#i love him 💜

[p6rpura]

happy bday mikey schmidt from affinity 💜

[crystalromana]

Ianto. Jones.

[shynachotastemaker]

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N !

[mymitochondriaforpresident]

me as a dog

[transformersandturtles]

You ever have that one OC who is so unbelievably a loser just to project all your insecurities onto cause giving that OC trauma is all for character development that no one will ever see or understand cause you're too embarrassed to talk about said OC with anyone but yourself and your close group of friends?

I really love this MK1 OC I made, he's such a freaking loser with no good qualities besides being able to kick someone's ass. He is a jerk. He gets better for a little bit, then spirals and goes back to being an absolute prick with everyone except for one silly little sorcerer cause he is down so bad for evil men with long pretty hair. I am so not normal about them.

These are the only pictures I'm showing of him cause I'm still bad at drawing people but I'm doing my best. I need to try drawing mk1 men instead of just my OC Alon 💀

[wolfsbanesparks]

Chapter five is up!

This week Dick continues to struggle with his dreams while Bruce gets suspicious of Clark's absence. Featuring a guest appearance by Jarro!

[schadenfreudich]

Wolfgang has a problem and starts calling my name like I'm not right next to him and also like he is a damsel in distress and didn't just do something stupid.

[smmywinchester45]

He makes me so 🥺🥺🥺

silly little guy

[chloesimaginationthings]

Everyone loves FNAF music man.. even Michael

[eurodynamic]

LUCANIS + WINGS OUT Dragon Age: The Veilguard (2024)

[the-kipsabian]

JUST REMEMBERED THE KIP SABIN SABIAN THING AND IT'S STILL SO 😂😂😂💛💛💛💛💛💛💛 I can't get over it

big dumb fanboy energy, you love to see it 💜

[weirdglassthing]

Don’t give a mouse a cookie but it’s don’t give an artist a canon detail about a character anyways torbeks favorite movie!!

Sorry for inactivity but I’ve got some FIRE things coming up 🫡

[dekariosclan]

That rooftop scene with Tara where Gale invites you to dinner, and he’s trying SO hard to entice you. Talking about a sumptuous home-cooked meal, Hundur sauce, his impressive wine collection. The works.

And the whole time he’s looking at you like this:

…sir, with that look you could offer me Tara’s half-eaten pigeon and an expired ramen seasoning packet for dinner and I would still show up.

Screenshots from NiceTry_Lena’s video on YouTube

[yudol-skorbi]

i am at the point where if i dont finish now i'll newer finish so yeah the rest of the gaaaaaang

[jagalart]

Hue 16

[violettduchess]

His route is almost here!! I didn't have time to write something new but I'll offer up a reblog of my very first Gilbert fic 💜

Dear Anon-

I accidentally deleted your ask but luckily I DID take a screenshot. I haven't really thought about taking requests because I know with real life, it would take me some time to get to it but your caring for your friend and asking for something to help her feel better was really sweet. So I did it!

I hope you both like it!

Keywords: first kiss

Pairing: Gilbert von Obsidian / MC

Word Count: 1236

Its hard to categorize this. I'd say it veers towards spicy angst.

The night is angry. The sky flares with white hot lightning, raging against the light of the moon, now imprisoned by black clouds. Thunder booms, rattling the earth, and the wind whips through the trees, strangling thinner branches and ripping leaves off by the stems, scattering them like drops of blood.

But you aren’t afraid. Storms have always meant an appreciation of being safe and warm indoors, of curling up with a book and candlelight and allowing the sounds and words to carry you somewhere far away, to travel out of the moment on the winds and be somewhere else.

A glance at the clock tells you the rest of the palace should be asleep. It’s close to two in the morning, an hour folded deep within night’s arms. You slide out of bed, forgoing slippers or shoes for the sake of quiet. Yes, the storm is raging but who knows if it would be enough to cover the sound of footsteps, however cautious you may be.

There is no question where you are headed. The carpet is soft underfoot, the corridors dark but you know the way. You could do it blindfolded. Shadows accompany you as you make your way to the library.

The heavy wooden door opens silently. You step in and feel the way peace sinks into you, relaxing your shoulders and the tension in your neck. You are where you belong, surrounded by the things that bring you joy. You are safe.

The book from earlier that day is right where you left it. You know Chevalier hasn’t been here or he would have put it back. Or chastised you. Likely both. You pick it up and along with the silver chamberstick, head for the cushioned velvet window seat. You curl up, leaning against the sliver of wall, only glass and lattice between you and the wild winds, the howling and snarling storm.

You reach up, pressing your hand against the cold glass. Your book lays forgotten in your lap. You haven’t even lit the chamberstick. Your eyes close, your hand pressing harder. The storm feels like it’s calling to you. Promising you something. Digging into the trenches of your heart, trying to unearth hidden secrets. Speaking to your very soul. 

So enrapt are you, that you don’t notice the library door open or the man who steps inside, closing it behind his back in one fluid movement. You don’t notice the way he pauses when he sees you or the way he then remains perfectly still, observing before making his way purposefully over, his footfall breaking your reverie.

As if in slow motion you turn your head away from the window and are met with the sight of Prince Gilbert von Obsidian standing right in front of the window seat. Gone is the heavy black cloak, the opulent cane. He is however still swathed in black, as if the shadows themselves have wrapped themselves around him, lovingly.

Startled, you jump up from the window seat, a reflex. You don’t want him towering over you like that. But standing does nothing but bring you even closer to him, close enough to see how dark his eye looks in the night-soaked library, dark as Shiraz wine. 

You’ve never been this close to him before. Your gaze has always been drawn to him, no matter whether in a ballroom or a dining hall but you’ve avoided being close to him. A few polite exchanges is all….

Exchanges, if you’re honest, that have replayed themselves over and over in your mind, in the dark, in your dreams. 

He tilts his head, skin pale as cream, hair dark as smoke. 

“What a late hour for you to be up and hopping about.” His voice is silk ribbons and velvet and a blade’s edge. You could wrap it around your wrists and throat, drape yourself in it, hurt yourself with it.

You refuse to move, squaring your shoulders. His eye drops to the bare skin of your neck, your arms. Outside the wind howls.

“The same could be said of you.” No titles, no formality. The hour, the storm, the intimacy of the dark have stripped them away, burned you down to your essence, bare to him.

He breathes in and his eye closes for a moment. When he opens it again, he looks intrigued.

“Most everyone here in Rhodolite stinks of roses. But not you. You’re….different.” His gaze runs over your face, almost palpable. You feel the way he takes in the lines of your jaw, the curve of your lips, the way your lashes frame your eyes. In front of him you feel diaphanous, every thin layer of yourself easily discernible to that eye.

A loud crack of thunder shakes the palace.

You jump and his hands come up instinctively, fingers curling around your upper arm. His touch is cool.

His lips lift in an amused smile. “Afraid of the storm, Häschen?”

You turn your head to look at the window again, at the rain lashing against it, the dark, distant shapes bending to its will. Your heart thunders in time as you turn back to face him.

“Afraid of it?” You shake your head, loose hair brushing against your cheek, his hands. “I’m not afraid of it, Gilbert. I savor it.”

That word hangs from your lips, ripples through the space between you. He draws in a short breath, as if stung. His grip on your arms tightens…and then his mouth is on yours. Hungry. As if he wants to taste what you just said, swallow it for himself. You find your fingers curling into the soft black of his clothing, unafraid of the tornado of want that his kiss unleashes inside you, smashing through all your doubt and concern and questions. You meet his hunger with your own, body pressing up against his, unable to stop yourself. Irresistible. Lightening and copper.

Only another crash of thunder, wild enough to rattle glass, is enough to shatter the unexpected haze of want. You both break contact at the same time. There is no satisfied smirk on his kiss-bruised lips. No knowing arch of brow. There is only surprise and hunger and need. Your arms ache with the desire to reach out and pull him back, to taste him again. You aren’t aware of how hard you’re breathing, your lungs struggling to find room for the oxygen it needs and the fire inside you burning it all away.

Gilbert von Obsidian lifts his hand, then lowers it, his fingers curling into a tight fist. He is the first to compose himself, ever a master of control, except for just now, with you. Inside he’s as rattled as the window panes.

It’s too dangerous. All of it. Your secret role as Belle, your duty to Rhodolite. You can’t do this. You can’t. You can’t.

This jumpstarts your sense of place and time and purpose. Your muttered apology is lost to the sound of rain as you rush past him, ignoring the brush of his hand on your waist, the call of your name. You run, through the dark, until you are back in the safety of your room.

Panting, you lean your back against the door.

Outside the storm wails, ever onward.

Inside, your heart is its own tempest, howling in frustration and fear and fervor.

What have you done?