ocean.” There is no SUPPLY OF KNIVES. There’s only the memory."

[source]

And this is the wonderful cover art of Getting Into Knives. Back cover and promo material below. Note that "Knives International" and "Knives Wordwide" are not real companies, they appear to be a callback to that elusive spam email.

[prettymindset111]

how I study & practice the law of assumption as a busy student

introduction

as a busy student who is re-learning the law after practicing a false version of the law . I realize grasping the law is more important than applying , applying is the easy part but really understanding this law is the most important part & that takes building faith that imagination is the creator for me that means studying the law and understanding it so I can apply it & see the power of my imagination .

overconsumption

I have been in the overconsumption trap quite a lot and I got nothing done in school as well . so what I started implementing is sticking to just one resource which is edward art I find his work concise and easy to understand compared to neville ( although I have read his books and still read them now & then ) .

the routine

like I said i’m a BUSY student & I found a way to stay disciplined ( david goggins 💌 ~ can’t hurt me author ) . but here’s how I actively study and apply the law while being a good student .

wake up & I do the edward art I AM THE CREATOR MEDITATION it’s only 10 minutes . try it out for yourself & youll know why .

when i’m on breaks i’m re-listening to his lectures ( I have 20 videos of his that I have a playlist of )

before bed I read his series for a short amount of time .

SATS while falling asleep .

importance of understanding the law

the reason why I repeat and repeat is because I truly want to understand I AM or my imagination and grasp it .

ending note + a goodbye

I urge you guys to do the same these “ tumblr bloggers “ will not help you as much the source will even I can’t help you as much as the source aka neville goddard or edward art . I will be going on hiatus to focus on my life & apply & study the law like mentioned I don’t know if i’ll be back but to anyone who’s reading this & made it this far … don’t give up on the law & I know you won’t because you want your dream & that desire that means so much to you so bad and I know that feeling …. my only advice is to study the law truly & straight from the source . my asks are always open and I will be answering so send me asks … bye angels <3

©prettymindset111

[allysunny]

(You're my) Antidote | Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader

ᵖᵃʳᵗ ¹ | ᵖᵃʳᵗ ² | ᵖᵃʳᵗ ³

Synopsys: Carrying Miguel's child was the best thing that happened to you. It meant he loved you and you two were on your way to start a family. But what you don't see, are the brightly coloured screens in his office that tell him you are slowly dying.

Words: 1.8k

Warnings: Angst, fluff, soft-Miguel, pain and screaming? Syringes. Do mention if I forgot something!

A/N: Hey everyone! This isn't the super long 6+ word oneshot I promised - I'm still working on that one, I want to perfect it as best as possible. So in the meantime, have another little drabble I came up with! Now that I read it a second time, it is reminding me of Twilight omg. Anyways, I hope you enjoy! I may make a part 2 if people want, who knows. I hope you like it!

Miguel opened the door of your shared home as quietly as he could – he didn’t want to disturb you, should you be asleep. It seemed to be what you did the most these past few days, getting some much-deserved rest. And how could Miguel blame you?

In fact, he was the one who suggested you being on bedrest, the idea of you walking around making any kind of effort enough to put him on edge, and worried enough to call you every 5 minutes to make sure you were okay. Not that he didn’t do it when you were resting, he simply waited longer intervals before checking on you.

He took off his shoes and walked to the only source of sound present in the entire apartment.

The duvet of your bed was carefully folded by your feet, and you had nothing but a silk nightgown covering your body. The moment Miguel walked inside the bedroom and laid eyes upon this sight, his usual frown was replaced by a gentle smile, the lines around his eyes softening, giving you a look he did not dare give anyone else but you.

You looked up at him, able to sense his presence the moment he walked inside the apartment. You’d gotten fairly good at that, detecting when he got home, especially because you were by yourself at most times and longed for company. So, you just mastered the art of telling when your sweet husband came to you.

“Honey,” you said, grinning. The hands that were neatly folded on top of your (very) pregnant belly, coming up to touch him. His own reached out, and, upon holding yours with the softest grip, and placed a kiss on top of each. Then, like it was second nature, he kneeled down and kissed your belly tenderly, still rubbing circles on the palm of your hand. His hands were rough, calloused, and he loved the contrast and warmth your untainted ones provided. It was as if, it didn’t matter if he was all beat up, battered black and blue, as long as you remained as you were: untainted, safe, pure.

Miguel dropped your hands and lifted his face to get a good look at you. And the sight before him took his breath away and broke his heart all at once. You were gorgeous, marvellously so. But your energy was slowly being drained, exhausting your beauty along with it. Bright eyes weren’t so bright anymore, hollow cheekbones, big bags under your eyes.

The baby was taking a toll not only on your physique but also your health. And much unfortunately, it was slowly taking over your life. Miguel had kept it a secret from you, quietly going from and to the Spider Society HQ to meet with Jessica and Lyla and find out ways to keep you healthy and safe, but much unfortunately, time was running out.

“Miguel, you can’t keep doing this. You’re exhausting yourself and wasting precious time you should be spending with your wife.” Jessica berated him, hands neatly crossed over her chest. She had been scowling at Miguel for a few minutes now, trying to make him see reason.

He grumbled something under his breath and all but growled, tapping away at his screens.

“How are her vitals?” His voice was dark. It did not sound like Miguel, not at all, rather, a creature of heartbreak and darkness, hunting for something.

“They haven’t been stable for a while; the antidote is wearing out.” The antidote, the very same antidote he himself took. Miguel had made a few alterations to it. Your baby had unfortunately inherited his 50% Spider DNA, and it was causing you tons of discomfort. No longer able to walk or stand by yourself, you needed Miguel by your side at all times to aid you. This modified antidote was created to calm your baby down and restrain his spider abilities. Miguel didn’t tell you, but the sheer force of the child could easily break you in two. That’s why he had been spending countless nights awake, researching ways to get the baby out of you without causing you any more pain.

And while it was sweet that all he wanted was to find a cure, time was running out and you had been seeing him less and less.

Miguel shakes these thoughts away.

It’ll all be worth it once the baby’s born and you go back to normal. The pain you felt now would be worth it, for you two would finally have the family you always wanted.

“Get me more of it,” He grumbled, looking into the properties of the liquid he injected into himself every few hours. Miguel hated that he had to do the same for you, but it was the only way to keep the baby quiet and asleep.

“Miguel, the serum is slowly killing her.” This time it was Lyla who spoke, holographic figure gleaming before his eyes with a stern look. She might only be a program, but it was not like she was going to watch as Miguel once more blinded himself and lost everything. “The baby is growing immune to it, and-“

“Then make it stronger.”

“Making it stronger will only hurt [Y/N] further!”

There was no way to win.

If he strengthened the remedy, you would grow weaker. But there was no way he could sit by and watch as his child slowly killed the woman he loved.

This universe wasn’t helping in any way, with no technological or scientifical advances being enough to help you.

He would have to look elsewhere.

“Are you gonna be home for the rest of the day?” You asked him, weak-looking hand cupping his jaw and caressing his short stubble. Was it just you, or your Miggy was getting careless? He always shaved neatly, the way he knew you liked. This was unlike him. And his eyes… He looked so tired. “You look like you could use some rest.”

“Yeah, cariño,” He responded in the softest voice possible. Your Miguel was all assertiveness and control and professionalism, and you adored it, truly. But it was such a blessing seeing him like this, soft and sweet and truly yours. Little lines formed alongside his eyes as he sighed contentedly, head bending down to press soft kisses alongside your neck. “Finally home.”

Giggling, you turned (or at least did your best to) to your husband.

He on his hand refused to face you, head dropping lower and lower, lips following your exposed shoulder and leaving soft marks on your collarbone.

It felt cozy and intimate and oh so very domestic – all you ever wanted for your life with Miguel. He’d been working long hours lately. Leaving at the crack of dawn and returning when you were long asleep. That was no way to live, and you had pleaded for very long for him to stay home for once.

“How are you feeling?” Was asked against your shoulder, featherlike lips trailing the skin. “Have you eaten, cariño? You know you need to…”

You nodded proudly at him, placing one hand on your stomach once more. You still couldn’t believe you were going to be a mother. The day you found out was the happiest of your life, a close second to the day you married Miguel. “I’m fine,” you told him, “The baby’s been asleep for most of the day. And yes, I have eaten. And quite a lot, might I add, you’d be proud.”

Miguel lifted his head from your shoulder to look at you from hooded eyes.

“I’m always proud of you, you know that.” He mumbled and nuzzled your nose with his, a gesture he did when he felt particularly soft and in love. Before you could chase his lips with your own, agony surged through your body, and ache engulfed your entire being.

You let out a blood curdling scream and doubled over your stomach, hands instinctively wrapping around it, as if protecting it from harm. But what harm? Your baby was the one causing the excruciating pain, not the other way around. Still, you protectively held it.

“[Y/N]!” Miguel shouted, heartbroken. His baby was causing you pain. Again.

As the baby stirred and stirred, you felt the pain seize every single one of your muscles, leaving you momentarily paralysed. The sharp throbs that came from your belly felt like relentless waves crashing against your core, rendering you unable to move. You breathed shallowly, gasping as you clutched your abdomen and cried.

Your husband did not hesitate. He made his way to the living room and returned to you quickly, bright syringe in his hand. You would’ve pleaded against it if you could. The shots of the antidote were getting worse, getting stronger, hurting you more and more as time went by. You hated it. And yet, you’d go through the pain time and time again if it meant your baby would be safe inside it. According to Miguel, it was a simple sedative, and you trusted him.

Taking your arm in his, Miguel prepared the syringe, abstaining himself from your horrible screams. He breathed in deeply – unbeknownst to you, this wasn’t the serum he usually gave you, the one he administered nearly every night. No, this was a different concoction, something created far away, in another universe. He had no idea if it would work – for all he knew, this new cure could harm you, could make you deteriorate quicker.

But he had to try.

He injected the syringe in your arm, and you squealed, head throwing back as tears streamed down your face. Once all the toxin was flowing in your blood, he held you tightly, kissing your face and head repeatedly, whispering “It’s alright, it’s okay, I’m here, cariño…” Until you quieted down. The sight before him was terrifying, and his eyes widened. Surely it was too soon for the remedy to affect you. And was that…? No. No, no, it was impossible, it couldn’t be-

And then, slowly, your breathing evened out. Your sobs turned into silent tears, and you laid back against the headboard. You sniffled a few times, wiped your tears and turned to face Miguel. “Thank you…” You mumbled, closing your eyes. “I… I guess our baby heard you and wanted to express how happy it was to see you…”

It was like you, to see the bright side of things, to consider this a blessing rather than a curse. Miguel adored that about you, how could be so positive, even when the darkness seemed to be too much to bear. Even when the creature you called your child was slowly killing you from the inside out.

He stood up, holding your hand for a few seconds longer than necessary.

“Stay here, I’ll get you something to eat.” Miguel kissed the top of your head and took one good look at you, taking you all in. Beautiful, lovely, sickly, weak, frail, feeble, debilitated. Oh how he wished he could do something other than inject some stupid antidote into your blood. But he was working on it.

Miguel walked towards the kitchen, and closed the door behind him, mind racing, heartbeat quickening, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

He had seen you glitch.

A/N: That's it! Shorter than Holo Heart for sure. I don't know if I should write a Part 2, but meanwhile, I'll finish the long ass draft that's been haunting my dreams. I hope you are all well! <3

[taikk0]

Happy 4th Anniversary RotTMNT!!!

( P.S. JUST REALIZED I FORGOT TO CHANGE LEOS HAT FROM 5 TO 4 BECAUSE I CANT DO MATH IM SO SORRY LETS JUST PRETEND HE EITHER CANT DO MATH EITHER AND GOT THE WRONG NUMBER OR HE STOLE THAT HAT FROM A 5 OLDS BIRTHDAY PARTY AT ALBEARTOS)

ANYWAYS!

Thank You RotTMNT For Merely Existing! Gushy Ramble Under The Cut!

Can’t believe its been 4 years since these turtles graced my TV screen at the ripe age of 11. 

Coming across Rise for the first time felt magical. I've never seen anything like it before, or at least, not on an animated series on TV. The quality of the animation, the art style, the new cast voicing the turtles I grew up with, the new interpretation, sure it was different but it was just the coolest thing ever to me at the time.

I didn't have access to the internet or social media at the time, so my love for this show was pure and unconditional.

Rise completely changed my view on what animation as a medium could do, especially for a serial TV show. It inspired me to keep working harder, both in terms of its writing style and its visual presentation. Sure I wasn't very good at it, but it set an example for me. Especially at the time when I was so engrossed in wanting to make my own animated TV series with my own original characters.

Outside of inspiration, it was also a source of comfort. The turtles felt like my friends, and their adventures were always so entertaining that I imagined myself being there alongside them. I knew that they were always there when I was having a bad day, I'd just turn on the TV, hope Rise was on, and let all my problems fade away.

As a queer and neurodivergent kid who always felt isolated and out of place, The turtles helped me feel less alone. I knew they wouldn't judge me for being weird or different because they were weird and different in their own ways too.

Sure you could point out the fact that it was because they were mutated turtles to be the weird trait, but to me, it felt more about what was on the inside.

The world will see mutants first, and beings with thoughts and feelings second.

Yet even after society shuns you, endangering you for what you are,

You will find joy and solace with your kin.

Blood-related or not.

Mutant or Human.

"あなたは一人じゃない"

I’m 15 now and even after all these years, my love for this show hasn’t budged a single bit.

Thank You RotTMNT, For Everything.

[bg-brainrot]

Alone in a Crowded Camp

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: A short Astarion reflection, where he realizes that company isn't so bad.

Tags: Astarion POV, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, Vampire Spawn Astarion, set in Act 3, Astarion is Bad at Feelings

A/N: My ~mood~ persists and I wanted to make this real angsty, but even I couldn’t do that to myself hah. A short little oneshot to try to get me out of my funk!

Word count: ~1.1k

Alone.

Astarion has gotten quite good at being alone.

For two hundred years, he's been surrounded by people– their faces, their bodies, their sickly sweet words and insincere affections. But all along, he has been deeply, achingly alone.

He's had his siblings, ugh, if that's what you could call them. They’ve been a constant, annoying, and at times cruel presence in his life. They’ve felt like a growth he could no more remove than he could ignore. And, through the misery and the pain, he somehow still managed to feel gods awfully alone.

It’s difficult to pinpoint the source of his loneliness. After all, he has nary a moment to himself. But no matter how many people, no matter how frequently he’s with them, something is missing. There is no connection, no kindness, no caring. He simply is alone.

As such, Astarion has grown downright skilled at solitude. A practical art form, he's certain– someone else may call it a method of coping. Either way, it’s not a skill he's comfortable to admit.

Especially not when he suddenly finds himself surrounded once more, veritably drowning in the same disgusting familiarity and the startling newness of companionship. Because this time, he's free. Or as free of Cazador as he's willing to believe for the moment. And his companions don't expect much from him. At least not more than he's willing to provide.

So when he settles into the motley crew, he’s prepared to face the same discordant discomfort of isolation, all while being a hair’s breadth from falling into someone’s bedroll.

Instead, what he finds is an unconventional, at times chaotic, symphony.

The loud sheering sound of weapons being sharpened.

The heat of bodies surrounding a late night campfire.

The beautiful, desperate joy on the faces of those who may not live to see another day.

Astarion soon discovers that, despite the dirt, despite the tentacled doom lingering over his gorgeous head of curls, the boisterous mundanity of daily life is oddly… welcome.

For so long, as long as he can remember honestly, he’d dreaded meeting someone new. Meeting someone new meant as much a death sentence for them as it meant a detestable evening for him, a night lost to his inevitable withdrawal into the deepest darkness he could muster. 

But here, in the warm glow of firelight, the darkness abates. 

Against all of his efforts, he actually learns about the group.

How Lae’zel single-handedly took on her entire crèche while training, how many rooms Gale’s tower boasts back in Waterdeep, how far Wyll’s travels have taken him along the Chionthar, how Shadowheart didn’t need her memories to remember she hated bad wine, how Karlach once defeated a Pit Fiend in the hells themselves. None of them are things he expected to learn, nor care about. But he finds himself listening, chortling along all the same.

And then there’s you.

At first, he’d kept you a careful arm and knife distance away– an asset surely, but just as surely a dangerous one. He’d learned early in his time with Cazador that anyone who could wield both blade and charm was not someone to be trifled with.

What he hadn’t expected was the way that you made him feel: Distinctly not-alone.

Whether it be catching the mischievous twinkle in your eye from across the room or finding himself wrapped in your arms, feeling your body heat slowly seeping into him– he simply can’t understand how you make the world feel so full.

Astarion isn’t sure if he loves this new feeling of overwhelming closeness or misses the solitude. He wonders if he’ll ever feel alone again, and the idea that he may not both thrills and terrifies him.

Because there is something soothing about being alone, a type of insidious succor only his own thoughts provide.

The ache loneliness has carved in his chest is as lingering as it is deeply rooted within him and, like a plant desperately trying to survive, he finds the roots digging deeper and deeper in an attempt to stay grounded.

His moments of actual time to himself have been scarce, of course. So, in his fear, Astarion has gotten used to finding his solitude among the chaos, sequestering himself away from any who might hurt him before such a chance could arise.

Retreating from their kindness, reciprocating with sharply worded barbs, shooting utterly underserved glares in every direction. Their wounded looks mean nothing to him– why should they? They are just another group of strangers, one vampire lord away from becoming another pile of corpses.

However, much like every other of his carefully thought out plans, you are ready to thwart him. For every attempt he makes to withdraw, you’re right there, proving time and again that you are no stranger. Not anymore.

“Astarion.”

It’s a simple thing, his name. The last remnant from a mother he no longer remembers. It sounded wretched upon Cazador’s lips, a curse he could never break. Upon yours though? It may as well be a blessing. 

With that one, simple name, his loneliness is allayed. The roots embedded within him pull back, if only for the moment.

Despite his best efforts, he remembers that he is not alone. Astarion feels at ease.

His heart opens, little by little, and not just to you.

Living hundreds of years as he has, faces had begun to meld together, names began to lose their meaning, voices their distinct candor. But for the first time in a long, long time, he finds himself seeing, listening, connecting to others in a way he no longer believed himself capable of.

It’s… nice. Not that he’ll ever tell the others.

Naturally, his past doesn’t simply up and vanish. His mind still drifts, and he finds himself retreating into the damning safety of solitude from time to time. But each and every time, a hand reaches out– at times jovial, sometimes tentative, other times caring– ready to pull him back to the present.

“Astarion?”

One such hand comes into his field of view, and he takes it instinctively. It’s warm, comforting, and scarred with the beautiful history of an adventurous past. He could get lost in the look and feel of this hand.

“Astarion? Are you alright?”

Your voice is soft, tone gently questioning– yet still worried. Adorable, but you needn’t worry about him. He doubts he’s ever been better.

“Mmm, yes, darling. Quite alright.”

“Good.” 

Your hand squeezes his as you respond and he’s certain that, as long as you’re next to him, he may never feel alone again. Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing after all.

[tolkienrsb]

TRSB 2023 Gallery Opening

& 2024 Schedule Premiere

It’s almost time for TRSB 2024! Sign ups for artists for TRSB 2024 open in a month. The full schedule for 2024 can be found here.

To start getting excited for this year’s event, please enjoy the opening of the TRSB 2023 Gallery (and the completion of the TRSB 2022 Gallery!) Many thanks to @usuallysublimepenguin for doing the lion’s share of the work to get both galleries ready and online and to @fishing4stars for supporting that effort!

Before the suggestions form opens on March 24th, we want to invite veteran participants to share their wisdom about the event. If you were speaking to someone curious about participating in TRSB for the first time, what would your advice be on picking what to draw? Or, as an author, what do you look for in a prompt? 

The mods have given their own answers under the cut. We can’t wait to hear your thoughts!

~TRSB Mods 2024

Mods answer the question:

Fishing4Stars (roles: artist, writer): As a writer I look for prompts that either give me a clear inspiration that I think matches the artist’s idea - or that leave me enough flexibility to write something I find inspiring. Either works! I do get inspired by my favorite characters, but the underlying idea can be a great source as well. I had a blast writing a story focused on Thorin last year even though he’s not a character I normally write for because the underlying prompt, about being an outcast and having a complex identity, inspired me. I loved working closely with the artist on this - I will probably make my ‘involvement level’ preference this year more specific, because I’d love to do that again.

I think my biggest takeaways as an artist after participating last year were: 

(1) Be a little selfish when picking prompts: As an artist, I’m responsible for supporting my writers and their works - whether cheerleading, brainstorming, beta reading, or hands off, my writer deserves for me to be excited to read their work in September and give them comments. So it’s to both our benefit for me to pick something I like and want to read. Last year I picked a prompt off the suggestions list that I normally wouldn’t have. It actually turned out really well and I had tons of fun reading it, but it did make me think about maybe giving slightly more personalized prompts this year. 

(2) Leaving room for collaboration can be fun: Both of the works I submitted last year were in mostly finished form. The bit of collaboration I got to do to adjust the work to the writer’s story was really fun, though. So this year I’m thinking about leaving some room for the writer to weigh in on the art.

Usuallysublimepenguin (role: artist): I’ve participated as an artist for a few years now and can warmly recommend joining, as it’s been such a joy every time.

Regarding the prompt list, I can certainly echo Fishing4Stars: draw something that you like! The list is great for sparking ideas, but be careful of picking the very specific ones; they might be something the prompter would want to read but not necessarily write. So, if it’s not something you want to draw, do not pick it. Use the list for inspiration, or if the list is too dauntingly large, go for something completely different from your own head.

My prompts have gone from quite detailed "Lothiriel, a new bride getting to know Éomer" to very open "here's one or two characters in a pose I wanted to draw; please fill in the blanks" or "Here's a landscape; please fill in the details." Keep in mind that the open prompts require quite high levels of collaboration, and that the stories might take you to new places you never even thought existed - but for me that works very well. Every single story that came from these prompts are dear to me. 

Ettelenë (roles: writer, sometimes artist). Since I am mainly a writer who sometimes draws, I tend to pick prompts that suit the characters or stories I want to tell. The first time I participated as a writer, it was with a prompt/character I never thought I would write about (mermaid Voronwë!), and, surprisingly, it was not the most challenging time. So, to start, writing or drawing something completely out of our comfort zones can actually draw people in. Nowadays, though, as I don't have much time to write a fully complex story with worldbuilding etc, I’ll go for the prompts that I am 100% sure I can bang 5k in the blink of an eye. As for drawings, I usually stick with what I do best, which is watercolor. And curiously enough, the two times I did art for TRSB, it was about the Valar, characters I mostly never write about, but who always spark my artistic creativity.

Raiyana (roles: writer): I have a tendency to fall in love with a piece or an idea and fall HARD… so far, happily, the artists have been pleased to have me write for them ;) And then I find that weird secondary prompt in the gallery, generally during second claims, that tickles Something. I usually filter out characters/ideas I definitely can’t do and then something or someone (often a co mod, actually) will challenge me to come up with a way to do a prompt and spark another fire of creativity ;). 

I never thought I’d be able to write a streamer script version of FoG, but here we are…

Lathalea (roles: writer, artist): When I joined TRSB for the first time, as a writer, I definitely felt overwhelmed with the size of the event and the amount of prompts, and then art pieces. It wasn’t easy to pick just one, so many of them screamed “pick me!”. I managed to narrow them down and mull over them for some time. I asked myself what ideas and parts of the Tolkien legendarium spoke to me the most, what “blank areas” of Middle Earth I would like to fill with my works, and how I wanted to do this. What I learned back then is that it worked for me best to focus on a very particular and narrow theme so that I could delve into proper worldbuilding – which is something I live for when it comes to Dwarves and their culture.

Finally, I chose the one that sparked the most creativity in me that year. I feel that for writers who decide to work on a specific art piece, prompts can be a great help, making you enrich your story or add a detail or two that you wouldn’t have thought of otherwise. As a bonus, you get at least one very happy reader: the author of that specific prompt! 

One year later, I decided to submit art for TRSB because I liked the prompts so much – I just had to create a piece of visual art inspired by them. It resulted in a great cooperation that explored a completely new subject that I always wanted to focus on but never had a chance to do properly before.

Feel free to surprise yourself and pick prompts or ideas you haven’t worked on before, you never know what way your creativity will go!

Legolasbadass (roles: writer, artist): There are always too many great artworks, so I usually make a list of pieces I’d be most interested in writing for to help narrow down my choices. I look for ideas and characters I am most inspired by and comfortable writing about — though it can also be fun to step out of your comfort zone and try something new! Another really important thing for me is the collaboration level. I really enjoy brainstorming with the artist, sharing my progress with them, and getting regular feedback, so I tend to avoid choosing artists who prefer a less collaborative experience. 

When looking for inspiration for art, I usually look at the answers to the suggestions form as well as my personal list of prompts and pick an idea that I’d be most excited to share with someone. The collaborative aspect of the event is what excites and inspires me the most, so I tend not to submit an idea I feel too possessive of. I like working closely with an author and letting their vision inspire my art as much as my art will inspire their story.