#*sometimes

[catsoctakeover]

I gave one an identity crisis-

i am a firm believer that ocs are a reflection of the self in the way that every character you create has to hold some piece of you to really feel alive. sometimes this is why all your ocs have certain traits, sometimes this is why you can track your various issues and traumas all the way from middleschool to now based on what your ocs are like. this is a feature not a bug

[isimp4shrimp]

So like what if mini durin didn’t looks quite so much like a marketable plushy

[classycookiexo]

[theabigailthorn]

"Good" Acting

i have a theory that a lot of people say acting is "good" when they're emotionally moved by it, and a lot of cishet white people have a lifelong habit of not listening or empathising when minoritised people speak, so minority actors get called "bad" even when they display some pretty fucking amazing technical skill

[leahkentwriter]

I don't always take it far enough

Margaret Atwood, from “Spring Poem.” [ID in alt text]

[bluebells-and-dragonflies]

Imagine Astarion with ears so sensitive that he's never willingly allowed anyone to touch them except for you. Imagine laying next to him in your bed, facing him, lifting your hand up slowly for that first touch. His eyes on yours, the rapidity of the breath he doesn't need to take, but still does reflexively. Seeing that he's nervous, but that he's trusting you, feeling his shaking hand come to rest on your waist. The audible sound he makes- half a moan, half a gasp- when you finally brush your thumb over the soft skin at the tip of his ear.

You trace the long shell of his ear and watch his pretty eyes, deep red like velvet in the moonlight, flutter shut. He says your name softly, as close as you've ever heard him to prayer. You pinch his earlobe gently, and his hips roll forward involuntarily, the jut of his hipbone pressing against your thigh as he makes himself still. Heat flares low in your belly, but you tamp it down as quickly as possible- likewise, Astarion makes himself still against you. This isn't sex and won't become sex, you'd promised each other (though that's not to say that you won't explore this thoroughly during one of your hours-long lovemaking sessions. He is all about experimentation these days, after all).

You lay there, touching him in his most vulnerable place, with reverence and grace and occasionally disbelief that you could be here at all with this beautiful, horrible, ridiculous and wonderful man, that you could be trusted so completely. You take in his every shuddering breath, the flexing of his fingers in your shirt, the softness of his mouth when he presses his lips to yours and tells you he loves you. If you have your way, if he has his, if somehow your utterly insane lives hold together for a year or a decade or ten, it will always be like this.

[apoemaday]

Sometimes

by Mary Oliver

I.

Something came up out of the dark. It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before. It wasn’t an animal or a flower, unless it was both.

Something came up out of the water, a head the size of a cat but muddy and without ears. I don’t know what God is. I don’t know what death is.

But I believe they have between them some fervent and necessary arrangement.

II.

Sometimes melancholy leaves me breathless…

III.

Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source! Both of them mad to create something!

The lighting brighter than any flower. The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.

IV.

Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

V. Two or three times in my life I discovered love. Each time it seemed to solve everything. Each time it solved a great many things but not everything. Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and thoroughly, solved everything.

VI.

God, rest in my heart and fortify me, take away my hunger for answers, let the hours play upon my body

like the hands of my beloved. Let the cathead appear again — the smallest of your mysteries, some wild cousin of my own blood probably — some cousin of my own wild blood probably, in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.

VII.

Death waits for me, I know it, around one corner or another. This doesn’t amuse me. Neither does it frighten me.

After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers. It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy. I walked slowly, and listened

to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.

[eeriedragone]

Ooooagh I'm DONE more or less

A while ago I got to see Mother Mother live (still can't believe that happened) and it inspired me to make... whatever this is :p

The inconsistencies can be attributed to the breaks I had to take whole making it, and my fluctuating motivation. Messy as it is, I still had fun, and that was my main goal :) I hope you enjoy it, or at least discover a new cool song!

[antomatkoen]

i have returned from the depths of artblock and am here to drop you more ghoap brainrot

[tuziehr]

me whenever i see a doomed/tragic/angsty sibling dynamic

[juniper-clan]

MOON 25

(Feat. @in-memoriam-tgwk OC Ferretpaw, and @artymcarty OC Lightningpaw!)

PREVIOUS l NEXT

[koko2unite]

girls be like "he's so babygirl" and it's the darkest, most brooding, melancholic, tortured man you've ever laid eyes on

[mothras-in-my-belly]

My sexual, romantic, and gender identities could all be honestly summarised as "absolutely not, but maybe, in this very extremely specific way that barely makes sense to anyone"

[classycookiexo]

[lyrichi]

[asmo is laying on mc's bed while mc does something at their desk]

asmo: what are you doing over there?

mc: math

asmo, humming: what kind?

mc: algebra 2

asmo, looking over at mc and trying to start a conversation: why don't you tell me about it?

mc, tiredly reading the problem: given that f(x) = x² - 5, and g(x) = 2x + 3, what is f(g(x)?

asmo, kind of stunned: