#it's okay to fail

[hanatsuki-esperanza]

Unpopular Critical Role Opinion: The Group Should Have TPK-ed in Episode 34.

Instead, we got Imogen becoming even more of a Main Character and unlocking stupid OP Anime-Protagonist Level powers in addition to her already OP Plot Armor. Otohan could have easily killed Bell’s Hells and she would have in any other campaign.

TPKs were extremely common in older editions where the mentality of DM-vs-PCs was more prevalent, and while that mentality has lessened, TPKs still happen all the time in DnD campaigns. 5e and the new edition make it even harder to kill PCs, but TPKs aren’t always a bad thing. It gives the players and DM a chance to restart the plot from a new angle. Sure, you lose the characters you’re attached to, but that’s just how the dice roll sometimes. While you can tell stories in DnD, at it’s core, DnD is a game of strategy and chance. You roll dice to determine outcomes and the potential for failure exists at the heart of the game. Yes, the characters are comforting to people, and we want them to succeed through it all, but it’s exciting and real when you don’t know if a character will survive, versus if you know they’ll survive to the end of the campaign.

We’ll never see a TPK on Critical Role, which is unfortunate. In Critical Role, the characters here are too important to lose, especially the Imogen ex Machina. (Also, from the way the fandom reacted when possible 3/7 PCs were in danger of not being revived, if a TPK actually did happen, the fandom would implode).

[dippietheham]

Grumpy is back with another reminder.

Exercise if you can. It helps the mood. Esp when you do it in the sun. It's all proven.

But sometimes, things don't go as planned. Sometimes it's difficult to get out of bed. It's difficult to breathe. Or we try, and fall flat on our faces.

And sometimes the rain just falls when all you wanted was the sun.

But it's okay. It's okay to feel crappy. It's okay to have tried and failed. It's okay sometimes even, to try and fail to get out of bed. There're things out of our control, there're things that hurt.

But don't give up trying. Because some days...

Some days we get to have boba.

[cosmarrrs]

get this boy out of the magnus institute NOW

[felsicveins]

The road to forgiveness is paved with miles of bullying

[potassiumprincess]

i think marinette is worse at resting when she's sick but adrien is worse at sitting things out if he's injured. i have no explanation, these are just the vibes

[fewderpewders]

3 days late but had to draw my annual birthday pinkie

[helloilikepurple]

DC X DP - Mirrors

Did Danny want to live in Gotham? No, of course not. Did he have a choice? Nope. When does he ever?

Now, he may be technically homeless, but he's also technically dead, so human laws technically don't apply to him. So, naturally, he pics out an empty mansion so big even if the owners were to come home, the chances they'd run into each other would be really low, and settles in.

This 'mansion' happens to be Drake Manor. Look, Danny lived in nowhere Illinois and kinda had his hands full dealing with ghosts, a double life, bullies, and being actively hunted. He doesn’t know much about celebrities. If you tell him the name of someone super famous, it might sound vaguely familiar, but that's about it. What he knew was superheroes and vigilantes (some of them, okay, give him a break). That's about it.

So the name Drake in connection with Gotham didn't ring any alarm bells. He did some surface level research: the Drakes are dead, survived by their only child, Timothy Drake-Wayne, who now owns their house but was adopted by some other super rich guy called Bruce Wayne and doesn't live in it, leaving it empty for the foreseeable future.

It was the perfect place!

Danny didn't explore much, partly because he didn't care to and partly because he was too tired to from healing. He cleaned up after himself, used only his bedroom (chosen for being tucked way back and out of the way), the attached bathroom, and the theatre occasionally as a treat. He lived off of the provisions packed for him, ectoplasm and water from the sink.

Cut to, few weeks in.

Danny's got a new routine, he's taken his stitches out, and is still super fucked up, but a lot better than when he arrived. He hasn't been outside since he arrived, but ghosts don't need Vitamin D anyway. Is he slightly depressed? Maybe. But he's also dead, so, bigger priorities.

Tim is looking through his stuff for something or other, and it occurs to him he probably left it next door. He hasn't been to Drake Manor in months, but he sort of really needs this thing, so he sucks it up and borrows a car because like hell is he walking the several miles from this front door to that one.

He goes to his old bedroom, opens the door, and comes face-to-face with himself.

And Danny doesn't know what he's supposed to do in this situation.

Listen, Danny doesn't always make the best decision in the moment. It's a very normal flaw to have! So he tells who can only be Timothy Drake-Wayne himself when asked, that his name is Timothy Drake, and this is his house, and, actually, who are you and how did you get in?

This causes Tim to assume Danny is himself from another dimension who he accidentally dragged to his dimension by messing with the Time Stream to get Bruce back. Danny continues to accidently fuel this misunderstanding without meaning to.

(This is not helped by the fact that a DNA test doesn't disprove this. Danny's DNA is corrupted, but what Tim does get is identical to himself. This is how Danny finds out he was adopted, and how Tim, much later when misunderstandings are cleared, meets the identical twin brother he never knew he had.)

[justaz]

merlin being hit with a truth spell or potion or whatever and being so stressed that he’s gonna reveal his magic to arthur only to find that he can’t insult or tease arthur anymore bc every time arthur instigates their banter, merlin starts to go on and on about how arthur makes him so happy and the love he feels for him is immeasurable and how he’d burn the world just to keep him warm

[spacedace]

Still thinking about the Social Worker Jazz concept that @gilbirda posted about and it's slowly turning into a full Anger Management fic send help

-

Jason at length - much longer than it really should have taken really - set the resume down.

The new Social Worker’s resume. Because she was there, in his office, trying to convince him to hire her as a member of his criminal organization.

Crime Alley’s new social worker. A bright eyed Midwestern transplant from some tiny speck of a place that only qualified as a city because there was nothing bigger in a hundred miles in any direction to claim otherwise. The new social worker who had a Psy D. and three masters degrees and who had graduated Valedictorian. The one that had high paying private gigs lined up all over the country with the offering companies fighting over her.

The one who had, apparently, decided to take a shit job in Gotham’s shoddy social services department instead. The one that got kicked to Crime Alley - which was its own division despite technically being a small neighborhood in the grand scheme of things - within her first month. Supposedly for the sole purpose of scaring her off or getting her killed for all the questions she was asking and secret dealings she was sticking her nose into.

That social worker.

“I’m gonna need you to run this by me again.” Jason said, never so grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet as he was in that moment. It stripped out the bewilderment that had bled through into his words and made him sound stoic instead.

“I’d like to work for you.” The social worker - one Dr. Jasmine Nightingale - repeated primly. Back straight, clothes neat - if skewing more on the librarian side of professional - expression confident and hopeful. Completely and utterly oblivious of how fucking insane she sounded. “I was told that you’re the person in charge of Crime Alley.”

He resisted the urge to scrub at his face. It’d just look weird with his helmet on and not do anything to actually settle him in that moment anyway. “I understood that part.”

“Look, Doc,” She earned a doctorate and she was crazy enough to waltz into the office of one of Gotham’s most powerful Crime Lords, he’d be respectful about using her proper title at least, even if he suspected she was ten pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. “You’re going to have to tell me why. I was under the impression the only reason you ended up dumped on our end of the city ws because you wouldn’t play ball. But now you want to sign up for my crew?”

Nightingale frowned a little at that.

“Is that what people are saying?”

“What else are they gonna say?” Jason answered, leaning back in his seat, “Head of the department only dumps Crime Alley on folks he don’t like. And everyone knows he doesn’t like anyone that can’t or won’t play his game by his rules.”

“Alright, well. I’ll give you that.” Nightingale conceded, “Payne doesn’t like me. The feeling’s mutual. But for the record,” She added giving him a wry smile, as if sharing wry smiles with Red Hood was just something people did, “I asked to be assigned to the Park Row and Bowery neighborhoods.”

“You wanted to work here.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

Nightingale laughed. It was a bright sound. Not especially clear or pretty, but warm and welcoming in a way that carefully calculated giggles or overdone guffaws couldn’t be. Something with real and honest amusement in it, that encouraged those nearby to laugh along. Not the kind of involuntary, nervous chuckling people tended to slip into when they thought they had pissed someone that scared them off.

She just wasn’t intimidated by him at all, was she?

Behind his helmet, Jason found himself smiling. Just a bit.

“I’m serious.” She assured, blue-green eyes meeting the dark stare of his helmet without a moment of hesitation. He watched as she brushed a lock of her bright red hair behind her ear and out of the way. She’d woven it all into a practical, neat braid but a few sly pieces had snuck out to bounce around her. Gilding her quiet professionalism with a playful charm that worked well with her academia but make it cottagecore kindergarten teacher aesthetic.

“I’ll admit, Gotham wasn’t part of my plan when I first graduated. Time and choices take you funny places sometimes.” She plucked an invisible bit of lint off her soft blue cardigan, not nervous but absent as her gaze went distant for a moment. Thinking back on the events that had led her to his fine city. In a blink, those sharp eyes were back to focusing entirely on him. “But Gotham is where I am now, and I want to help.”

She looked at him, a serious, determined expression settling easily on her face. “The city as a whole has so much chaos and crime breaking out all the time.” No censure or horror in her voice, just a neutral fact to be observed. “But where the rest of the city has millions of dollars poured into it by various foundations or charities run by the Waynes, Park Row is largely ignored.”

Jason watched as steeliness sharpened her gaze, the blue-green shifting from the shine of a bird’s wing to the warning hue of something poisonous and deadly. “No one deserves that. No one.” Her chin tilted up, proud but not imperious. “So yes, I want to work here. There are people in Park Row and the Bowery who need help and I refuse to let any of them feel like they are going to be ignored.”

Jason considered her.

Really looked at her. Pealing back his initial off handed impression of her as some clueless transplant in over her head with no idea of what she was doing or what she was poking her nose into to find the real woman beneath. Her confident poise, her clear unshakable belief, her unflinching willingness to look danger in the eye and not blink. The tense curve of her frown, the lines of pain at the corners of her eyes, the simmering anger beneath it all. There was an edge to her, too. Something sharp and dangerously well hidden by the cardigan and folksy charm of her accent.

It was personal for the woman before him, Jason realized. Maybe not Crime Alley specifically, but something about the whole situation. The treatment the neighborhood and its residents received from the city at large, from those even beyond it.

Crime Alley wasn’t a place that received much in the way of charitable thought. The average joe with their house in Somerset and job at some corporate shithole hating every second of their life but thinking at least I don’t live in Crime Alley. Those asshole hoity-toites in city hall throwing money around equally between shit that’d get them re-elected and their off-shore slush funds in the Caymens doing their damn level best to pretend the black mark on the other end of the city just didn’t exist. Bruce, flooding the entire city with charitable programs and carefully constructed infrastructures shying away from the manifested grief and trauma that was the place he watched his parents get murdered.

For the most part no one from outside of the Alley gave a shit about the Alley other than as a place to avoid at all costs. And most of the time those natives that manages to claw their way out into better and brighter lives didn’t ever turn to glance back. Orpheus could have learned a thing or to from an ex-Alley Kid who managed to eek out a steady 9-to-5 and move to Burnley.

And something about that seemed to piss Dr. Jasmine Nightingale Psy. D right the fuck off.

He could see why Bill said he liked her enough to let her in.

“Alright.” He said, tilting his head, watching the woman seated across from him carefully, “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Why you’re trying to get on my payroll.”

“I’m not trying to get on your payroll.” She said, some of the glinting edge softening, but the steel remaining. Strong and unyielding. “I’m trying to get into your community outreach program.”

Jason thanked god and all the saints once again for the gift of his helmet. That baby had saved his ass more times than he could count both by keeping his head in one piece and keeping his stupefied expressions wrapped up and hidden from view. Dr. Nightingale was one hell of a woman to make him have to rely on that fact twice in one conversation.

“Wasn’t aware that was something I had.”

Nightingale, not fortunate enough to have a full face covering helmet of her own, had nothing to hide her stupefied expression behind. Jason had a feeling she might have removed it to make sure he saw even if she did though. She looked like she had caught him eating glue like it was a cheese stick.

“Yes you do.” She said, sounding deeply confused but unshakable confident in what she was saying. “I’ve seen it. The soup kitchens, the shelters, the collection boxes for donating old clothes, the after school day care.” Nightingale ticked off on her fingers, “I’ve lived here for less than two weeks and I’ve lost count of all the things I’ve seen setup to help people struggling in the area that I’ve been very reliably informed you and your organization are behind.”

Oh.

Those.

“Those aren’t part of some community outreach program.” He said, “We are simply locals offering services for our neighbors.”

He watched as her caught-him-eating-glue expression shifted into one that said she’d stumbled upon him licking electrical sockets for a mid-day pick-me-up instead. He had to give it to her, the woman was not afraid to let one of the most dangerous men in the city know she thought he was a fucking idiot.

“Let me see if I understand this right.” She said, and he appreciated that there wasn’t any kind of condescension in her voice, even though she very clearly thought he’d been dropped on his head as a baby. Possibly from the top of a three story building. “You have a large group of people working together to plan, organize and execute multiple services in your area - your community, if you will - that provide aid and support to those that otherwise would not receive it. Reaching out with your available time and resources to offer these services, that you provide. For free.”

Alright, Jason got it. He had stumbled ass backwards into creating a community outreach program. But he wasn’t just going to let her think she won this one. He was Red Hood, he had a reputation to uphold here.

“What makes you think any of that is free?” He tilted his head at just the right angle, the one that cast shadows across the planes of his helmet and made him look hell-touched and terrifying. “Just because we don’t charge money, doesn’t mean there isn’t a price to pay.”

Dr. Nightingale, dressed like a damn kindergarten teacher, laughed at him.

[elleselanguitsansfin]

it's hailing today and the gloom outside is casting peculiar shadows around my room...

[chloesimaginationthings]

I think it's absolutely adorable how Movie Mike and Vanny's relationship is like this

But Mike's still comfortable sleeping on her shoulder and in the palm of her hand.

I think that's sweet.

They’ve gotten to know each other better, so he feels safe to sleep around her

[fudgecake-charlie]

And along with it comes a certain soft glow...

Gold star for those who remember the old version of this! I wanted to do some personal art, i've been thinking about holly warburton's art again and it's nearly been three years since I made the old one, so it all coalesced into a redraw lol

[letters-to-rosie]

I see way too many fics where Caitlyn is cool. Arcane Caitlyn has a conspiracy board on her floor, no friends we see of her age despite being one of the richest people in Piltover, and sucks at making conversation. This is loser erasure and I will not stand for it. In this essay I will—

[hellenhighwater]

I have a maybe silly question, but uh. How do I become a more interesting person? I have a horrible habit of staying home and not going out and doing things. How do I not do that? This feels very goofy as a thing to ask, but you appear to have an interesting life, therefore making you a reliable source. Do with this what you will, and please say hi to your creatures! Here is my mischief goblin Jammer for your troubles:

It may seem backwards, but...don't try to be interesting, try to be interested.

Find things you find engaging, and then find ways to pursue them. It's best if you can find some kind of group or community that also does the thing you want to try--if you're struggling to find things you like, then just start trying things local to you. You've probably got a local birdwatching group, or a sewing circle, or a community theater, or a historical society, or a comic shop that does game nights, or a group of regulars volunteering at an animal shelter, or stained glass classes, or a makerspace, or any number of little communities that are out there. Try them! The first meeting will be the worst. And if you hate it, you don't have to keep at it, and trying will give you a fun story. Sooner or later you will land on something you like and then...keep turning up.

And if you're not finding things local and in person, then just take up whatever strikes your fancy at home. If you could be incredible at any three hobbies, what would they be? What's stopping you from starting those hobbies? You're going to fail at them when you start but you're already failing at them now by not starting, so what do you have to lose?

Here's the thing: nobody wants to talk with someone who's just singing their own victories. The best stories are the ones where we tried something new and different and silly and strange and maybe messed it up, but had fun. And the best stories are shared--ask other people about the things they're into, be interested and engaged and maybe see if they're open to teaching you a little, if their interests seem fun to you. It's not about being interesting, it's about sharing passion.

So find the things you're passionate about, and keep at them even after you've failed, and the rest will follow.

And pet your cat, he's doing his job so well!

[critter-wizard]

you are all I have, you are the eyes that see, the air that breathes, how can I worship anything else?

[lovlidollie]

reader cockwarming rafe😋😋😋

of course lovely ! hope u enjoy <3

“r-rafe, please.” you’re on the brink of tears, cunt so impossibly full that you feel like you’re going to tear. you’re seated on his lap, head burrowed in his shoulder as he continues to work, completely ignoring your pitiful cries. rafe is a very busy man, he has things to do and he can’t do those things when he has a whiny little brat complaining about his lack of attention. despite his multiple attempts at trying to explain that he was occupied, you didn’t stop bothering him. you’d simply gone one step too far, saying that you’d “go find someone else.” you knew you’d fucked up when rafe stopped what he was doing and had snarled a “fuckin’ brat. get your ass over here.” he’d pulled his half-hard cock out, and with no prep, had made you sink down onto him. that was half an hour ago. you’ve leaked down onto his expensive slacks at this point, coating them in your stickiness. you feel full and so empty at the same time, you need him to move. to fuck you properly. everytime you had tried adjusting yourself, a strong hand had crept up and held your hips down, going as far as slapping your ass if you continued moving. it felt cruel and mean. your lips are wobbly and eyes glassy as you beg for rafe to do something, anything.

“thought i told you to be quiet,” he snaps against your ear. “i still got work to do ‘n you wriggling aroun’ hoping for something isn’t gonna get you anywhere. brats don’ get anythin’.” rafe pulls your head back, making you look at him. the eye contact makes you shy but he doesn’t let you move, squishing your cheeks together to keep your head in place. “‘f’you had just listened earlier you wouldn’t be in this position, would’ya, huh? ‘m doin’ this f’you. doin’ this to teach you a lesson. gotta prove t’me that y’can be good ‘n then maybe you’ll get what you want.” he pats your ass twice, as if he’s encouraging you, releases his hold over your face and lets your head flop back onto his shoulder.

by the time rafe’s finally done, you’ve wet his shirt with tears from the lack of stimulation. but apart from your quiet sniffling, and occasional twitches, you’d listened to him. you’d been good for him. you’re all hazy, brain fuzzy and there’s drool leaking from the corners of your mouth, but you manage a dopey smile when he pulls you back up. rafe smiles back at you, and if you weren’t so disoriented you’d see how hungry it was, how predatory. “there’s my girl, knew you were down there somewhere.” he strokes your face gently, rubbing your cheeks. “see, baby? not that hard to listen, hm? did good f’me, didn’t’ya? yeah, tha’s right, sweetheart, did so good for dad. deserve a reward now, c’mon. daddy’s gonna make you feel good f’bein’ good.”