#the inspo struck

[hellishgayliath]

Hellii Hellooo

Ignore my previous message, my keyboard was being STUPID and submitted it-

Anyway- 1) Does Pico know or understand the concept of a 'date'? 2) If yes, do Pico & Bao go on dates? 3) & if yes again, are they rare or common occasions?

I witness ALL MOON👀👀👀

lmao hoi anyways

I'd think so yes! I'd consider Pico being the one to ask out Bao, cuz where he grew up the animals he'd see when it came to courting each other they make their point very upfront, so if he takes interest in someone he's just gonna go for it. Plus he sees his uncles Warren and Hypno all the time and can already tell how smitten they are with other, he's no stranger to that.

Also yesssss!! I haven't drawn anything yet for them cuz I wanna draw their first meeting with each other first and foremost before I do sweetsy stuff (whenever that comes to pass)

Okay Date stuff or more like outings tho. I think Bao would enjoy taking Pico out around the Hidden City, showing him all of his favourite spots, catching in the sights etc. Pico would love it, but he still is basically a farmboy, so I think he could only handle being in large crowds and the overwhelming bustling city for so long and stick by Bao's side so they don't get separated once the wonder wears off. Bao would take this into account and try to think of areas where it's less noisy and crazy. On Pico's end of setting up dates, he'd invite him out to the forest, maybe spend some time with the dogs, go on picnics or hikes/walks. It's a good break for Bao too since he's busy running the tea shop all the time and could go for some peace and relaxation once in a while.

3. Hmmmmmmm I'd say they'd happened pretty frequently :3

[tawnysoup]

the fritter (frin critter)

[lepidoptera-art]

Lupin III and Clarisse say LGBTQIA+ Rights!!

[shiroxix]

Escher from Curse of Strahd (and a human version because wheee!)

[illiterateaffairs]

hypothetically, if i said i was slowly exiting my writing slump...but it was with a stiles stilinski x reader fic...would any one have any interest in that?

[glorber]

[prettymediocrewizard]

Finished some sketches of beloved winged Tenma + Grimmer from @good-wine-and-cheese's fic Fragile Bird. I really enjoyed this AU and wanted to draw some cute stuff for it~~

and one meme under the cut ↴

I did this redraw specifically for me... and maybe like, 2 other people if they find it amusing

[bluenightfm]

shang qinghua is THEE loudest kisser ever. like not even in the "local virgin openly moans into what most would consider a chaste kiss" loud (but yes, that too happens a lot even post-airplane chrysanthemum's destruction) but like dude cannot ever give mobei-jun a kiss without it sounding like a cheesy sound bite. full-on cartoon squeaks and mmmmmMMAAHSS where u can see his eyes start turning into balloon hearts . this is not limited to pecks or making out sloppy style i'm talking kisses on the cheek, hand, shoulder, neck, forehead, are all broadcasted to the nearest perimeter of accidental listeners . especially to the cultivators, demons, and half-demons in the room that have to bear thru it with surround sound 8D audio . mobei-jun shouldn't find this tender kiss habit thing as hot as he does but well !

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

me, out n away from my sketchbook: oh boy oh boy I cannot wait to go home n do so much drawing oh boy I have so many ideas oh man oh boy-

me, the second I get home:

[book--wyrm]

god i cannot get over the way sofia delivers that speech at family dinner

there is such grief and anguish and loss and utter devastation pouring out of every blink and syllable she bares to them

and the most any of them can muster up for her is an terse discomfort, maybe a twinge of guilt, and and a palpable desire for her to just. go away.

impossible not to feel that sofia in that moment is so raw, so hurt, so desperate for any scrap of human connection that if any one of them had even tried to genuinely reach out to her, they might also have lived.

[crime-alley-cat]

☆ | OPEN RP | ☆

The antique store that was placed flush in the middle of the Bowery and Crime Alley had been there for a long time. The front of the shop was worn, the blue paint peeling and the name of the store ('Good Old Fashioned') was written across it in white cursive. Shockingly enough, all the windows were completely intact and the displays featured items such as grandfather clocks, teapots, lamps and jewellery boxes.

Inside of the shop, the walls are lined with bookshelves, filled with novels of varying ages. Small ornaments also decorate the shelves and vintage, well-crafted tables lined the aisles, each holding more items for sale. The floor was lined with handcrafted rugs and the walls that weren't covered in bookshelves held tapestries.

At the front of the shop, lay the counter. Redwood frame, glass on the front and top. Jewellery and watches shone in the display case. A few signs rested on the top along with an ancient cash register.

"No refunds." / "No smoking." / "Don't touch the teal clock."

A girl with purple hair, wearing an old band shirt too worn to see the logo and baggy grey jeans, stood behind the counter. She flicked through an old book lazily.

[tabooi]

The cast of The Wizard of Oz on This Morning <3

[dualquille]

My take on Kaladin Stormblessed (inspired by @thenerdyalchemist’s gorgeous art!)

[dragon-spaghetti]

[explodingstarlight]

was struck by the impulse to create a trolls sona and realized no one could stop me

[misericorsalvator]

An Epitaph

Henry didn't know where he was. It was cold, freezing, but that was all he could tell, from the sharp chill that tore through his damp clothes, to the frigid air that felt like icicles in his lungs when he breathed. Even if he was someplace familiar, it would have been impossible to tell through the veil of rime in the air, the thick hoar that coated the ground. But wherever he was, he had to find shelter. soon, before his limbs grew any number that they already were and he lost the three fingers he had left on his right hand to frostbite. It took a good deal of walking, trudging through the snow, before he found something resembling sanctuary. A rocky hovel dug deep into a mountainside he hadn't even noticed was there. The crooked mountaintop loomed far overhead like a wind-swept pine tree, towering over the barren expanse and shielding the small patch of land near the cave's entrance from the worst of the snowfall. It was a narrow fit, the opening more narrow than a coffin, but it opened up into a wide chamber beyond, dark, lit only by the little light reflecting on the snow outside.

Panic stabbed at him suddenly. That chamber felt familiar, though he couldn't recall from where. The rockface of the walls was smooth, man-made, and the stalactites hanging from the domed ceiling above were unnatural, all the same length, jagged and sharpened to fine points. But he had no time to waste on the unnerving interior. The weather outside was getting worse, the wind howling like wolves on a hunt, and soon his shelter would be just as cold and dangerous as the outside. He had to think, find a way to keep the warmth in. Henry returned to the entrance. He twisted around in the narrow space as best he could and began piling up snow with his numb hands, stacking it, pressing it into shape, mouthing breathless curses to himself, until he had built a solid wall halfway up to his neck. It should last. He didn't know for how long, but at least for now, until he could catch his breath. It had to last.

Henry slumped against the wall of the cave. The barrier he had built offered some protection, but he could still feel the cold creeping in, seeping through the gaps and cracks in the snow. A damp chill gnawed at his bones, freezing the air in his lungs. He knew he had to keep moving, to do something, anything, to stay warm and awake. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Not here. Not now. But his limbs were leaden and his body creaked in protest with every movement. His teeth chattered as he tried to think, tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. The harder he tried, however, the more his thoughts seemed to slip away, like sand through his fingers. Panic clawed at his chest once more as he looked around the cavern. The walls seemed to close in, the smooth stone shimmering with a thin layer of rime frost. The ceiling above with the unnaturally sharp stalactites, loomed over him like a mouth full of fangs. He had to get out.

Henry pushed himself off the wall, his legs shaking beneath him. The snow was piling up faster now, further in through the entrance than the wall he had built, and he frantically began to shovel it away with his hands, trying to clear a path through the narrow gap. He shovelled harder, floundered, grappled til his fingers were too numb to move, but for every tiny hopeful opening he made, more snow took its place, as if the storm outside was determined to bury him alive. The cold was unbearable now, seeping into his very soul. Outside, the wind roared, a feral sound that echoed through the cavern and made the air thick with cold. Each breath now was a knife to the chest, each inhale burning his lungs. The snow crawled closer, blocking the entrance fully, and began to cover the cave floor inch by painful inch, forcing the hunter back step by painful step.

Henry's mind was reeling. He stumbled further into the cave, away from the encroaching cold, the bones of his legs creaking in protest. The deeper he went, the more the walls seemed to close in on him, the smooth rock pressing down, suffocating. The quiet there was unnerving, an oppressive stillness that made him painfully aware of his own laboured breathing and the pounding of his heart. The silence of the grave. For what felt like an hour, he pushed himself forward against the stone walls, cowering under the stalactites which were now low enough to graze the top of his head. No matter how far he went, the snow followed close behind, blocking the way back. Henry's movements grew slower, more sluggish, until he could no longer outrun it, and that white frost began piling up around his boots. He felt the fight leave him, his breathing weakened, his heartbeat slowed.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a single snowflake, delicate and perfect, drifting down from the ceiling above. His breath caught in his throat as he watched it fall, impossibly slow, through solid rock. It glowed faintly in the dim light and Henry’s eyes followed its descent, almost hypnotized, until it landed softly on the ground. On something dark, something that wasn’t stone. He crouched down, his stiff knees cracking in protest, and wiped away the snow, his fingers brushing against a cold, unyielding surface.

A hand.

His hand.

His breath caught in his throat. He was looking at himself, at his own lifeless body, crumpled and broken, half-buried in the snow. The wounds were horrific—deep gashes and punctures that were draining the life out of him-- and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

This wasn't real.

The snow, the cold, it was all in his head, growing blurry as his brain ran out of oxygen. And the cavern wasn’t just familiar—it was the place he was dying, right now, in the real world. The place where his body was lying, bleeding out into the cold ground, his blood darkening the stone ground.

For a third time, panic surged through him, but it was laced with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The wind howled louder, and now Henry could make out voices, battle cries, screeching and yowling in twisted satisfaction. The snow now poured into the cave through the solid ceiling above, burying everything in its path. He wanted to claw his way out, to escape this nightmare, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The snow was too thick, too heavy, pressing down on him from all sides. As his vision began to blur, the walls of the cave pulsed, breathing with a life of their own, in tandem with his own slowed breaths. The snow continued to fall, endlessly, burying him, until all he could see was white. And then, from the heart of the storm, he saw a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette that moved with unnatural grace, cutting through the blizzard as if it were nothing. Henry tried to focus, but his mind was slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying like old cloth.

His final thoughts drifted to Bran. A deep guilt welled up inside him. He wouldn’t make it home for Christmas this year. He wouldn’t see his boy’s face light up when he opened his presents, wouldn’t hear his laughter echoing through the house. Regret gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. In his last moments, as the darkness closed in, Henry barely registered the sharp pain in his chest—a bite, cold and searing, as if winter itself had latched onto his heart, and his eyes froze over with unshed tears until the world faded and he breathed his last.

In a long-forgotten catacomb in Wales, as the last drop of Henry's blood soaked into the humid ground, something ancient stirred. Beneath the layers of earth and stone, within the crypt that had long been forgotten, a pair of eyes snapped open. After centuries of entombment, something awoke. The blood of the dying hunter seeped into its consciousness, filling it with the remnants of Henry's life, his memories, his regrets. And once the blood had ran dry, the ancient knight rose from his tomb, his eyes burning with a cold, unholy fire.

He tore through the killers, the blood-thirsty beasts who had chased their prey to the ancient tomb, splattering the walls with their undead blood that burnt to ash, until none were left. Then, he looked down at the broken body of the hunter who had unwittingly become his saviour. With a grim sense of purpose, the knight knelt beside Henry’s lifeless form. He whispered words in a dialect long dead, a prayer, perhaps, or a vow. Then, with a reverence reserved for fallen comrades, the knight lifted the hunter’s body and carried him deeper into the crypt, where heroes were once laid to rest, where the knight's own tomb stood, broken apart from within. The hunter was gone, his spirit entwined with the ancient knight’s own, but his legacy would live on, honoured by one of the very creatures he had once sought to destroy.

The knight sealed the tomb with a final, solemn gesture, then left the catacombs behind and stepped out into the warm summer night, into a world which had long outlived him.