#i made myself sad writing these Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[prettyjunk]

COULD PLS WRITE ANY DATING HCS FOR CLIFF?? THERE IS NOTHING FOR HIM ON TUMBLR 🥲🥲☹️i’m begging for crumbs rn

cliff burton x reader

sfw headcanons!

note: i know!!!!:( he’s so underrated and for what. plus, it’s his birthday today! so there is not a better time to write some sweet head-canons about him.

requests are open!

.✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧

one of cliff’s more important personality traits is his integrity. bro’s honest; sometimes his honesty would be so sharp it would hurt the people he’d be talking to.

but with you, it was a different case. he was cautious— thought about what he was going to say and how he was going to say it out loud, careful not to hurt your feelings. he was still bluntly honest, though.

but hey! this doesn’t mean he’s rude, or cranky. he’s actually a sweetheart with most people (if they don’t get on his way).

and obviously, he has a soft spot for you.

most boyfriends are embarrassed to be mellow with their girlfriends in public, keeping all the cheesy stuff behind closed doors.

not cliff!

he truly doesn’t give a fuck. just in general, really, he never has cared about what people might think or say about him, so as soon as you guys started dating— he’d show you off. he doesn’t have a reason not to! you’re his girl and he wants everyone to know.

and this is connected to his love language; touch. cliff is a very touchy person towards you, but he’s subtle about it. its not like he’s constantly kissing/hugging you, but he likes to keep you close; and feel that you are close to him. hand on your thigh, rubbing your back, caressing your hips, playing with your hair— the list could go on forever. he just feels more calm and comfortable keeping you close.

he asks your opinion on everything he does. if we’re being completely honest, he doesn’t really care about it— nothing you could say would change his point of view.. but he still loves to hear your perspective on anything he can get it from. it’s his way of getting to know you better, little bits of information that help him put together the puzzle that is your mind. and it truly works out!

cliff doesn’t look like the type of person that would put much attention to detail since he’s always in his own world, but he always manages to surprise you with random things he knows and noticed about you.

you often see this in the gifts he gives you. you eyed something on that antique shop you guys went to last month? he got it. you bopped your head to a song on the radio on the ride home? he found out what record that was— got it on vinyl, too.

talking about music! one of his favorites things to do with you, is listen to music. more specifically; to show you different types of records so you can both talk about it. cliff is known for having a wide music taste— from motörhead to kate bush, and loves to discuss the ridiculous minor details that each song has. you were often surprised by his random knowledge, but you were mostly fascinated. his ideal sunday afternoon was you, a brand new music album, and acid.

going back to his unmeasurable uprightness! even though he’s a very likable guy— often being remembered as the cool and nice long haired dude— he doesn’t really have much of a filter. if he thought something was wrong, or he straight up didn’t like something; he won’t hesitate to make sure everyone knows that. so you’d often find yourself having to apologize to people when cliff would randomly flip them off, or yell fuck you’s around the room.

adding his personality, he’s also very witty. cliff is a very wise dude, and he’s also kind of like a child. so the mix of both get you a very funny but also old-souled boyfriend. and he’s also a big talker, so it’s almost like you’re dating a encyclopedia. a bullshit encyclopedia, though. he keeps you constantly entertained by speaking whatever was going on in his mind— because he trusts you enough to tell you whatever he thinks of right when he does.

we all know cliff smokes a bunch of weed. even though than he sees it more like a creative tool than a drug— he also does it for fun. and when he smokes around you, he gets impossibly clingy; if he sees you laying down when he is high— he will get on top of you, and won’t stand up for hours. just laying there; tracing random shapes on your skin with his fingers and talking a bunch of nonsense— interrupting himself once in a while to tell you how much he loves you.

if you bring that up when he is sober, though, he denies it.

and a stupid little last one: he really likes to play poker with you. cliff taught you how to play in one of many dates, and it became your thing! it quickly turned into something that is inevitable each time you see each-other. he’d play it every minute of every freakin’ day— and he’s also such a bad loser. the kind of guy that would throw everything to the air when he lost, and walk away in anger. a few kisses and everything was right, though.

[actuallyitsstar]

grief is not a feeling, but a neighborhood. this is where i come from. everyone i love still lives here. // (insp.)

[gen4grl]

you would think after all the yapping i do about these losers i would have a plethora of art uploaded … no… so here is my first kantrio post lol

i did these over the last month while watching the olympic weightlifting and jamming to kpop (stan red velvet and kiss of life BTW!!!)

[blackjackkent]

Prompt fill for @astreamofstars from this ask for this prompt meme. Karlach - "It is my fault, I think, that you have forgotten to fear me."

-----

“Oy, who’s the glowy bitch by the door, then?”

Karlach knows better than to bother looking up when the fresh-meat greataxe grunt starts talking, down the barracks a ways. This shit isn’t new. They always like to talk, the new arrivals to Zariel's army. And as soon as they see Karlach, no other topic will do.

Fair play enough, after all; she does kinda stick out. There's nobody else like her in the platoon, or in the whole army. In the eight years she’s been here, nobody else has ever gotten the tin can stuck into them and survived. She’s special, as Zariel likes to assure her, though special has never bought her anything but more blood and death - and the attention of every ignot who want to pick a fight.

Today’s mouthy prick is a draegloth, which explains why he’s talking a big game. A dogskull’s almost as unique as Karlach is around here; makes sense he’d pick out a target fast before anyone can pick him out for an asskicking.

“Oh, that? That's Cliffgate,” says another voice. This one Karlach recognizes - Namtar, a cambion, one of the platoon sergeants. He and Karlach have butted heads before, because Namtar is a rotten pissant. “Zariel's little kiss-ass. No heart, just an infernal engine in her chest.”

"No way," the draegloth says. "That's the Demonsbane? A ruttin' tief? Not even hellsborn?" He laughs sharply. "Lettin' in all sorts these days, uh?"

Karlach ignores the mocking words, focusing on choking down the tasteless morsels that pass for rations around here. The bunk across from her creaks unhappily as weight hits it.

“They're talkin’ about you, Dart,” Flo says with a nasty grin, settling onto the bed and lounging back against the wall. “Gonna sit here and take it?”

Karlach sighs. She picked up the nickname around her second week in the Hells, and it's never once been meant with kindness. Even Flo says it with a nasty edge, and Flo is the closest thing she has to a friend.

Good reminder, I guess, that no one here really gives a fuck about me, no matter how much I might like to pretend. Even after eight years, she can sometimes, if she squints, convince herself that there's camaraderie here, like there was in Gortash's old crew before he sold her out. But it's vain hope, a desperate attempt to pretend this place isn't rotting her fro the inside out; the illusion never lasts long and always just leaves her feeling lonelier.

"If it's not them, it'll be somebody else," she says noncommittally. "Lemme eat my dinner in peace."

"Nawww..." Flo says, comfortably dismissive. "C'mon, Dart, give us a show. Been too long since we had a proper scrap in here besides the piece in your chest."

Karlach laughs softly in spite of herself. It's a pretty weak pun, but the jokes in Avernus are as bad as the food. "I'm wore out, Flo," she says, shaking her head. "Leave off."

She looks up to find Flo's smile has turned a shade more brittle. "C'mon, now, Dart," she says, and there's a warning note in it now. "Y'know I can't be seen bein' friends with a softy. Give us a show, I said."

The message is loud and clear, as it always is. My friendship is conditional. And you'll do as I say, 'cos you *don't* want to be my enemy. Now dance.

Karlach huffs out a weary, flame-hot breath and tosses aside the last bit of her ration pack uneaten. With a groan, she pushes herself to her feet and strides down the barracks corridor towards Namtar and the draegloth.

"Hey, there she is." Namtar looks up with a lazy grin as she approaches. He's flopped on his bunk with his boots off, his wings furled neatly under him and feet up on a stack of equipment piled at the foot of the bed. "How's tricks, Dart?" Before Karlach can respond, he shoots a conspiratorial glance at the young dogskull. "Y'know why we call her Dart, Markos?"

The draegloth -- Markos -- looks puzzled. "Why?" he asks.

"Dumb-Ass Rusty Toaster." Namtar brays with laughter so hard it shakes the bed a little. "Fits, too, cos all she's good for is throwing at things t' poke holes in them."

Markos snickers loudly. Several more of the platoon have picked up on the conversation; smelling blood in the water, they've started to circle up, leaned casually against the walls or peering over the edge of their bunks. Some of them are grinning, enjoying watching the Demonsbane get a dunking. Others - the smart ones - are eyeing Karlach warily. She hasn't said anything yet, but her eyes are smoldering. In spite of herself, the rage is building. 

She doesn't want to fight them. She never has. She's always been loyal, and even in this bitch of a place, even under Zariel's thumb, she'd have fought hard for anyone here who wanted to fight for her in return. But that's never made the slightest bit of difference, because everyone here is a fucking tosser.

Hells. Maybe, when you come right down to it, so am I.

And that, really, is what enrages her, far more than these empty little insults.

"Y'know," she says slowly, looking the draegloth up and down. "I expect this sort of crap from the fresh meat. A mouth spewing shit 'cos you haven't learned to shut the fuck up yet. But you--" She turns her gaze slowly and deliberately to the sergeant. "Eight years it's been, Namtar, and neither of us dead yet, so you'd think you'd have figured out not to mess with me." She lets a slow, feral grin curl across her lips, and there's a ripple of anticipatory mumbling from the gathering crowd around them. "My fault, I guess, that you've forgotten to be scared of me. But I can fix that."

She moves suddenly, with no windup, her fists and feet all shifting at once. Her left fist crashes into Markos's jaw, knocking him back into the steel frame of the bed behind him; his skull ricochets off it with a metallic whingggg as his skull ricochets off the metal. With her left foot, she kicks behind his knee while he's unbalanced and fully flips him sideways. As he bounces back from the bedframe, he goes careening onto his front, his nose crunching into the stone floor.

Meanwhile, her other hand grabs Namtar by the collar and drags him out of his bunk. He has almost two inches on her, but she lifts him with ease one-armed, the engine roaring in her chest and sending energy coursing through her bicep. Spinning out of the kick at Markos, she slams Namtar into the wall, then releases her grip for a split second, only to refix it tightly around his throat before he can fall.

All of the cambion's bravado has vanished. His eyes are wide and brilliant white in the dark red of his face and he squirms ineffectually against Karlach's implacable grip. His wings, crunched between his back and the wall, struggle feebly. "Oy! Let me go!" he bleats, gripping her hand with both of his and trying to pull it away.

She glares at him. "Maybe. If you want to grovel a bit. Otherwise I'll finally just kill you. Maybe everyone else would finally get it through their thick skulls that you don't mess with me."

He sneers in an attempt at disdain, though it's considerably weakened by the fact that he's now struggling to breathe. "You wouldn't dare."

She laughs humorlessly and leans forward until her nose is nearly touching his, so he can feel the heat radiating off her body and see nothing but the exhausted fury in her eyes. "That really a chance you wanna take, sergeant?"

He hesitates, balanced between his anger and his fear. But something he sees in her eyes must convince him, because the fear wins. "Sorry," he mutters.

"What was that?" she asks coolly. "Didn't hear you."

"I'm sorry," he snaps. "Now let me go."

She could drag it out further, but the whole situation feels sticky as hot tar on her skin, burning down into her bones. Gods, I hate this. I hate all of it. I don’t want to be this thing they’ve made me, but I don’t know how to stop.

She releases his throat with a jerk, letting him slide down the wall to the floor, where he sits clutching at his neck and wheezing. Markos, nearby, is out cold where he hit the floor.

"Good," she mutters. "Just... stay there and shut the fuck up." She doesn't wait to hear what the other gathered soldiers might have to say, but turns and stalks away back down the row of beds towards the other end of the barracks. 

Flo gives her a slow clap as she returns to her bunk, grinning unpleasantly from ear to ear. "Nice one. Damn good show, Dart, just as I asked."

"Shut up," Karlach answers, tossing herself facedown onto her mattress. The engine is still running hot, surging pain through her chest and her head and her arms with the slow letdown of adrenaline; she can smell it searing a scorched mark into the bedsheets. "You too - just... just shut up and leave me alone.”

[thevioletcaptain]

I know the ask is about ships but could you make a non ship one with Dean and Carlos from the Winchesters? I can't think of an exact thing for Dean to say, but the first sentence can be what Dean would say for their first meeting. Thank you if you can (*^‿^*)

"I like your hair," Dean says, staring up from where he's clinging to the bottom of Mary's winter coat, and Carlos grins wide when he adds, with all the breathless gravity of a four year old eager to impress their opinions upon a new friend; "It's swooshy and it's pretty like Mommy's hair, and your-- your beads are pretty and shiny and shiny is my favorite color."

"Swooshy and pretty and shiny is exactly what I was going for, so thank you, little buddy."

Even with almost six years between now and the last time he'd seen Mary, Carlos is relieved to find that they still have a good sense of one-another -- can still communicate silently, swiftly, like they used to when it was life or death. He meets her eye, and her face softens, and understanding passes between them before he slides one of his lucky beaded bracelets -- the bloodstone one -- free.

Dean's eyes light up when he takes it.

When he smiles, he looks just like his mother.

[for this askbox game if anyone else wants to send me a prompt]

[bardnuts]

But how long did they think we could walk, we could sing

Before our voices gave out and our limbs gave in

x x

[fantasticalleigh]

will be occupied later today so I will unfortunately miss tonight's RAW so I'm posting this ahead of time. this piece concludes the Broken Man series! I hope you enjoyed it and that you checked out the song it's inspired by. You'll be seeing this punkintyre art again because I used it to make a different piece for Bad Blood. The countdown to Saturday begins! ;-;

Part 1 of the Broken Man series

Part 2

Part 3

(not that anyone asked but i've had this scene stuck in my head for weeks now of them during their Hell in a Cell match where at one point at the end they've both climbed it and they're yelling and hitting each other. they're covered in blood and just out of energy but all they have is their hate/love left in their systems to fuel them. drew has punk's arm in his hand, his fingers digging into punk's previously-torn tricep. he shouts at him how much he hates him, that punk's ruined his life. that this has to end now. punk snarls back that drew is his own worst enemy, that he's so insecure inside he'll ruin and blame everyone else in the world before he is ready to admit that to himself.

they're almost at the top of the cage and they're at risk of falling. punk punches drew. drew punches punk. at any moment one of them might fall off the cage. it has to end now. this feud has ripped everything out of them, turned them into the worst versions of themselves. yet they've slowly realized over the match they can't live without the other. they are each other's purpose. drew won't be happy if punk is gone, and punk won't be happy if drew is gone. but neither can bring himself to say what he really feels.

punk grabs a handful of drew's hair and kisses him. drew is ecstatic, torn, exhausted. but he clings to punk and punk clings to him and drew feels his blood slide on his skin and his fingers slip from their grasp to the chain-link wall of the cell and despite his fear of heights he doesn't care that they're falling, falling, falling--until they land. bones break. more blood spills. but they're in each other's arms, and the light is fading from both their eyes; the audience is screaming and the officials and medics are racing to reach them in time and they're staring right at each other and though no explicit confession ever crossed ether's lips, they know.

and that's enough.

[okitanoniisan]

new rgg fans will never know what they missed back in ye olden days of the fandom (like, 2019), doubly so now that scott strichart's deleted his twitter and jon riesenbach's privated. twitter was so fucking fun and then whatever-the-hell at sega of america happened and caused a fucking snowball effect and now we have shitass localization and resulting discourse that makes every release nigh unbearable, misinformation, confusion, people complaining about "bad writing/mischaracterization" not realizing it's because of the shitass english loc, i'm sitting here like jesus christ these loc bitches massacred saejima's character voice, people will never see him as he was intended, as original yakuza 5 localization Correctly painted him, and now they're coming for kiryu. god help us. we used to be a proper fandom. before everyone was subjected to the remastered localizations and shaky eng characterization. no one had even played yakuza 3-5, people still called morning glory "sunshine" orphanage, kiryu was our only protagonist and people still called him "boring", it was beautiful...

anyway gaiden uses affective instead of effective because the current localization team is full of careless dumbasses who don't give a fuck about ensuring they're using correct english grammar and this is not an isolated incident

[heylittleriotact]

Where The Wild Roses Grow

Summary: Elisa is a young woman - like so many before her - pushed by necessity and circumstance into selling her body for coin. She is just starting out and is expecting her first client this evening. She's scared, nervous, and completely unsure of what she's getting into. So imagine how relieved she feels when a breathtakingly handsome elven man with white hair and red eyes breezes into her room and sweeps her off her feet with a tenderness she never expected from a client.

Everything is going to be alright, isn't it? A man like Astarion would never hurt her...

A one shot inspired by Where The Wild Roses Grow by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds: a BG3 tribute to the tragic, heart-rending beauty of the murder ballad.

Rating: Mature

Characters: Astarion, Original Female Character

Tags: Hurt No Comfort, Angst, Whump, Vampire Spawn Astarion, Slave Astarion, Prostitution, Non-Explicit Sex, No Happy Endings

[the-aco-taco]

I got high and thought of a really depressing fic idea where unbeknownst to either of them, Karlach gets Tav pregnant before she goes back to Avernus. So the baby is all Tav has left of Karlach and Karlach is just desperately trying to get back to her love, not even knowing there’s a tiny tiefling waiting for her too

[orcelito]

Wild that anytime I post an update a lot of people read it and are even excited about it and have their own thoughts and reactions to it that I'll never know.

Comments are only the very tip of the iceberg with it. And I am Very grateful to commenters for letting me in on it. But in the same way that I'll be excited with my friends when a fic we love updates, it's likely that Other people enthuse with Their friends when my fic updates. And it's just so strange. An experience I'll never have access to.

Everyone's relationship with my fic is unique. So many different people with so many different circumstances and preferences... and the number of people that have told me that my fic is one of their favorites, some even saying it's their Favorite favorite... every single one of them have their own relationship with my writing.

It's just interesting to me. I think and think and think on my writing. I have my plans for basically the entire fic, the way I want it to end already thought out, all the major plot beats and the relationship progressions, All of that thought out. I love my writing so very much, but I'm on the inside looking out. This is my mechanical horse, and I'm in here laying out the groundwork and pulling levers and constructing limbs, puttering away making the horse move. Forever and always, my relationship with it will be more intimate than anyone's, and yet more clinical. Because I know it better than the back of my own hand, but I'll never have the experience of reading it fresh. Of reading it without knowing everything that's going to happen from now to the end and beyond. I won't have the thrill of the plot twists I have planned, the delight at seeing things progress, the horror at seeing things go wrong...

This is my mechanical horse, and I'm making it move.

I just always wonder what it must be like to see it from the outside. I hope to others that it's a pretty horse.

[bcyhoods]

i’ve never truly known what it feels like to be obsessed with a piece of media with a tiny fandom until now……………..

[blackjackkent]

Welcome to the Temple of Bhaal! This place has everything! Blood pools! Angry-looking people! Skull braziers! And that's just in the foyer!

On the bright side, no one's actively attacking us in here, presumably because we passed the Power Word Kill test out front. But our whole group is not enjoying themselves:

These two pools in the entrance hall have a skeleton each laid on the altar in the center. Looting them gives us, upsettingly, a set of wedding vows from each.

On the right, Stiv's wedding vows:

On the left, Masha's wedding vows:

Uhhhhhhhh.

"Boy, look at that," Karlach says, deadpan dry, as she looks over Hector's shoulder at the bloodstained parchment. "That's romance, right, Hec? Why did we never get around to doing that?"

"I don't know," Hector answers with a soft, humorless snort, as he pockets the paper. "I do keep putting us in front of plenty of Bhaalist knives but we just keep refusing to die."

It is hard for him to laugh at the joke, though - one day soon, his last expression of his love will be to watch her die and not stop it. He can't say he much likes the parallel.

[highcaliberstupidity]

Brain had sad MCD/MCI Ghoap thoughts last night so now all of you get to suffer with me.

Ghost/Soap, straight-up angst, nothing but angst

CW - Implied Main Character Death/Major Injury (Ending is ambiguous, can be taken either way)

I see everyone always talking about the 'So you do like me' when Soap gets any sort of major injury or dies in a fic. But I have yet to see anything centered around the lines

"You have a heart?"

"A cold one."

So just, hear me out here, lemme cook

There's blood everywhere, and Soap's so, so pale. Med Evac is on the way, but there's no telling if they'll get there in time. He's weak, barely able to close his hands into a fist when he grabs onto Ghost's tac vest.

"Guess it wasn't so cold after all, eh Simon?" And it's whispered in a voice so hoarse and scratchy, a cracked, blood-filled smile weak on Soap's face.

"It was you, you asshole. Your the one that fucking warmed it." Ghost just hisses, trying to choke down a full-body sob. "So you don't get to fucking die MacTavish, you started this shit so now your going to stick around and deal with it!" And he's holding him so hard he'd be leaving bruises if Soap had enough blood in him to bruise with.

"Knew there was more to ya, a sweet, bonnie lad hiding under that mask." And Soap's grin is crooked, and his eyes are fluttering as his grip starts to loosen.

"Don't you dare Johnny, don't you fucking dare!" And Ghost can't stop it now, he can't stop the sob that shakes through him when he grabs at his face, and he feels like he's going to hyperventilate. "You keep your goddamn eyes open, do you hear me?!"

But Soap isn't really listening now, shivers wracking his sweating body as he lifts a hand up and gropes, weak and shakey at the edge of his mask.

"Can I see ya, just one more time, Si?"

And it's said so broken and pathetically, and Ghost wants to scream at him, tell him no because that'll make him stay if he can't see his face, he can't die, they can fix him. But he yanks it off anyway, and he can't stop the tears when he sees that sad smile on Soap's face.

"Please, please just hold on." Ghost chokes out the words between tears, turning his face into Soap's hand when it brushes weakly against his cheek, shaking.

"F-fuckin... b-beautiful.. S-Simon..." and then his hand slips away, falling limp, and Simon moves without thought, perfect autopilot taking over as he drops him into the dirt and begins CPR.

And he begs, sobs, and pleads with Soap's still form, heedless of his unmasked face and the rotor wash kicking up dirt and wind, of the voices and boots rushing toward them.

He has to save him, he has to fucking save him because he doesn't want to be cold anymore.

[guesswhosaninja]

do you ever hear the phrase "I was so scared of wasting a day that I nearly wasted my life" and have it haunt you for a month

there are so many times I've felt like I simply lost years, and you'll finally do something and realize you spent six months saying "I should do that soon" without doing anything or "I should get back to that" each day for months on end

[b1mbodoll]

why do i have asks accusing me of copying how other writers interact and type :( i literally didnt do anything :x