#but its a thing

[araluendunedainofluna]

In the ancient corridors of the deep, dark night, he wakes. 

The dream has wrapped around him like a hangman’s noose. It has crushed the air from his lungs and now he gasps, choking on the sobs that lurk at the back of his throat. Bindings tangle round him. He thrashes against them, driven further into wildness by the desperate need for air.

Old fear curls in, and the voices rise to power. 

They know you left him. The one thing asked of you, and you failed. Undeserving. Worthless. Despised. You left him. You were only ever given one task. Incompetent, forsaken…

Terror and guilt well within him. He makes to rise, to spread his wings, to soar up and away from the dark confines of memory and ache, but something jerks him back. Blind panic swells steadily larger. His left wing. Beneath a weight. Gone numb. Chained--

Coward. Wretched--

His brother’s eyes plead with him, come back. Two spots of blue sky lingering in a desecrated wasteland.

He pulls with all the strength in him. In an instant the weight vanishes. The force sends him tumbling out of the trapped place, down, the bindings trailing behind him. They still tangle around him, thought there is little they can truly do. 

But before he can spread his wings and soar, the ground smacks into him, and he knows nothing except his lack of air. For a long, long moment, he lays there, cold stone burning him, fighting to breathe.

And then a woman is before him, a glowing pillar in the moonlight. 

"Artham," she whispers, Caution fills her eyes, concern inscribes lines in her brow, but not fear is nowhere to be found. 

��No,” he strains, flailing away till his back meets the wall. “I’ll not go back. I won’t-- non’t-- not, not, not, no, never, bever no gack, gever nack there, no.” 

“You’re not back there,” she offers, settling down opposite him, rooting there in an instant. 

“He has broken me,” he chokes, “I am broken, what more woes de hant from me? Was he front mum fee? Fum mree? From me?” 

Shaking consumes him, as though fever burns his veins. He curls up tight and rocks back and forth, whispering to the black madness things no words can say, things he does not know how to translate into letters and sounds. 

But the woman is rooted there in front of him, and she slips the soft fingers of her hand into his grip.

At her touch a sharp, high whine seeps from him. 

“No, no-no-no-no,” he babbles, so she releases instantly. 

In the next he misses her touch profoundly. 

“Sharp, sharp, don’t get cut,” he keens, “don’t get cut on me.”

So her hands lace into his, cradle him, trace gentle circles over the scaly skin, till his breathing settles down some. 

“Back there was so dark,” he manages, after a long, long time. 

Tenderly, she reaches out, brushes the sweat from his brow and the tears from his eyes, settles the ruffled feathers on his wing. In the light of the moon, her own tears shimmer on her lashes. 

“I know, my love,” she whispers, all brittle and crumbling. “But we’re here now. We’re home now.” 

And his mind at last clears. 

Guilt renewed washes over him in nauseating waves, and he gags. He grips his wife’s hand like he’ll strangle it. She  squeezes in response. And now she’s there. Arms round him, holding him so close. Too close. He might hurt her, doesn’t she know? It will only be a matter of time before-- No.

He breathes in the beautiful smell of her and forces himself to be grounded. 

“Arundelle?” he rasps. “By the… I’m so sorr--” 

And then her lips crash into his, silencing his apologies before they pour from him, and he kisses back, fiercely. 

They tremble, and kiss tastes of salt. 

They break apart at last, and he presses their foreheads together. 

“Just… a dream?” he concludes. His gaze snags on the floor, and intangible iron walls prevent him from looking anywhere else.  

She tilts her head, until his hurricane eyes at last meet hers. They shine a soft gray-green. Silvery birch leaf eyes, burgeoning with rainfall. “Just a dream, beloved.” 

He breathes once more. 

“Do you think you can sleep again tonight, or shall I put on the kettle?”

He makes a dubious noise. “I… I want to.”

“Can you try?” 

He swallows. 

“I can try,” he manages at last. 

She smiles, and kisses his temple. They stand, and sometimes who is supporting who is indistinguishable.  He lays down once more on his side of the bed. His pillow is damp. He realizes belatedly that the covers still lie upon the floor. Arundelle shakes them out, climbs in beside him, and they hold each other close, so close. 

And in the arms of his silver-shining wife, he sleeps.

[tchaikovskym]

I have to admit I never even imagined witches to be evil until I came here on tumblr and read some of y'alls analysis of literature and other media. The whole evil laugh and brewing potions did not connect to being evil in my mind ever. I was just raised with everyone around me thinking witches were cool as hell.

[givemeabite]

Spent most of my January in hibernation, resting and enjoying some of lifes simple pleasures like the South African summer, new bedding, fresh fruit and lots of tea and coffee. In spite of everything going on in the world, I'm grateful. It was a good month.

[gerudospiriit]

[Just remembered a thing from several days ago now but:

When were you all planning to tell me that lynels, at least the ones in the depths as I've only seen this one do it, could fucking teleport?]

[redjaybird]

[casually remembers the ways in which Jay is actually pretty damn fucked up]

[nostomannia]

I was talking about stretcher bars the other night, and how Solita might handmake them in some verses, and just so everyone knows what they look like-

For the most part they can stay together without having to use glue, along with a canvas that's going to be stretched overtop it.

The sloped face goes inwards, it's to keep hard edges off the canvas itself so they don't start showing through on the painting itself. But yeah.

When I talk about Solita carving stretcher bars for herself, I mostly imagine the interlocking bars like this since they last longer, and also gives the ability to use stretcher keys if the canvas ever ends up getting loose.

[willgrahamscock]

not now kitten, daddy's about to have a mental breakdown from seeing the prices at the grocery store

[puppppppppy]

filipina miku!! my mom helped me with her outfit ^_^

[spitblaze]

[guy who doesnt watch shows voice] yeah ive been meaning to watch that show

[tawnysoup]

Finally now that the comic is fully public on comicfury, I get to share it with all of you here, too <3

If you enjoyed, please consider supporting by buying a PDF of the comic on itch.io: https://tawnysoup.itch.io/home-in-the-woods

[hauntedhotel]

Me, on the welcome desk in the library: Good morning, how are you today?

Customer: I have welcomed Jesus into my heart and so I am well today and every day.

Me, a little unnerved: Okay then! Is there something I can help you with?

Customer, digging around in his bag and pulling out an iPhone in a box: Unfortunately, Jesus can't help me with this fucking phone, so I came to the library.

[paintedcrows]

Whenever Bill sees KingOfNJ's fics through Stan's eyes he just thinks they have the same taste in fanfiction (disgusting. unthinkable) continued

[unpeeled-human]

[canonkiller]

I just think everyone should take a moment to consider the question "what is your visual shorthand for cruelty?" and then follow it up with a critical "and who taught you that?"

specific examples include but are not limited to

why is an evil timeline character design disabled? (why do the heroes go through equally punishing battles and never lose an arm, a leg, an eye?)

why are the futuristic scifi terrorists uniformly darker skinned? (why are the heroes so much lighter?)

why is the greedy boss fat? (why are the heroes skinny?)

why is the criminal mastermind heavily scarred? (why is the brooding, traumatized hero unscathed?)

why is the predatory creep a bearded person in a dress and makeup? (why are none of the heroes trans women?)

who taught you that this is how things are?

how long do you plan on repeating it?