#and since there’s a break i have time to draw more scenes from last week

[dirtgrubber]

“your favorite part, hmm?”

chapter 29- Of Saints And Sinners by @morningstarwrites

[aothotties]

Some more Farmer!Reiner for everyone

Warnings: MDNl, Cunnilingus (f. receiving), fingering, a lil fluff at the end.

◝꒰ ´ ˘ `♡ ꒱

Farmer!Reiner becomes your new best friend within the first few weeks of your stay.

Farmer!Reiner who learns that you're opening up a small bakery in town and would love to be business partners.

Farmer!Reiner brings you your order with a few extra cartons of eggs or gallons of milk just because he can.

Farmer!Reiner does these things out of the kindness of his big heart, and in hopes that you'll let him take you on a date.

Farmer!Reiner is shocked when it's you who asks him out before he even gets the chance to.

Farmer!Reiner promises to be on his best behavior for your date tonight so that he won't scare you off.

Farmer!Reiner is about to lose an internal battle with himself when he sees how divine you look.

You invite him over to a home-cooked meal and on the off chance the night takes a turn, it's better to be a few feet away from the bed.

Reiner knocks on the door with flowers in his hand and you take a nice long look at him. His blonde hair is washed and styled handsomely, large muscles are bulging under his shirt, Christ, and the way his thighs are screaming under those jeans.

Reiner is no better if not worse than you are. His eyes steadily trail down your curvy figure, if the word perfect had a picture in the dictionary, he's sure the hat they would use one of your pictures to capture the meaning. All he can do is fantasize about what you're hiding under that long skirt, the way your dark skin shimmers due to your body butter entices him.

Farmer!Reiner manages to act civilized while you two have dinner and dessert.

Farmer!Reiner falls in love with you by the second every time he eats more forkfuls of your delightful chocolate cake.

Farmer!Reiner doesn’t let you move a muscle after dinner and insists on doing y’all’s dishes himself.

Farmer!Reiner holds back a moan when you jump up onto the counter next to him and rub his shoulder, mumbling a sweet “thank you”

Farmer!Reiner gets distracted by you telling a story and sprays you both with the faucet.

Farmer!Reiner is standing between your legs while wrapped up in a large blanket since you don't have any clothes his size.

Farmer!Reiner can't help but draw small circles on your thighs while you tell him your entire life story.

Reiner can’t help himself from leaning in just a tad bit too close to attach your lips, but it’s okay because you wanted this just as bad if not more.

Your wraps wrap around the blanket covering his shoulders and he pulls you in as close as he can. You both sigh in contentment as the tension slowly leaves the room with each kiss.

The blanket falls to the floor as he pushes you down so your back is flat against the countertop. You barely have time to react to how quickly your panties are removed and his lips are wrapped around your clit.

“Reiner!” You exclaim, you grip his soft blond locks between your fingers as his tongue switches between your nub and dripping hole.

His poor cock twitches at the sound of his name falling from your lips, his pants growing tighter by the minute. He tests the waters but inserts a finger in your cunt.

You hum at the sensation of his thick finger massaging your walls while his skilled tongue lapped at your clit like a madman.

He adds another finger next to the first one and your back arches off the counter, the scene in front of you has you insanely close.

You make eye contact with Reiner as he gives your bulging clit all the attention she craves. He curves his fingers to rub against your g-spot and you let out a long moan.

“I-I’m coming! Fuck Reiner I’m coming.” You warn, your body twitching in pleasure as you release onto his tongue and fingers.

He drinks up every last drop and pulls away from you to give your poor pussy a break. He stands up fully and wipes his mouth with his thumb.

“Are you okay, I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.” He helps you to your feet, grabs the fallen blanket, and covers your bare half.

“Reiner you’re fine, trust me I enjoyed myself. You’ve got nothing to worry about, are you okay?” You ask, nodding down to the bulge in his pants.

“Don’t worry about me, I want our first time to be special. Or at least not in your kitchen maybe?” He suggests and you let out a chuckle.

“Yeah, that might be a good idea for next time.” He places a kiss on your forehead and takes you to the couch.

A movie plays in the background as you two doze off at some point in the night. His clothes are long forgotten in the dryer, but this will be a night to remember

[mayearies]

… ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

❛ KISSIN YOU CRAZY ❜

miles morales

˚ʚ property of ©hiimayee ɞ˚

genre: suggestive | warnings: miles ooc, kissing, spanish translations: desea averiguarlo? / you want to find out? authors input: i wanted to make more borderline cocky miles i miss it also i cant fucking find graphics for stories anymore im actually gonna start shitting myself also ik i cant write kissing scenes dont rn

summary: turns out miles is a really good kisser

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

… ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

miles liked anything to do with your body, believe it or not. he would get the most out of cuddling with you, kissing you, or just simply holding your hand. but he had a tendency to ask one thing any time he would sit down:

“can you come sit on my lap?”

sometimes he wouldnt even ask. he would just pull you on top of him or give you a pleading stare. he honestly wouldnt pay much attention to you. he would just want you close to him. if you wanted to talk to him, he would be down for that always. hell, he would drop what he’s doing and turn his attention to you any day of the week.

wanna guess how you got here? yeah, he just led you to his desk and placed you on top of him so he could draw. take it as you’re a stuffed animal he wouldn’t want to misplace.

but stuffed animals have feelings too. he didn’t say a word to you. he just rested his head over your shoulder as his finger danced on your thigh in a rhythm, the one matching his headphones. you didnt like being ignored while in this state. you couldnt even get off him.

you bit your cheek as your face held an expression of annoyance. “miles?”

he didnt answer. but you knew he heard you since the tapping on your thigh slowed down and the sound of markers against the paper increased. he liked teasing you like this. and you knew just the way to break him: neck kisses!

he was an absolute sucker for kisses in general. his forehead and his neck were his favorite places for you to kiss. everytime you would, he would giggle a little bit before breaking, “what? what’s up, darling?”

“you never look at me even after i do this for you!” “mmm? do you want something?”“a kiss would be nice. all you give is cheap forehead kisses.”

miles directed his eyes to yours. soon leaving to look at your lips which were lightly glazed with lipgloss. he held a playful smirk before looking back up at your face. “hm. cheap kisses, huh?”

“i bet you aren’t even that good of a kisser, miles.” “hah. desea averiguarlo, mami?”

oh wow. you didnt expect that. or this. despite your continuous reminders for him to put on chapstick, his lips were really soft and smooth. even smoother with your lipgloss on it.

the thing is, miles has never kissed you like this before. he would give you longing kisses like this anywhere but your lips. you thought he did it because he was nervous. turns out he was, but had just played it off cool. but he pulled all the right strings first try.

something about his hand stroking your thigh lightly, the biting of your lip as your lips danced with one another did something for you. i mean, as it should.

pulling away with a playful smirk, he leaned into your ear. “so? did you find out or do i gotta demonstrate again? you got enough attention for the hour now?”

you playfully rolled your eyes as you slipped from his grasp to go sit on the couch and turn on a movie leaving miles stunned a little. nonetheless, he followed you. snuggling against your chest as he pulled you into his lap once more. “what we watchin’, missy?”

“missing.” “ohhh.. y’know what’s really missing?” “..what?” “your last name changed to ‘morales’.”“stop using those jokes you got from peter. just because he got to keep mj with them doesn’t mean you’ll get to keep me.” “yes ma’am.”

©hiimayee

[guardianofnightmares]

Forbidden

At that moment Bumblebee finally realized that he couldn’t keep the paranoid thoughts locked inside his processor anymore.

He desperately needed to speak to his friends, consequences be damned. He had to make sure that he’s not glitched in a processor. That what he got himself into was a right course of action for any good-natured Bot.

... or, rather, for any sensible Prime.

Hence why, after making a deep inhale, a minibot finally forced the dreaded words out of his intake:

"... is it wrong that I feel... bad for the prisoners? That I... periodically... h-help them?"

----------

Hello everyone, long time no see). Can hardly believe it's been a whole year since the last @blitzbee-week event and man, was I glad to participate in it once more. All of works were submitted on time to an event chat, but, unfortunately, I am uploading them here only now (full-time job drains me up).

Anyways, here is my first drawing from BlitzBeeWeek event Promts List. I think it will be fair to mention that this and next couple of my works will be dedicated to my fanfic called "TFA: Icarus". I will leave a link [here] for anyone interested to give it (and an existing teaser) a try. And yes, I am, in fact, going to finally upload first chapters pretty soon, it's happening, guys))). Thanks a ton for everyone who left their kudos there throughout a year, you have given me courage to put this behemoth of a story on paper and actually work it through.

As for the current entry for an event, I will provide part of a draft to one of chapters which is related to a depicted scene. It'll be "hidden" under a cut line for anyone wishing to get a more... fleshed out picture of what's going on here. Hope you'll enjoy reading it)

----------

“Bumblebee… are you listening to me?”

It was beyond confusing for Ratchet to see a younger Bot acting so out of touch with reality. He’s hunched over a console, helm resting in one servo while a wielding tool was twirled slowly in digits of another. Bumblebee looked so tired, clearly not caring about a task at servo, nor about an advice coming from his elder friend.

White and red Autobot knew how cheerful Bumblebee got each time they met via video calls, clearly waiting for a chance to talk to old teammates, even if these calls didn’t last long. That’s why him being so silent and lost in own thoughts was that much more worrying to witness. 

Upon being prompted again, the young bot finally raised his optics, the weight of his gaze almost making Ratchet flinch in surprise - to think that a recently promoted Prime was capable of behaving so out of character was indeed an alarming sign of change. 

The truth was, the minibot couldn’t help but to act all secretive, as if he’s done something wrong. 

Because, all things considered, he has. 

Minibot was well aware of what his actions could lead up to. All those rendezvous and revelations were such a dangerous subject to talk about, something that surely could lead him to being court marshaled if he’s caught by anybot. And what’s even worse - Bumblebee wasn’t certain whether telling friends what’s been troubling him was a good idea. 

Surely they’d not rat him out… but would they continue interacting with a yellow Autobot if he shared said secret with them? Wouldn't it be more mature of him to leave mechs oblivious (in order to protect them) and let his fears to silently fester in his processor?

... yet, to his shame, a minibot felt his resolve to keep his intake shut breaking upon seeing a haunted expression on Ratchet’s faceplates. Bumblebee wished he hadn’t looked up into the wise optics of his, those that seemed to read him as an unlocked datapad. How could he play it cool when a medic was looking at him in such a manner?

“…kid?” Now Ratchet was truly worried for his companion. He wasn’t even certain he’s ready to hear an explanation, but knew in his spark that he had to get to the bottom of a problem for minibot's sake.

At that moment Bumblebee finally realized that he couldn’t keep the paranoid thoughts locked inside his processor anymore.

He desperately needed to speak to his friends, consequences be damned. He had to make sure that he’s not glitched in a processor. That what he got himself into was a right course of action for any good-natured Bot. 

… or, rather, for any sensible Prime. 

Hence why, after making a deep inhale, a minibot finally forced the dreaded words out of his intake:

“… is it wrong that I feel… bad for the prisoners? That I… periodically… h-help them?” 

… a fleeting moment or relief at voicing his concerns instantly evaporated, changed to regret once he saw Racthet’s optics widening beyond usual capacity and heard Optimus sputtering and coughing on his energon ration off the camera. 

Such reaction made Bumblebee hide his helm between shoulder pauldrons in a clear sign of dread - so much for the support coming from teammates it seemed. 

“What?” Optimus asked after standing up from a table he’s sitting next to, the stool screeching audibly after a mech span in it. “Help them? What do you mean by that, Bumblebee? Are you alright? Do they… force you to do something for them or..?”

Minibot didn’t answer any of those questions. Wasn’t able to do it under the searching gaze of an elder mech’s optics which seemed to pin him to his own stool. Bumblebee felt like energon was going to freeze in his lines and tubes from a rising horror. Time seemed to stop for him, not unlike inner mechanisms in a frame of his. He couldn't utter a single sound, words swimming in a jumbled mess that was his processor.

What could he possibly say in his defense, now that his teammates knew of his secret? That there was a proper reason for him to feel pity for the inmates? That he was the only one to keep those mechs alive because nobody else did? That perhaps, Primus help him, all this time they were held in prison, somebot tried to take them out of game by starving them to their deaths?

A yellow Bot clearly hasn’t thought the conversation through, just as he always did, hasn't prepared himself for such a reaction even, and now that mistake was biting his aft. 

But then… then minibot heard something that immediately tore him from a panicking state he got stuck in. 

“I’ll take care of it, Prime.” Ratchet announced in a calm tone, breaking the tense silence which settled over the video call. Bumblebee was so stunned that he didn’t register those words right away, looking dumbly at warm optics of a mech on the other side of a call line. 

“But-“ 

“Optimus.” Medic cut off his commanding officer in a stern but good-natured manner, showing that he knew what he’s doing. Trusting the judgement of an older Bot, red and blue mech nodded to him and stepped away from a console, giving both of his friends some room to talk to each other. 

Young Prime could hardly believe what he’s been witnessing in front of him. Afraid to hope that his situation might’ve not been so dire after all. Baiting his breath, he watched red and white Bot turning to him again and leaning closer to a screen.

“Bumblebee, tell me, what’s happening back on Cybertron.” Ratchet asked his young friend, trying to look as non-threatening as possible, ready to tentatively listen to everything minibot’s about to say. 

And that’s when Bumblebee understood, felt it in his spark which gleefully thrummed in his chest that his old teammates were not mad at him - only worried for his well-being. Said realization made the built up over orbital cycles tension leave his frame and gave him courage to answer as honestly as he could.  

“You don’t know even half of what's going on, guys,” He stated after a breath moment of silence, then scooted on his chair closer to a screen as well and continued speaking in a hushed tone as to not to be heard by anyone else on his side of a video call. 

While retelling the recent events, which took place in Tripticon Prison, young Prime couldn’t help but periodically glance at a screen to his right side, a list of main convicts taking up most of its surface. 

Their stern gazes seemed to burn a viewer with hostility. Evil, cold, sparkless optics on unsightly faceplates. That’s what fellow guards always tended to whisper to each other either in fear or in bold mockery while walking down the hallways.

But to Bumblebee the very same pairs of optics, those he'd looked into more times then any of the local mechs, more then his friends even, told another story. Each time he saw Decepticons, bound and stripped of their weapons, there was no rage in their expressions, nor malice or contempt - only an eternal tiredness, hopelessness... and resignation with Fate.

Warframes. Mighty mechs being brought to their knees and stripped of their pride. Truly a sight which made minibot feel more miserable then three inmates he tried to take care of.

“Bossbot… Ratchet… please, come back here as soon as you can," Recently promoted Prime finally said as a conclusion to his speech. "I… I am afraid I won’t be able to handle this situation on my own anymore.”

[holdinbacksecrets]

keep you warm — l.dh

relationships are scary, and donghyuck ran away from yours. 18+ suggestive

you can’t get yourself to fall asleep. the time that’s passed since his body laid beside yours—stayed through the night—has been so long. it was becoming harder to hold onto the memory, and you couldn’t write it down again. journal page after journal page held every detail you remembered, turning them over again in your mind until you felt a familiar warmth in your heart again. you feel so cold without him. it’s been too long since you created the warmth on your own.

there was no hope to be found in you this week. the days blended together: waking up before your alarm, dragging yourself through the hours at work, and pushing yourself through evening runs in an attempt to sweat out the feelings. it worked for those 40 minutes spent in a pair of hokas before finding yourself on your balcony again, hair wet, a cool breeze brushing your skin like a promise to never let you down.

the glass of wine is filled a second time, and you watch the maroon liquid slosh around the glass as your head falls to the side. you haven’t drank since your brother’s wedding. years have passed since that night, so much has changed.

your knees knock together, feet resting on the coffee table, and you pinch the moon between your fingers. you imagine its dust on your skin, wondering how long the particles would linger before disappearing, washing away.

you hope he doesn’t completely disappear. the truth of those words has become harder to admit to yourself as feelings deepen. a heart truly grows fonder through distance, but the shadowed insanity has sharp claws. it draws blood, makes you sick and unable to eat.

you reach for the glass and head inside. the liquid disappears down the drain along with what remains in the bottle. you search for tea. something herbal. craving the warmth between your hands. craving the feeling of it traveling down your throat. needing something softer coating your mouth. something that won’t unravel the sweet dreams you anticipate.

the knock comes while you’re leaning against the kitchen counter, gaze set on the time ticking down—neon numbers on the microwave. you don’t have to move to know it’s him. you wonder how impulsive this decision was. how long he sat in his car debating coming up, using the key that lets him in your building. did he feel guilty pulling it out? did he think about the time that’s passed since he last felt its curved metal between his fingers?

you reach the door and the microwave begins to beep. the lock is turned, and you swallow hard.

he’s standing outside your door, and the brown of his eyes looks softer than before. he’s wearing glasses and a hoodie you know to be incredibly soft. his hair is long, nearly curtaining his eyes, definitely hiding his brows.

your cheek meets the door, wondering if he’ll speak before you step back and let him in. he has to say something. he has to know this isn’t ok. that it fucking hurts.

his tongue wets his lips and he takes you in. his eyes roam your face for so long. they run over your features repeatedly before staying on the eyes he sees in his own dreams.

“should i have called first?”

he looks uncertain. it’s a foreign face to see him wear. the twisting of his ring is subconscious while he waits. it would be so easy to break, to reach for him.

“it’s ok.” your smile is tight lipped, half hidden by the hinged metal.

“i’m sorry for disappearing.”

with that, you step back and let him inside.

he slips out of his shoes and you lock the door, heading for the kitchen to retrieve your tea and fill a glass of water for him. this scene has been lived a hundred times but never so quiet.

“why did you?” you ask holding out the glass. his fingertips brush yours. warm. the mug of tea is a sad attempt at recreating the feeling.

he follows you to the living room, settling into the couch because he knows you’ll take the large, green chair. he’s only found you there more times than he can count. it’s like your resting place, your recharge zone—a place of tried and true comfort. his comfort holds uncertainty.

“the honest answer is fear and …discomfort.”

“did i make you uncomfortable?” your eyebrows raise before taking the first sip and tucking your legs beneath you.

“no! no. that’s not it at all. i just- we became so close, and the feelings… the realest feelings. i doubted myself and filled in all the blank spaces.”

“blank spaces?” you ask when a silence fills the room.

“i imagined all your wants from me… for us. i decided i couldn’t give them to you even though i never asked what they are. i think- i know some are clear, but not all the details…” he looks afraid. he looks so small, smaller than you’ve ever seen him. it freaks you out. you want to comfort him. you want to make it all better, but you have to listen first. you have to gather the answers. otherwise it’s not fair.

“if you had asked, do you think my answers would’ve made you disappear too?”

“i can’t know that for sure, and i’m sorry if that hurts to hear because… fuck i don’t want to hurt you. i make all my decisions with you in mind. i’ve never done that before.”

“i know, it’s scary. it’s really scary to feel yourself starting to intertwine with someone, bend to them, have unwavering consideration appear and stay.”

he smiles then. “you’ve always been so much better than me with words.”

you shake your head, drinking more of the tea. “i overthink. i dissect.” i’m stained by words unsaid. i keep words that were never meant for me, and yet i crave them. i crave to offer you the right ones. i envision perfection. my perfection. for you.

“do you dissect this? me?”

“of course i do.” the honesty has always been too easy with him, and it’s here despite the distance, despite the rocky uneasiness you’re walking through—addressing head on.

“i’m sorry it happened this way. that i did what i did knowing your history. i don’t want to let you down—be like the last disappointment.” he tried so many times to call you. he sat in the parking garage and worried you’d see him as if seeing each other wasn’t the whole point.

you finish your tea, swallowing the warmth and barely feeling it past the back of your throat.

“i want to say you don’t have to apologize. in the same breath, thank you for doing it. i want you here. that’s impossible to deny, but it’s fucking scary, donghyuck. i’m so fucking terrified of wanting you— the fact that i do is having a hard time settling in. it’s not easy to accept.” because you know what it looks like. you know the carefree person you become within it, and you don’t want to lose her again.

he knows what you mean. you’ve laid together, half-dressed, and filled your dark room with honesty. he asked you questions you’ve never heard before, never meant for you. your answers were important, and everything you said has been remembered: the fear is impossible for him to forget.

“we’re both afraid.” his gaze holds so much love you feel yourself start to cry, and he’s leaning forward immediately, reaching for you. “baby, come here.”

a sob breaks free when your bodies meet. when the touch you’ve been looking for in fragmented memories is finally known again as you melt into him.

“i don’t want to be afraid to love you.”

he doesn’t tense at your words. if anything, he feels lighter. donghyuck knows to be your solid ground is all he wants.

“doing it together sounds like the right way to start, hmm?” his lips meet your forehead, and you nod against his chest.

“you can never do that again, though. you have to tell me, and i’ll tell you too because neither one of us deserves the guessing game. it’s sour and heavy and i can’t lose the sleep. not because of that. i won’t do it again.” the last thing your words are is harsh. they’re coated in yearning. they’re relieving to share, and he feels the care you have for him stick to his skin. it’s insane to think he let himself believe he wouldn’t be safe with you, but those middle-of-the-night thoughts are never on our side.

“i won’t. i’ll annoy you with all the communication.”

“please, it’s an aphrodisiac.”

he laughs then. finally. you’re set alight, feeling euphoric as his chest vibrates against your cheek. “i’m so in love with you.”

your lips part. “say it again.”

“sweetheart, i’m so in love with you.”

you pull away from him, dropping your hand to his cheek, fingertips meeting moles. searching his eyes until your vision blurs with tears, caught beneath his thumb. “i love you. i’ve loved you since the night in the corner store.”

“that long?” his voice is so emotional, breaking at the end, and you finally realize it: he doesn’t think he deserves this.

“that long. i knew. it was impossible to miss.”

“to miss?”

“donghyuck, you’re so easy to love. i feel so lucky to love you.”

an exhale sinks his shoulders. you kiss the apple of his cheek, feeling the first tear on your lips just before you pull away, so you kiss his eyelid next and then the other. whispering, “i can’t wait to love you loudly. i can’t wait to show you what you deserve.” and he guides your mouth to his.

your lips come together with the most emotional charge you’ve ever felt. it’s almost overwhelming, but you can’t imagine pulling away. you adjust, straddling his lap, feeling the certainty on his lips. the promise. the prayer.

it deepens as your hands sink into his hair, twirling his brown locks around your fingers. he licks into your mouth, meeting your tongue in a romantic dance. there’s no fight for dominance. there’s no urgency. it’s patient. it’s your entire bodies connecting, chests meeting. it’s all the emotions, all this relief collecting in the space where your lips touch. it’s the understanding that you have so much time, and it’s so warm.

[ginjones]

An ending (Ascent)

It’s probably not normal, Hob will reflect later, to walk in on your boyfriend sitting cross legged on the floor, wearing a giant pair of headphones, clutching a spoon in one hand, and staring into the middle distance in what can only be described as a state of divine rapture.

Perhaps it is for celebrities who have access to all the really good drugs, but celebrities don’t leave their partners bundled up in bed while they nip to Tesco’s to buy more milk.

It’s also not normal that he’s completely naked, save for one black sock which sits defiantly on his left foot. That would explain the detritus of clothing which greeted him on his way down the hall, but not whatever…this is.

Dream is sitting with his back to the living room bookcase where Hob keeps his vinyl, a selection of it discarded around him. He’s playing absently with the cord of the huge Bose headphones, weaving the coils around his delicate fingers, lost in thought. And there’s nothing to suggest he’s noticed Hob’s presence, no questioning whether Hob has remembered to pick up his favourite snack. For a moment, Hob wonders if he should whip out his phone; take a sneaky picture of this ceremonious event. Then he notices the shimmer of tears falling serenely down his partner’s cheeks and discards the notion entire.

“You okay, sweeting?”

No response. He shrugs off his messenger bag and sits down to join him, scooting over the laminate floor in a graceless bum shuffle.

A soft, white light from the overhead lamp illuminates the scene. It pours over Dream like a sheet of pure silk, highlighting his nakedness and the paleness of his skin. There’s a wonder to his expression; something soft in the way his mouth is held slightly open, his hair mussed from sleep. Like a renaissance painting, he thinks, in the way that all academics conflate one thing with the other. like Iris in the land of Hypnos and yet, he looks so human.

Because of course, he is.

It’s been 4 months and 3 days since he’d chosen to join Hob in the earthly realm of humanity. Hob’s been keeping track on the calendar, trying to offer him one new experience a day. They’ve watched classic movies, read each other poetry, (Dream still has the perfect voice for orating) and early last week Hob had introduced him to modern music (the Beatles were a hit, the Stone Roses were not).

Hob’s immediate presence must break Dream out of his reverie because slowly, sapphire eyes meet his and wordlessly he places the spoon down, picks up the sleeve of an album and holds it out to Hob like it’s the Turin shroud.

It’s not immediately identifiable. The artwork a scant wash of beige imposed over an image of moon craters; aesthetically pleasing yes, but not particularly noteworthy. Hob’s collected vinyl for the better part of five decades but his visual memory’s not the best. Without being able to hear what Dream’s listening to he’s drawing a bit of a blank. Then he sees the sparse red writing at the top and the name down the side and all at once, it clicks.

Brian Eno has broken my boyfriend.

It’s not the first time Dream’s had such a visceral response to artwork in these acclimating months. It had been very sweet to find him weeping over local artwork in the coffee shop they’d visited in Coventry. The issue was the shame he’d felt afterwards. In the car park outside, Hob had soothed him, rubbing gentle circles across his back as he listened patiently to Dream’s lament that it was all too much, these…feelings. I cannot hide them like I did before.

This time however, the tears seem to have stopped and a hazy sort of smile plays at the corner of his lips. He’s coming back to himself and in the privacy of this moment, shared only with Hob, he may be able to appreciate this outpouring of emotion for it is, something human.

“Want to take off the cans so we can talk, love?”

Hob’s pretty sure Dream hasn’t learnt to read lips, but the headphones are slowly lifted away, leaving the tinny echo of the song playing in the background. His expression changes to imitate something of his former status, a furrow of the brow, a regal upturn of his chin.  

“Ah, you have return to me. You woke me when you left you know?”

He does, in fact know this. When he had risen gently from bed that morning, Dream had moved to pull him back; a flow of pale arms moving like water, muscles softened from sleep. He’s still getting used to it; the sense that Dream belongs here. That he won’t apparat back into endlessness, leaving the bed cold, the tea undrunk, the rooms quietened by his absence.

“And I’m guessing that’ll be the reasoning you give when I find arse prints on my lovely, new laminate floor?”

“You were gone for too long; I decided to entertain myself.”

“By listening to Brian Eno naked?”

“Yes”, his eyes trail down slowly to observe his current state, “I realised clothing was detracting from the experience.”

He can’t help but chuckle at that.

“So, you like Brian Eno, and I can see that he’s affected you,” Dream nods slowly, looking down to the album on the ground. “What is it about this album in particular, because I can tell there are some big feelings here. I want you to know we can discuss them.”

For a moment, Dream is silent, playing with the cord in his hands. He’s sitting a little straighter now, his shoulder muscles tightened in a familiar stance. Weighted by the question perhaps, a wish to answer dutifully, but still, he pauses for several seconds longer, worrying his bottom lip.

“It is… soothing I suppose. I enjoyed the piece Mata from this composition. It is nightmarish in its construction, recalling a jungle swollen with noxious blooms, but this one?”, he places a finger to the title, An ending (Ascent). “It remindsme of the space between form and thought where I once spun the diaphanous silk of my creations. It was where I was most at peace and upon listening, I found myself reminded of those moments.”

That is, quite frankly, a lot to unpack.

At his core, Dream remains a storyteller, weaving an elaborate web of seemingly disparate ideas. Hob finds it all a bit overwhelming. How he can take a piece of art, deconstruct it, and recraft it into something new. Pulling inspiration from the air, plucking its strings, and finding where the vibrations cross paths with his own experience. And Hob must be getting better at reading his partners mind because, in a quiet, searching tone, Dream asks:

“Has it been written for me?”

This man, Hob thinks This man who has come back to me, who has crept into my life and reads my books and listens to my music. This man who lays himself out to me in naked candour.

“Oh love, come here then. Give us a cuddle.” He’s blushing now, a pink hue spreading across the lily paleness of his chest. His skin is warm when Hob pulls him closer, and it smells sweet and living from sweat. “I mean, maybe? You tell me. Ever pay Mr Eno a visit like you did Shaxberd?”

“No,” Dream continues, “but it is as if this man has looked upon me and glimpsed a fragment of my being.”

“That’s a common phenomenon of the human experience I think. Lots of people feel like songs speak directly to them. Yours just happens to be written by Brian Eno-which doesn’t surprise me,” he chuckles affectionately, “he’s quite a conceptual artist-it’s all very ethereal.”

“Ethereal…” Dream pauses, his brow crinkled in thought. “Yes, there’s an otherworldliness to it I suppose… but a tangibility all the same. How the counter melody sits low in the mix-the bass notes appear rooted to the earth while the top notes look towards the sky. What did the first humans wonder when they looked towards my mother? I do not know…. I did not care for them as I do now”.

“Well,” Hob continues, “perhaps they thought about their own existence? Their place in a world which is confusing and often painful. Perhaps they wanted to feel like they were being protected by something bigger than themselves. Spirts; angels.”

“Angels?”, Dream scoffs “Angels do not sing like this. The holy choir is faultless in its melodies. It lacks the vibrancy of imperfection, the subtle intricacies of the human spirit. No; this piece holds far more divinity.”

“Ever thought about taking up music journalism Dove? Pitchfork would have a field day.”

As predicted, there’s no response to that.

So, Hob bundles him up and they sit on the sofa listening to Apollo together. Tomorrow, he’ll try and convince Dream to watch 28 days later, with the promise that An Ending (Ascent) is in the soundtrack. They’ll eat nothing but comfort food and Hob will remind Dream to brush his teeth before he goes to bed and in an otherworldly Parthenon, the muses will smile fondly down, and kiss the brow of a kindred aesthete.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Can you forgive me?

John feels nauseous when Sherlock gets his will. They’re allowed to open the grave to prove the great detective’s theory. Sherlock wants John to come, though he really should’ve known better, according to John. It’s their second crime scene together since Sherlock came back from his faked death, and things are strained between them. Their co-habitation is tense and awkward, which makes John itchy and half-mad with anger and sorrow equally measured.

John’s told everyone that he went to visit Sherlock’s grave twice a month, but the truth is that he’s only been there once. He couldn’t bear to see the black gravestone with Sherlock’s name on it. It doesn’t help much that the grave that’s about to be opened, is only a few metres away from Sherlock’s fake grave. John hasn’t dared to look in the direction out of fear that he’ll do something terribly stupid, like falling apart in front of half of the Yard.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock murmurs beside him, having taken a break from pestering the men with the shovels.

“If you have to ask, the answer should be obvious,” John mutters under his breath.

His hands are balled into fists in his jacket pockets, his body stiff and alert. Sherlock draws a breath and is about to speak, when Lestrade calls him over. The grave is open.

“Empty, like you said,” Lestrade tells Sherlock. “How on earth did you know?”

Sherlock speaks rapidly, leading the yarders in the direction of the man who’s faked his death, and Lestrade takes his leave.

“Aren’t we going with them?” John asks hoarsely when Sherlock stands beside him again, gazing over at where his gravestone once was.

“No, they don’t need us anymore today. I’m taking you home, and then we’ll talk, and I’ll tell you why…”

Sherlock’s voice breaks and John looks shocked at him.

“Alright?” John asks and places a hand on Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s body shakes and John acts on instinct, forgetting all about his anger. He pulls Sherlock in for a tight embrace, relishing the sudden proximity of this madman.

“Can you forgive me, John?” Sherlock whispers with a trembling voice.

“I don’t know,” John says honestly. “But, by the state of you now, I guess it was much more to your absence than a crazy and exhilarating adventure. Tell me.”

John leads them to a secluded bench close to where John stood and begged a dead man not to be dead, two years ago. When John had told Sherlock about it, his reply had been – “I know. I heard you.”

His voice had been soft, even affectionate, but at the time, it’d just irked John. He wanted to scream and shake Sherlock and ask him why he hadn’t told John. Why he wasn’t allowed to come with him. Why he’d let him grieve like a widower. He hadn’t but it had taken all his willpower to act calm and just nod, pretending everything was business as usual. Which it wasn’t.

It should feel strange to hold Sherlock like this. Soothing him, stroking his back, whispering “shh”, and “I’ve got you”, and “I’m so glad you’re back”, and “I’ve missed you.” But the truth is, it feels utterly natural, a thing John’s longed to do for ages. Even before the Fall.

Sherlock’s head rests comfortably on John’s right shoulder, and his breathing eases, grows steadier. Time to confess.

When Sherlock’s finished telling John about the snipers, Moriarty’s unexpected suicide, his quest to hunt down and destroy the dead man’s network, ending it all by telling John about his last days away, in Serbia, captured and tortured; it’s John’s turn to break down. He weeps in Sherlock’s arms, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, letting Sherlock stroke his hair, rocking him, whispering “I had no other choice”, and “I would’ve taken you with me if I could”, and “you were always on my mind”, and “I missed you every second I was away from you.”

When they walk past the empty grave, John shudders. He turns around to locate Sherlock’s gravestone, but it’s no longer there. 

“Mycroft had it removed last week,” Sherlock says. That’s why I needed you to come along today, so that you could see it with your own eyes.”

John nods and turns to face Sherlock. He grips the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pulls him closer, looking him square in the eyes.

“I forgive you,” John says softly and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s lips.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @phoenix27884 @a-victorian-girl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @helloliriels @gregorovitchworld

[fadedsaturated]

The difference between this story and other series that do the same thing is that this story naturally built towards the events that happened in this episode. The story makes sense because everything has been properly plotted from the start. We have known Moo's dream from the very first scene. We know how important it is to him. we also know how much Kang takes care of Moo and puts him first. everything about this episode makes perfect sense and was handled beautifully. None of the events felt artificial or just for drama's sake, because this episode is a result of every piece that has been building since episode 1, and to me it's just very good writing. I have no doubt things are going to wrap up beautifully in these last two episodes. Truly I am wowed every week by how great this show is at all the things it sets out to do.

This was how it had to go down, and it feels earned because everything was set up to happen this way. The story was never really about calling out the toxicity of the idol culture, but rather how two kind hearted loving people must navigate it. If this had started as a story about Moo trying to change the ways idols do things that'd be one thing, but this is still very much a story working within the narrative of "becoming an idol" and by default this is a roadblock that many must face, so it's not about him doing some unrealistic thing to win the day, but how two characters navigate a situation that's very real. And THAT is where the love story excels because it's always been about Moo and Kang and how they tackle things to make their love work. The idol stuff is just the final boss, so to speak.

Also break ups just happen, with couples sometimes. And in Moo and Kang's case it comes completely from a place of love. There's no contrivances here. Kang deeply loves Moo and by him doing this it just shows that intense love even more. I get that this is a fantasy story, but all fantasies draw from the humanity of reality, and that is why I know that despite these troubling times (which only show their deep love anyways) we will get that fantasy happy ending. Because both Moo and Kang deserve it, and have worked hard for it. ❤️

[nomsfaultau]

thank you so much for writing mandatory family reunion. i just reread it for the eighth time. i think im going to dedicate my life to life to reading your other sbi fics until you update again. also; do you have any tips for committing to fics and not leaving them half-finished?

ahhhh that’s so sweet glad you enjoyed! As for writing fics, having it be your special interest really helps. But for more general advice on finishing:

-Don’t stick to just one story. Which seems counter intuitive! But inevitably you’re going to hit a snag in one story. So instead of stopping writing at all, switch projects. Writing involves a whole bunch of thinking, and stuff needs time to percolate in the back of your head. But having a small project to work on in the mean time keeps you engaged in the writing process, gives you practice, makes you feel like you’re making progress, and allows time to work out the other story. I personally have 1-2 main projects, Fault and MFR, and then rotate a couple back burner stories that I work on whenever I get inspiration and fully expect to have very slow progress and possibly never finish. Short stories, one shots, hell even just writing little one off scenes that don’t go anywhere. It’s a way to keep writing fun and thus you’re more likely to continue working on the stuff you’re trying to complete. Don’t feel bad if there’s breaks between working on your main project. Writing involves a lot of thinking and it takes time to do that.

-Devoting time to do that thinking also significantly helps. When you’re falling asleep can be a good time to rotate stories in your head. Could also be if you’re walking from place to place, or brushing your teeth, or other little gaps in the day. Even if you’re not physically writing, it’s still part of the process and can make it easier when you actually sit down to write because you know what scene you’re most excited to work on. Also, talking over your story idea with a friend is a great way to stay motivated if you can get over the mortifying ordeal of being known. You can bounce ideas off them, and other people’s investment in a project can be a great motivator to finish. Like legit a single ao3 comment once stopped me from my plan to abandon a fic. Reminding yourself why you (and other people) like the story makes it easier to want to continue.

-Keeping a rough outline of what you envision for the story can give you a road map to how close to done you are and where to go next. Just like you can hop between projects, I find jumping around the plot time line to write what scene I’m most interested in atm keeps me going instead of writing everything in order. Though, all writers have different degrees of plot planning, so that depends on your style.

-Art! I’m an artist, and while writing definitely fuels what I draw, I find doodling cool scenes I want to write really inspires me to keep going. This sorta falls under the same category of continuing to think about the story and motivating you to finish. -I found keeping a writing journal has improved how I view my writing. Basically, I’ll jot down a bullet point list of scenes worked on that week/month. Writing is a very slow process, so seeing a timeline of actual progression on a story makes it feel like I’m actually getting more out of my head and onto paper. I also jot down what ideas for scenes I came up with since that’s also part of writing, and might include a chill no stakes writing goal for that period, like work on X or Y project, or a particular scene. Sometimes my goal is just ‘write at least one sentence’. I give it lots of leeway, and accept that the muse may just be somewhere else that week. And if the goal isn’t met, no sweat! Life can get busy at times and it’s more important that you aren’t beating yourself up if it’s been awhile since you last touched a project. Forcing yourself to write a scene that isn’t ready won’t result in a good scene or an happy writer. Switch projects, give yourself time to think about it, take care of yourself, etc.

And, legitimately, don’t be afraid to abandon a piece. Maybe you’ll come back to it, maybe you won’t. It can feel disheartening to feel like you can’t seem to finish a project, but unfinished pieces also do a lot for you: they hone your craft, allow you a creative outlet, give you scenes that could potentially be reworked for later pieces, and most importantly were hopefully fun to write! Story crafting is a hobby that should bring you joy, not frustration and shame.

Like, I have stories that will never see the light of day and are just so I can have fun and poke it with a stick occasionally. I’m 100% confident in saying that every author will have tenfold the number of unfinished wips compared to complete works. That’s just part of the creative process: exploring different worlds to find the one you want to write.

Perhaps a fic might never get finished, but in the wise words of Technoblade: “if you enjoy it, it’s not time wasted, no?”

(Now, I think he was talking about murdering people, but the point still stands.)

[herotome]

Devlog #126

Hi-ho, Wudge here.

Happy new year! And open disclosure, I uh... kinda worked through the holidays. And in fact, I... worked this past weekend...

My friend @crescencestudio informed me I also worked through the holidays last year... So uh, I think I owe myself a break.

ᵂʰᵉᵗʰᵉʳ ᵒʳ ⁿᵒᵗ ᴵ ᵃᶜᵗᵘᵃˡˡʸ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵇʳᵉᵃᵏ…

A-- Ahem.

On expressions - I'm reaching a point where I drew enough assets that I can mix and match! ... Mia doesn't have a single smile just yet.

I organized the PSD/.clip files for Mia and Warden a great deal too - much easier to find revelant layers now. Haven't finished importing/coding the expressions into the game yet - that'll be a whole song and dance for another day.

There's a few more small parts I wanna draw (namely irises to the side, and a 'talking' open mouth), and then she should be all set for her demo scene. Fingers crossed.

I'll either jump back to Warden next, or move onto Griffin.

I also drew.... three concepts for potential upcoming characters (and for 2 objects!). I don't wanna show them off since there's no guarantee that they'll be in the game/that this will be their final designs, but I can at least give a lil peek:

I had a nice time comparing these concepts to my concept art from 1-2 years ago! My line confidence seems to have improved :D

It's kinda weird since gesture and linework were always My Thing when I worked traditionally, but when I transitioned to digital art there was still a huge learning curve! I'm happy to have gotten better at it, but it took a surprising long while.

Writing-wise - I came up with what I think is a preeetty solid idea for showing off Mia's powers in-game! I have a rough draft/notes of the scene, it's not remotely near first draft completion, but I can at least show off this choice menu:

That's about it, I think...!

Sorry I've been slacking a bit on getting back with yall - I see yalls messages and they are delightful. I've been spending my spoons too recklessly - I'll really try to take a bit of time off to get myself back to normal. So uh, maybe no devlog next week - I'll try not to hold myself to it and just. try. not to work. lol.

Thank you for bearing with me!!!

Stay safe and keep warm,

Wudge.

[genericpuff]

Hi! Maybe this is a difficult question with no answer, but as a fan of Rekindled who might want to start their own comic, what do you suggest to avoid burnout? Do you start wiht writting the script right away, you doodle a bit,..? Thanks for reading, I love how you draw big noses, makes me more comfy with mine!

no fr my dark secret is that i've been experiencing burnout with my main original project that I've spent the last decade working on for literally a year now. this isn't the first long hiatus i've taken, the longest one i've ever been on has lasted two years, and it's undoubtedly not the last i'll experience because the lump of salt and fat and tissue that is my brain often overworks itself into exhaustion like a big dummy

rekindled has been my reprieve from the burnout. it has been my vacation from years of working on the same project, meeting the same deadlines, drawing the same characters, over and over and over again since before i was in college.

if there's anything working on rekindled has made clear to me, it's that i'm still capable of drawing comics. the comic-making isn't the problem. it's just that when you work on the same project for years and trap yourself in an uphill battle, eventually your climbing gear is bound to break.

if there's another thing that rekindled has opened my eyes to, it's the insanity that i put myself through prior to rekindled that led to my burnout in the first place.

i get people telling me that they couldn't imagine doing what i do, that even before i had my assistant helping me out, i was still able to put out 30-40 panel updates every week.

but before that, i was putting out 70-90 panel episodes of my original work. every week. full color. full spread action scenes. no assistant. very little financial gain aside from a couple patrons on patreon and one dedicated viewer on twitch, which i was also streaming on 2-3 times a week.

and now that i've been working on rekindled and even finding myself often crunched for time with that, i have zero clue, no idea, a complete lack of comprehension of how i pulled off 70-90 panels a week for months on end. there's a reason it resulted in burnout and i know that now. this comparison is not for the sake of a flex - this comparison is to make it clear that much of what i do isn't the norm and isn't exactly a healthy standard. case in point, i sneezed while sweeping up yesterday morning and it caused a muscle strain in my lower back/hips and i've been working out of my bed since, i'm in a lot of pain and it might mean i don't make any money this week if it's not better by the time i have to do my appointments at my day job on thursday. my need to create my personal passion projects is often at odds with my bad habits of not taking care of myself 。゜゜(´Ｏ`) ゜゜。

when it comes to tackling burnout, your guess is as good as mine. really it just comes down to rest. when burnout - real, true burnout - hits, it's not just "man i'm bored of working on this", it's "i can't even think of looking at this thing let alone working on it", it's basically akin to depression and it's an awful thing that i wouldn't even wish on my worst enemy (even with Rachel, I don't want to psychoanalyze her mental health but it does seem like she's possibly been experiencing burnout with LO for years now and that really sucks for her if that's true). so the solution is just as complicated as the cause, it's not something that you can just rest from for a week and come back from, it takes real long-term healing.

when I found my way out of that 2 year hiatus, it was in spring of 2019 and I decided to just work on a random comic page that wasn't even in the comic I was working on. and then suddenly it was like a switch flicked back into the on position and i didn't even finish what i was working on, i just went back to my original project and i kept working on it until it was finally finished at the end of 2021. as suddenly and randomly as it had set in, it was gone. but i can't just do the same thing this time, it just doesn't work that way.

that said, through all this, i've learned that my need to create is not restricted to any one tangible thing, i'm not doomed or designed to stick with the same words, the same faces, the same ideas until the end of time. while i do try to keep up healthy routines for myself to ensure i'm looking out for my future self and their deadlines and their upload schedules, sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants. and in my case, the heart wanted to take a break from the self-reflective psychological analysis dark fantasy weebo stuff and just draw some pink and blue characters a little less ugly. the self-reflective weebo shit will still be there when i'm done with the pink and blue stuff, and i'll surely have loads of new things to unpack through it once i return.

there are still times when i'm working on rekindled and i'm feeling the creeping hand of my routine destruction digging its claws into my back. the reality is that 30-40 panels is still a lot for someone like myself who's doing this entirely for free, but my definition of normal for a while was so insanely inhumane that even what's still considered a lot by most people's standards feels sane and normal to me after what i put myself through.

i've learned to be more gentle with myself, and to loosen my own expectations of what i'm capable of to ensure i don't do anything like that to myself, by myself, again. i give myself room to create without expectations or the pressure of eyes watching when i can, and i remind myself that even if burnout rears its head again, and again, and again, the will to create is not gone. it's just tired, and resting, and growing, and healing as i am.

anyways that turned into a self-reflective essay post, to answer your question about making stuff ahead of time, i find that's more helpful with just like, planning out a structured story (so you don't write yourself into a corner) but whether or not it helps with burnout kind of depends. because it can just as also easily be the cause of the problem because constantly seeing the stuff you wanna be drawing so far away can be just as much of a morale killer as a motivator. some of the stuff i'm super psyched to write and draw with time gate is years away and that timeline grows longer the more the burnout goes on which makes the struggle feel even more overwhelming and pointless and defeating. so plan ahead, but keep it all within your means if you can. i find what works for me is planning out just general beat-to-beat plot structures (to ensure i at least have a plot skeleton going on so i know where i'm going) then i leave the finer details to when the actual episode i've planned gets closer to fruition and i can get myself in the headspace to write it fully.

also remember that just because you're really excited and motivated to work on your comic doesn't mean you should work yourself into exhaustion - it's a good thing if you're going through the mundane of your daily routine and the whole time you're hyped af to work on your hobby/personal project/etc. because that's what will keep you moving forward, so don't spend all that hype in one place by working and working and working until you're exhausted, because that hype is REALLY hard to get back after you've spent it all.

long post over! hope that helps! best of luck in your projects! ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

TMAGP 15 Thoughts: Seasoned Hunters

What a fucking episode. No complaints at all. It's just solid gold all the way through and just like gold it's a dense so there is lots to dig in to, and not much point in a preamble.

Spoilers for episode 15, and all of TMA, below the cut.

I really like the introductory office drama portion of today's episode. It's not particularly enlightening, and there isn't anything new in it, but it sets the stage well. Yes, that was a pun. Alice reacted to the news as I knew she would, because she can't help herself. But other than that I really like the mention of Luke playing at The Glad. Magnus stuff always does a really good job of peppering in real places.

This incident was also incredibly short. However unlike last week's episode I think it utilised that time so much better. All of it was a slow build up to one event and was really just three scenes. Set up, hunt, conclusion. Simple and to the point but incredibly effective. Last week's episode felt like too big of an idea bent to fit too short of a time, while this weeks felt like a good story that was given the time it needed and no more or less. Really big fan of the whole thing.

The incident didn't have too much to really get into here. If I were live blogging you would've seen me say "Lady Mowbray?!?!" when the Caterer said "the really high-end stuff". I have been waiting for something aristocratic. The set up is a little cliché but I really like the subversion of Battle Royale instead of The Most Dangerous Game. It's not only an effective twist when the story is from the Caterer's PoV it's a much better insight into the characters were being introduced to. It also highlights something fairly interesting about TMP vs TMA. This incident is one of the most singular in terms of its representation of a TMA Entity but that expectation is somewhat subverted by having these characters hunt each other for another rather than all be hunted down. It wouldn't be out of place in TMA but it is taking a bit of a different approach.

Speaking of the characters though. Fuck Yeah. Lady Mowbray. Finally. I, and probably all of Statement Remains, have been waiting for her appearance since last October when some lucky folks got to meet her bodyguards as part of the ARG. I didn't have her pegged for a badass cannibal but here we are. She really surpassed my expectations. I love aristocratic monster people so I had high hopes and I am still pleasantly surprised.

Celia and Lady M's interaction is really great. I love that we're getting more and more evidence that Celia is clearly more than she's letting everyone else in on. I, obviously at this point, think she's from TMA's universe for a lot of reasons. Lady M not being able to place why she smells so wrong but picking up on her being out of place is just more evidence of that. Celia holding her ground and not taking any shit from Lady M is also incredible. She just listened to how she eats people, gets jumped scared by her, and then instantly tells her to fuck off by way of not giving her a name. She's really living up to the Ripley namesake and I love every second of it.

I will not soon forget that tiny little tease about Bouchard lore either. Actually cruel.

Luke and Alice at the bar wasn't a big moment but it's nice to see her interact with more than just her co-workers. Meeting Luke and he being seemingly normal was also nice, be a shame when he dies.

The final section was phenomenal. I really love it when these shows break format and what a format break it was. So first things first this was recorded on a tape recorder. Significant for likely obvious reasons but unlike the last time these showed up this one isn't an incidental placement like the Institute's one. It was being carried by the woman. We know Alice feels like she's been followed since that incident and this is likely related to it but I don't think it's related in the most obvious sense. There is a very obvious conclusion to draw from TMA knowledge but I feel like that might be folly here. It seems a little too obvious and a little too strained at the same time. The Institute and [Error] being so related to that and in this fashion I think would feel a bit forced, and so this feels more like a red herring to me. Something is going on with them but I don't think it's going to be that.

So Drowning Victim, as she is credited, is super intriguing for a million reasons. Continuing on from that prior thought it's quite possible that the tape recorder and Alice being in the same place is entirely coincidental. It's one of those things that feels like a scheme from TMA context but everything being linked feels too TMA to me for right now. But what she's saying is really interesting. Because with those tape recorders it sounds like a statement. It's not just random mumbling but a fairly coherent narrative. Or a recalling of prior events. Whether the Drowning Victim is the original PoV for that potential statement is hard to say. I doubt it but it would be possible. Another strong idea here is that it is linked to [Error] and her deal might be another archive. Instead of just collection and storage she could be able to force others to relive them through the statements. That's a TMA parallel I think would be a much stronger use of TMA's theme.

Outside of that Alice's interaction with her is so so well done. I think it's really important to show that Alice both has a heart and is able to stop with her attitude when it's really important. Getting to see that when push comes to shove she can step up is going to be something that'll come back around. We all know that everyone at the OIAR is in for a world of hurt and I think Alice is the person the fanbase has the biggest issue with in that sort of context so far. And her singing Nellie the Elephant for compression rate is sort of heart breaking to listen to. Just a really fantastic performance from Billie and people better be nicer to Alice after this. I better not hear her getting any shit for running away either. She gave CPR to a woman who basically attacked her, drowned in the middle of London, died, and then kept talking.

Also, quite note, this episode had five new voice actors in it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Incident/CAT#R#DPHW Master Sheet

Klaus Watch: Wasn't expecting this to return so soon but here we are. This incident doesn't appear on Klaus but what does is this, CAT1RB2373-10072023-########. This has the accompanying note "Dame M" and a location "London, England".

DPHW Theory: 6451 is a pretty reasonable rating for this. Hunting mostly focused on the killing part of it. Some mental compulsion, seclusion, and obviously the predator/prey dynamic. The 1 in Weird is more evidence that 1 is the lowest rating with 0 being the highest. Nothing Weird in this one really.

CAT# Theory: CAT1 has a person in it.

I'm still debating whether to do a post on that theory because part of me does feel like it'd ruin other people's fun. Another part of me thinks that theories as prolific as that deserve to be scrutinised as intently as possible. Although there is a problem with that idea because my DPHW theory that has become the default does seem to be mine and I've not seen any cases of parallel thought on that one. The CAT theory has 10+ individuals all coming to roughly the same conclusion though and I'm not sure if that makes it more fair game or not. I, personally, welcome any challenges to my theories and I know some people who have posted the CAT theory do but that's not the same as them all holding that stance. It's not really possible to single anyone out either as it's not about any single person but the idea itself. IDK, give your thoughts on it.

This one does solidly fit into that theory though.

R# Theory: B sounds good to me. Although it's worth mentioning that there is a hyphen in this header between the rank and the DPHW.

Header talk: Hunt (Aristocratic) -/- Compulsion is interesting for two reasons. First off it being Hunt sort of precludes, secondly Compulsion is a strange filing for this IMO. There was an element of it but it was fairly minor and didn't seem like the thrust of the episode. The Caterer was compelled to be quiet but wasn't forced to hunt the rest of the brigade. He chose that when he realised what Lady M. was getting at.

[j0kers-light]

Heyo!!! So I’m recently on a joker kick, so here’s a little thought I was having. Maybe joker with a reader who is an artist, and one day paints him! I have drawn joker before and everytime I draw him I find the scars so comforting to draw for some reason!

Love the series btw!!!

Hey hi anon!! 🖤✨

Lol I've been on a Joker kick for two years now. I LOVE THIS THOUGHT! Thank you for loving my series, in return I give you a little head canon! (that almost turned into a oneshot:)

I hope you enjoy anon!

You were big on the Gotham City art scene with your giant portraits, famously painted in black and white with intricate detail.

The only color it held would be splattered on last minute without abandon. It was different, bold, and it paid the bills with money to spare. For three years now you turned your bottled up emotions into a living.

An original Y/L?N would take a week or two to paint before the buyer would select their splatter color.

Critics said you 'ruined works of art' whereas others stated the angry marks you left behind were your version of a signature.

Joker saw your work and instantly fell in love. There was so much pain and turmoil in the flecks of paint. He had to have one.

So he sorta kinda stole a piece until it was stolen from him. So Mac did his thing and tracked it down... right to your front door.

You were so happy to reunite with one of your original pieces! If not for your devoted fans and their detective-like skills, you would have never seen it again.

It was a self portrait (or at least what you wanted yourself to look like) with crimson red paint streaked across your throat.

Safe to say the critics hated this piece, deeming it too dark and grotesque to be considered art. Funny how it was auctioned off for a quarter of a million dollars...

Moving on! It went missing right before the final bid only this time you would never part with it again! These days you kept it in your personal living room as a reminder of how far you became as an artist.

It was a slow month in terms of commissions. You had just finished up a fun piece for a local celebrity and you were still picking pink and gold paint off of your skin.

You had some downtime so you found your trusty sketchbook and let the open window carry the sounds of Gotham’s busy streets into your apartment as you doodled some new ideas.

A series of knocks on your front door made you wary. Not too many visitors came by if it wasn't more art supplies being delivered.

So sat your book down and slowly walked towards the door only for it to be kicked in— followed by three men you never wanted to see walk in.

One man was blond, like any college frat boy blowing through daddy's money, who scanned your apartment in unveiled disgust.

The second male was a strong and burly that reminded you of a character from the game Call of Duty. He stayed near the door and you had no doubt he was the one who kicked it in....

But the last guy, there was no mistaking who he was.

The Joker was in your apartment and he had his eyes set on your beloved art piece.

Neither of them acknowledged your presence. The Joker picked up your self portrait and sighed. "Come to Papa..."

He nodded at his two henchmen as they prepared to leave. "Let's go."

You were flabbergasted. How this man bust up in your place, take your ish, and then leave?! Like? Rude.

"Um? Excuse you!?" You said.

All three men froze and stared at you; however, each one held a different emotion. Indifference, annoyance, and oddly... intrigue.

The latter belonged to Joker. He handed the blond the painting and sauntered closer to you. "Why.... hellooo beautiful. You. You must be the artist."

Not too many people knew what you looked like since your work and media appearances were all handled by your manager and dear friend, Cindy. You weren't offended by Joker's comment but you weren't about to let him take your work— no matter how dangerous he was.

You huffed and crossed your arms, "And if I am? Its rude to break into people's homes and take their stuff."

There was a calm before the storm then Joker burst out laughing. You looked on in confusion as he doubled over and slapped his knees as if what you said was really that funny.

His two henchmen weren't phased in the slightest. You eyed them briefly as Joker closed the distance and held a knife to your throat. You had little time to react before the cold metal touched your skin.

"Shhh shhh. I'd hate to make a ah.. mess. Do we have a prob-lem doll?" He squeezed your face tighter in his grip. The texture of his leather gloves made you wince.

"OW! Yes... we.. do! You're not taking my work!"

He blocked your poor excuse at kneeing him in the groin and tutted his lips. "Yeah? Well let's see. Why don't weee.. make a uh, deal? so we all end up happy, hmm?"

Did he hear how insane that sounded? You didn't have to make deals with criminals over your property!

You glanced around the room and noticed all three men's body language was relaxed. It wasn't fair how they had the advantage here.

You could talk a mad trash and hold your own in any normal brawl but Joker was a different level of crazy. You couldn’t take him on. He was too unpredictable and you knew both men blocking the only exit could fight too.

It would be a mess for sure if you resisted. You had no other choice but to strike a deal.

“Fine. You want my work so badly? I’ll paint you. I will paint a piece for you, I mean.” You tried not to stare at his scars but they were so intricate. The artist in you screamed at the chance to draw him.

You wanted to sketch Joker’s scars out with charcoal, outline them with ink, and master their design with any available media you had. You were itching to get started.

The Joker noticed your sudden antsy behavior and read into it wrong.

“Wanna know how I got ‘em?” He craned his neck so you could see his scars better.

“Yes.”

Oh.

He wasn’t expecting such an honest response from you. He stuttered and lowered the knife from your neck in shock. He thought you would create some distance after he let you go, but in fact, you moved in closer to him.

“May I touch them? FOR RESEARCH! To s-study them! I need to get a feel of what I’m… I swear there’s a reason..”

Mac and Frost shared a quick look (none one touched Joker's scars and lived to tell the tale) but much to their horror, their boss agreed.

Joker looked unsure as your hands hesitated, but slowly but surely came up to touch his face.

Time stood still for Joker as this beautiful stranger mapped out all the lines in his skin. He took in your hooded eyes, the slope of your lips, and the way air escaped between them as you discovered each crevice and outline. In contrast to his own, your skin was smooth and a warm brown, a hue he wanted to discover more of.

Your hands felt too good on him. He craved more contact. Joker wanted so much more but you pulled your hands back the moment your thumb slipped into his mouth.

Did he... lick it? Lawd harmacy..

That was enough art study. You had to part ways before you turned into a whore.

You backed away just for safe measure.

You cleared your throat, “I’ll um.. wow. Um I’ll start licking your face, I MEAN PAINTING YOUF FACE!” If your skin complexion allowed, you would be redder than a tomato. Why did you say that out loud? And why wasn't he saying anything back?!

“Um y-you can come by next week or so. I should be done then. Oh, and um what color do you—"

“Green.” Joker muttered. He already knew what you were asking. The accent color you splattered on the finished piece. Your signature in the art world.

He picked green since he didn’t know your favorite color yet. He didn't know why but he wanted to know.. amongst other things about you.

“C-Cool. I’ll use green. Usually a commission comes with a deposit but um since you’re sparing my life, I guess that’s enough payment.” You looked away and locked eyes with your sketchbook.

Without a single word you crossed the room and began sketching out samples of Joker’s mouth before you forgot. Not like you ever could.

By the time you looked up, he and his men were gone.

You could call it an obsession the way you strived to perfect Joker’s smile.

The apartment was littered with your many demo sketches before you finally went with your gut and put a paintbrush to the easel. For the next week, you barely slept and only ate enough to keep yourself alive so you could complete The Joker's commission. Your life was kinda on the line here so it had to be perfect.

And you finished right in the nick of time.

Joker came alone this time and he strolled into your apartment as if he owned it. You had yet to get the lock fixed after his henchmen kicked it open but regardless. Joker did not have any manners. Or a sense of personal space.

You were standing back to gauge where you wanted to begin flinging paint when his voice startled you.

“Leave it as is.”

You jumped in fright and Joker steadied you with a firm grip to your waist. You didn’t know that he brought you flush to his chest until you felt his breath hit your neck. You didn't question how he got inside or how you failed to hear him in the first place.

Joker was so warm, it erased all conscious thought from your mind. It sounded insane, but you felt safe in Joker's arms and the relative ease that you relaxed into his hold terrified you more.

The two of you stared at your art in silence even as your heart hammered out of your chest. Was this seriously happening? What did he say?

Oh right. Leave it as is.

You took in your final painting and you had to admit. He was right. It was perfect as is, no color required. There was no pain to purge onto this canvas; a first in your collection. You couldn't bring yourself to tarnish the mysterious beauty you painted in black and white.

As Joker’s scars grazed your skin, burning a clean path up to your neck, the both of you knew..

This wouldn't be the last time you painted Joker.

I feel awful that I didn't find any credit for this beautiful fanart.

[willowisapillow]

❤️📝 Big Fat Bitch 📝❤️

“aS iF i ReAlLy LoOk LiKe ThIs”

Don’t mind me just crossing over two GOATED cartoons <3

Hope y’all had a great Mothers’ Day, everyone! Hope y’all spent some quality time with not just your biological mothers but also your adoptive mothers, grandmothers, stepmothers, godmothers, etc. I took a little break to spend some time with my mom hence why I wasn’t able to get this posted on time.

Last week I was rewatching some old Spongebob episodes for nostalgic reasons, and I was watching one of my favorite episodes, “New Student Starfish”, y’know, the one where Patrick goes to Spongebob’s Boating School? Once it got to the scene where Patrick gets Spongebob in trouble because of the Big Fat Meanie drawing, that’s when I knew right then and there that I had a new art idea 😈

Honestly speaking I don’t hate or dislike Sheila, but I just think she’s eh. I’m personally more of a Gerald person hehehehe-

It’s kinda hard not to dislike her because girlie is just straight buggin’, especially in the BLU movie, but I don’t really have any animosity towards her. She’s not one of my favorite SP parents, but she’s far from my least favorite (that title goes to Butters’ parents, Stephen and Linda, because on God are they just the worst 😀). Plus, I do dig her beehive hairdo and hoop earrings.

Though I will say it felt kinda refreshing drawing another SP mom for a change since I keep drawing Sharon all the damn time, though I’m most likely gonna relapse back to that after I post this lmao

I had way too much fun with this, I was just giggling to myself like a complete loony while working on this because of how dumb it is. Both Spongebob and South Park are just my absolute fav cartoons, so this another piece of art of mine that’s special to me. Sheila lowkey fits as the role of Mrs. Puff here. 

And I can also just imagine Cartman drawing something like this to piss off Kyle haha

❤️ 📝 ❤️

[bullet-prooflove]

Vanished!Series Part Four: Live Ammo - Mike Duarte x Reader (feat: Joe Velasco)

Tagging: @resonmalvo @littleone65 @thesandbeneathmytoes @mydarkestsecretlol @evee87 @wooshwastaken @hearthockey @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @rosaliedepp @thatesqcrush @storiesofsvu @whateversomethingbruh @burningpeachpuppy @legit9thlunaticwarrior @kiwiithecrazybird @spooky-pomegranate @telepathay @weiwei0210 @spaghettificationandpretzels @plaidbooks @witches-unruly-heart @magic-multicolored-miracle @cycat4077 @deekaag @cixrosie @upsteadlogic @imaginecrushes @anime-weeb-4-life @hey-dw @alwaysachorusgirl @nu1freakshow

When Mike finds you, you’re clad in a white haz-mat suit with a ventilator strapped over your head. He’s never been so fucking relieved because you’re standing in the midst of a fully operational fentanyl lab and every single person involved in the raid knows just how dangerous that is. When he does the walk through the crime scene, he finds himself standing in a side room with a camp bed and a bin that’s filled with energy drinks and fast-food wrappers. The outside of the door has three different locks on it. It’s very clear you’ve been held prisoner here not because your cover has been blown, but because you’re exceptional at what you do. The evidence of that is stacked up in bricks against the south wall, ready to be packed up and distributed.

“The Niners put pressure on Connolly to pay back the money sooner. It put him into a spin, he needed more product and needed it fast.” You tell Mike when you finally get outside into the fresh air. “He’s been working me eighteen hours a day. Locking me in before starting all over again the next day.”

You’re sitting on the kerb sipping from a bottle of water. It’s the first time you’ve been outside in almost two weeks and it’s nice to feel the breeze on your face. You’ve stripped out of the haz-mat suit and are clad in a white vest and black cycling shorts, your hair is pulled back into messy bun. You would literally kill for a shower.

“Can I… Can I use your phone to call Joe? I just need to see Leah.”

Mike kicks himself because that should have been the first thing he thought of. The problem is he has other concerns. You both left something unresolved during your last phone call, something important and right now it’s all Mike can think about. He slips his phone out of his pocket before handing it to you and stepping away to give you a little privacy.

You’re crying when he returns, and it breaks his heart because he fucking hates seeing you upset. He wraps his arms around you, clasping you close, his palms soothing over your back as you bury your face into his shirt. It’s been two months since you saw your baby girl and he can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now.

“Sorry.” You murmur, drawing away and wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “She’s just got so big since I last saw her. Joe’s going to bring her home when we’re finished up here.”

Mike smiles sadly, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek.

“Mi Vida,” He says, his voice breaking just a little. “You know we need to talk about our other little one.”

You’d discovered you were pregnant again three weeks ago. It had started the same way it had with Leah, exhaustion, constant nausea, tender breasts. You were hoping it was the stress of the op but then you’d missed your period. You couldn’t believe it when that test had come back positive.

“My vasectomy failed.” Mike had told you during your last check in with him. “I checked with my doctor; all this time we’ve thought I was firing blanks, but we’ve been playing with live ammo.”

You both know what this means. There’s a very real possibility that Leah might not be Joe’s daughter and if that’s true…

It would be devastating for all of you.

“I’m scared.” You whisper, your hands smoothing upon the space where your new baby resides, the one that you and Mike made together. “All those fumes and chemicals…”

You had tried to be as safe as possible during your time in captivity, but you were cooking eighteen hours a day. You have no idea what you’d been exposed to during that time, how it might affect your unborn child.

“I know.” Mike says quietly, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “I’m scared too.”

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[ajerzaaddict]

Jerza Week 2023 - Dream / Nightmare

“Jellal? Jellal?”

Jellal woke up to Erza’s voice, gentle but laced with anxiety at the same time. He struggled to open his eyes; his eyelids felt moist and unusually heavy. When he finally pried his eyes open, the first thing he saw was Erza’s worried face. His heart clenched at the sight, and his brain, in its hazy state, tried to make sense of Erza’s expression.

Have I done something……?

The question slipped away before Jellal opened his mouth when he felt a comfortable warmth covering one side of his face. Erza palmed his face with a firmness which nonetheless felt tender on his skin, as if she was holding some fragile treasure. She studied his face with a concerned gaze as she blushed his cheek with her thumb and left a trace of wetness. It was then Jellal realized that his face had been tainted with his own tears. 

Why was I crying in my sleep……

“You okay?” Erza asked cautiously.

"You will only bring disaster to Erza."

Jellal's eyes widened as pieces of his nightmare flashed through his mind.

"Simon." The name fell from his trembling lips in a barely audible sound.

Erza took a deep breath as worry clouded her eyes. She slid her hand to the back of Jellal's head and wrapped her arm around his head in a protective manner.

"I've told you." She whispered in a gentle voice which meant for soothing Jellal. "We will bear the weight of Simon's death together. I'm not letting you take on it alone and be crushed by it."

Jellal didn't respond, or look up at Erza, only wrapped his arm around her waist and held her tightly against him, breathing in her scent. He needed the evidence that she was alive and safe.

The nightmare, which haunted him not once, but numerous times since he broke his own rule and welcomed Erza into his life, began with him being tied down on the ground, surrounded by darkness and silence. A woman's painful cry sliced through the space next and darkness started to retreat. The scene unfolding in front of him was Erza covered in blood and wounds, being tortured by those who lost their lives because of him - from Zeref's cultists and slaves in the Tower to mages of dark guilds. 

The only victim of his who didn't take their revenge on Erza was Simon. The bulk man stood beside him, looking down at him with disgust. He screamed and cried, begging Simon to save Erza, and struggled to break the restraints, just like a mad dog.

"I had already saved Erza with my life once from you and I can do no more. Why did you not learn from the past and stay away from her? You should have known that you will only bring disaster to Erza by staying at her side, with all the sin you have committed and the hate you have planted remain unresolved.”

Jellal took a deep breath to calm himself as the scene of Erza exhaling her last breath in his nightmare replayed in his head. 

“It wasn't Simon's death.” He said quietly before untangling himself from Erza. He raised his head, looking into her eyes, looking for her liveliness for comfort. “It was yours which I dreamed of.” 

He hated how his sound still shook, even though it was just a little bit, despite his effort in trying to keep his fear at bay. 

“I’m here.” Erza gave Jellal a smile that was full of gentleness and understanding. She took one of his hands and placed it over her chest under where her heart was beating. “And I’m alive.”

Jellal closed his eyes to let the steady rhythm of Erza’s heartbeat soothe him. It was a relief to be reassured by Erza that she had not just died in reality. However,  he could not help but think again of the words Simon said in his nightmare. 

Even though he had always known the risks he could be bringing to Erza, Erza was drawing him in with her brightness and warmth, like flame drawing in moths. Before he knew it, he had already held her between his arms. He tried to convince himself that might be, just might be, he does not have to reject love in order to atone for his sins. 

But his guilty self just would not let him take the easy route. Taking the form of the person who represented his sins the best, he was reprimanding him for breaking his own rule, getting side-tracked from the path of redemption and risking the safety of his loved one. 

Jellal opened his eyes again. In front of him was Erza looking at him with a caring gaze filled with her love for him. He heaved a sign. He didn’t want to lose her. But it might be better to let her go.

“Ever since we have been together, I have got this nightmare in which you died in the hands of the people who were victimized by me.” He finally decided to be honest with Erza about his fear. “Simon in my nightmare……he was a symbol of my sins. He reminded me……it is dangerous to let you enter my world, which is filled with unresolved hate and regret because I have not done enough to atone for my sins."

Sadness overshadowed the love in Erza’ eyes. Her lips pressed into a hard line as she tried to contain her emotions, before she leaned towards Jellal and buried her face in his chest.  

“I know the path of redemption is long, and you may never see the end of it.” She sighed. “I want to accompany you in this journey of yours to support you. But I don’t want to see you being eaten up by your guilt because of me. If my presence is causing you so much stress and pain, I can leave." 

Don't leave me. Jellal swallowed those words, feeling shameful to ask Erza to stay after hurting her feelings, but wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight.

“You don’t have to make the decision now.” Erza said as softly and as tenderly as she could, but couldn’t help sounding slightly dejected when she spoke. “And I’m not abandoning you. Never. I just feel that you may need some time and space to……rethink when will enough be enough, and what you want to achieve in this endless path of atonement. I know you will find the right answer. I have faith in you. So, please have better faith in me too. Please know that I’m not afraid of facing any danger. Being a Fairy Tail’s mage already puts me in danger anyway. I can handle whatever comes at me, being called Titania not for nothing. You don’t have to worry about my safety.”

“Forgive my weakness, Erza. I know the reason behind the nightmare is always my problem, not yours, and only I can solve it.” Jellal pulled back from Erza a little; his hand reached out to hold her face. Erza looked up and their gaze crossed. “You are my light, guiding me whenever I lose myself in the darkness. Having you by my side is always a dream-come-true for me, not a nightmare.”

“It’s also a dream-come-true for me to be able to stay with you.” Erza leaned forward and pressed her lips on Jellal’s. 

Kissing fiercely, as if it was their last kiss, they threw their worries to the back of their mind for the time being, losing themselves in their desire for each other which could not be more real.