#wip: burned
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back to the shadows 🌑
inspired by the storm by pierre auguste cot, shri’iia and astarion running away from the sun bc he’s a vampire and she has sunlight sensitivity.
please zoom in to see the details! 🥹🫶
#astarion ancunin#astarion x tav#astarionmance#bg3 tav#drow tav#baldur’s gate 3#bg3#hag romance.#mine.#oc: shri’iia.#this is finally done….OMG …the amount of grief this has given me is insane…#I redid the bg 4 times bc I was trying something new but it didn’t work out the way I wanted to sigh#this wip has been sitting in my folders for so long it’s actually one of the first wips I made of them and im very glad I decided to hold#it off until now bc idt I would’ve delivered it the way I wanted to before#but I rlly like how this turned out!! 🥹🥹🥹 her armour is so ridiculous I love it#also love how she’s serving face and he’s like. burning lmfaooo#but who SAID I don’t finish my hag romance drawings!!!!!!! who said that!!!!!
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PRAIRIE WOLF | prologue
domestic violence, abuse (not Price). unexpected pregnancy. implied age gap.
MASTERLIST. AO3
He's a regular at the diner you work at.
Sits in the same spot, orders the same thing. Doesn't say much, but—according to Elliot—he never does. English, too. A foreigner. But here longer than you've been. Grown roots. Stretched his legs.
He owns a cabin in the woods that be built with his bare hands, and does odd jobs around town wherever he's needed. Mostly carpentry. Woodwork. Only forty, Elliot says, and already semi-retired. Military grunt, though (and in a terrible, exaggerated cockney accent, he adds) back home.
Running from something, he surmises, and you try not to feel flayed under his heavy, pointed stare, offering little more than a shrug you hope is more blase than you feel and a flat, aren't we all? so what makes his marathon so special?
Comes by at five in the morning, fours hours into a twelve hour shift. Likes, what he calls, an English Breakfast.
He isn't like some of the men who show up after midnight, or in the early hours. Blue collar works hungry for more than rubbery pancakes and coffee. The ones who ignore the split in your lip, hidden under a thick coat of lipstick, the puffiness of your eye. Whispering oil-slick charm at quarter to three in the morning when the pregnancy test you stole from the dollarrama is still buried under bloodied toilet paper in the motel you've converted into a temporary home.
Price—John Price—stares at the mess of your pretty face and meets the ugliness head-on, eyes narrowed into something that might be suspicion. Askance. Wariness. Some amalgamation of what the fuck happened to you and don't bring that mess over to my table.
Quiet. In theory.
You've heard him talk—this low, growling thing; the misfire of an engine, a rumble that reminds you of the old Plymouth Fury your dad had. Dangerous. Men like him usually are.
Little girl fantasies spun into real life. Duct tape. Magnets to girls like you with all the broken pieces, fragile parts. And with the bruises bubbling under your skin—burst blood vessels, fist-sized—and the—
The kid, you suppose. Baby. You can't afford to get wrapped up into something like that no matter how many times you catch him staring.
Watching.
The other server always handles his order when he arrives. Since starting work here four months ago, you maybe had all of a single conversation when you floated through the diner in search of something to do.
more coffee? a glance. a grunt. yeah, love. I'll have some more.
So you ignore it. Him. Keep your head down and pour cup after cup to the other regulars who congregate and pretend you aren't living in a motel to escape a man who seems to prefer you bruised up and bloody. Who—
Knocked you up.
Your hand goes there. To your belly. Nauseous, suddenly, with the thought of it. This.
When you glance up, unease prickling across your nape, you catch him staring at you. At the hand still splayed over your stomach. Something frisson across his expression—whiplike: ripples over a lake—but it's too fast, fleeting, for you to catch. Tucked back inside the folds of his patented frown, the ever present crease between his thick, umbre brows.
John lifts his eyes from your ringless hand, the swollen index finger from when you made the mistake of pointing to the door, trying to stand firm with your luggage hidden in the bushes, and meets your gaze. Stares at you head-on. Implacable as always. Blank.
But—and it's so silly, really—for a moment, you thought it was hunger. Something heavy and dark. Possessive.
Then his head dips. A shallow nod. John looks away, eyes slanting towards the window as if he didn't have to tear his gaze away from your belly. From you.
Your heart is in your throat. This too thick, fragile thing thudding against your jugular. Hard to breathe, hard to swallow around it. In the way—
Outside, tires squeal against the pavement.
John tenses. A shadow falling over his brow, a tug on his lips hidden under thick, wry curls.
You don't know what it is until the familiar gurgle of an engine cuts through the silent diner.
He looks back at you as a door slams. A shout erupts.
Fear is a thick, oily sludge filling your lungs. Tarlike. Sticky molasses. It burns, corrosive, and eats away at your tissue until a hole forms, letting spill out inside of you. To your belly where it hardens into a ferric ball of panic.
You thought you had time. One last shift. Collect your paycheck and then run—
But he found you.
He bellows out your name, angry and a little slurred. Drunk. High. Like the passive, maltreated dog he turned you into, you follow the sound, cowing a little when you see him stumble into the diner, face collapsed into fury.
There's a clatter. The hollow echo of wood hitting linoleum. Screams, his yells. It's all muted in your head. Panic throbbing against your ears, stuffing them full of cotton.
His bruised, marled fist reaches for you—
But John gets there first. His broad stretch of his back filling your vision as he pushes himself into the empty space between you and this man, hands raised, catching his mangled fist in one and grabbing a handful of his shirt, tugging him closer. It's all raw, untameable anger as he huffs into the man's face, grinding the words out on a rough, animalistic snarl—
"Touch her again, and it'll be the last thing you ever fuckin' do."
Stress like this ain't good for the baby, the paramedic tells you, brown eyes dampening with a thick ring of sympathy as she turns over your wrist, and dabs cool, wet cotton over the welts on your skin.
She's pushing for you to press charges. Keeps swiping at your skin to unveil more of your hidden hurts to the police officer that holds an old kodak in his hands and snaps, snaps, snaps at every weakness, each vulnerability she offers up.
It'd be the smart thing to do. He's already being booked on assault, threats. Battery for hitting John on the shoulder, the only place he could reach, with the shovel left by the cooks to scrape the snow away from the spot they usually gather around to smoke. No one brings up the fact that John was choking the life out of him at the time, and the bruises around his neck—ugly red fingerprints—are easily ignored.
Adding domestic violence to the list of charges, she mutters, will keep him locked up. Away from you. Can file for a restraining order, the cop adds, scratching the back of his neck as the camera sits, poised and intrusive, in his other hand.
The problem is that you've been through this before.
Like mother, like daughter.
The knife twists a little deeper. Gouges out another pound of flesh lost to a broken home. Another cog in a ruinous system. Poor kid, below the poverty line, with a dad who sold drugs and mother who did them. Dime a dozen.
And with that comes the knowledge that his sentence will be lighter than they're alluding to—if he has one at all. Upstanding citizen before he got shackled in with the wrong crowd, the runaway. Trouble who breezed through and picked the son of an attorney in the big city some three hours away from this town, this dilapidated diner. Sinking claws in.
My son never drank or did drugs before, your honour—
He'll get off with a slap on the wrist because he's never been in trouble before.
Your dad, too—in jail for the weekend when your mother relented to the impassioned beseeches given to her by rookie cops who just wanted that arrest notch on their belt. Saw a judge on Monday. Prison too crowded for such a paltry offense.
The hurt, after, was always worse than what he went to jail for.
So. No. You won't press charges even though you know you should. It'll take too long and you don't plan on staying much longer. Not with your luggage packed in the trunk. The cheque shoved clumsily into your hands when the manager came out to make a fuss, angling a purpling finger in your direction—nothin' but trouble since the day you were hired—only to be stopped by the wall that is John Price, a snarl pulling up at his lips as he barked call the fuckin' police and, low, as if he didn't want you to hear, adding: you ever point your finger at her again like that, and I'll hang you from the goddamn rafters.
You're not sure why he's still here, standing watch. On guard. His bloodied, bruised hands shoved into his armpits as he paces back and forth like a caged tiger unaware the door has been open the whole time. Stalking. Taking measured, meaningful steps towards anyone who tries to come over—badge or not. Barking out orders. Lancing people with his glare when they tread too closely.
Good fucking samaritan, you think, eyes riveted on the blood drying over the gravel. Your head looping, weaving in arching circles as you try to contend with the fact that it somehow isn't yours, but his.
Maybe that's why he stays. Obligation. Civic duty. It makes you snort, and the paramedic glances at you sharply, assessing in that too thick, too kind, way of hers.
"You doin' okay, mama?"
And you wish she wouldn't call you that. Make it real. Mama. Your idea of motherhood, of mothers and moms and mamas, is a woman slumped on the couch, passed out after staying up all night talking to ghosts. Nails caked with the dust of percocets and restoril and oxycodone (oxycotton, she's always called it). Popping mouthful of pills in the morning, afternoon, evening, and night. An assortment to keep her functional—and asleep.
Nodding off in the middle of conversations. Or fighting it to stay high. Irritated and combative whenever she ran out, supply gone dry.
Toxic.
Neglectful—at best.
You can't think about what you'll end up doing to this kid with her blood in your veins. Her ghosts in your head.
John moves. A shadow in the corner of your eye. "'bout enough of that, don't you think?"
She backs up, startled by the aggression in his voice. "I just—"
You think you hate them both. "I'm fine."
She looks back at you, searching. Wanting that assurance, but whatever she's looking to find, it isn't there. You won't give it, and eventually she nods. Peels back. "Okay. If you feel any soreness at all, if anything changes, come to the hospital."
The nod is for her benefit only, and she takes it with a deep inhale.
It thins out after that. The cop and his camera leave, too, after making you take the paperwork needed to file charges. If you change your mind. His number in smeared blue ink on the back. The paramedics go after another futile round of are you sure you don't want to get checked out at the hospital that's decline with a shake of your head.
It's just you and Price now. Your beatup Saturn three spots away from his truck—an old Ford you hadn't been expecting a man like him to drive, with his thick Levi jacket and his steel-toed boots. Standing there with an armful of paper that's going to go in the trash, you're not sure what to do. How to untangle yourself from the claws of this vicious bear that seems content to loom over you like an unasked for cloud, glaring down at you from the bridge of his nose. Expression pinched, like he's displeased. Mad.
You've had enough of angry men, though, and you turn, offering a hollow smile that works it's way around your mouth like a grimace. "Guess I should head home—"
"Running, mm?"
You blink. "Sorry?"
He leans down, all grit and blunt teeth. "That your plan? Runnin' away from all'a this? Find another town. Another motel."
Another man.
He doesn't say it, but it's there. The implication. The idea. It rankles down your spine, a whitehot ooze of shame. Of anger.
"You don't know me," you spit, all anger and indignation. Embarrassment so sharp, it cuts. "You don't know anything about me."
He rocks back on his heel, mouth flattening into an even line. "No, I don't. But I know your type."
"You—"
The indignity is increased tenfold when he meets your ire with an impassive stare, so firm in his assessment of you that he doesn't even bulk when you glare at him. When you rage in quiet fury, shoulders shaking.
"You'll run," he continues, bulling over the vitriol that stutters out in broken squeals of anger. "You'll find a new place. And it'll be fine for a little while but then you'll end up in the same situation because that's all you know, isn't it? S'why you're not pressing charges. Why you got your bag in your back seat. The slightest pressure and you bolt—straight into the same predicament you're in now."
"It's not my fault—"
"No," he grinds the word, firm and sure, and it snatches you by the throat because no one has ever agreed with you on that. It's not your fault. It's just—
"—all you know."
"What am I supposed to do differently, huh? Stay and press charges that won't stick? Wait for him to get out, frothing at the mouth for revenge? Yeah, right," you scoff, rolling your eyes up towards the stale sky. "End up as another statistic? Or—"
Like your mother. It quiets you. Snuffs the flames. All you feel is scraped raw. Hollowed out. Empty and hitting and—
"So you'll just run your whole life? Until it catches up to you, mm? What happens when someone finds you in a place you can't run? When you're all alone, and cornered?"
It tastes like defeat. Resignation. "You think I haven't thought of that before?"
From the corner of your eye, you see him shrug. "Got yourself into a little mess, but it ain't the end of the world. Jus' got to fix it. Can't do that when you run."
"And what's your solution? Find another job, hope that his charges stick? He—"
Drained you financially. Beat you bloody.
You shake your head. "The best thing to do is to leave. I'll be smarter, I'll—"
He scoffs. You ignore it, hands shaking.
"I can't. I just—I can't."
"Come stay with me," he says. Just like that. Stay with me. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Come stay with me. "Got a spare room."
"I don't even know you—"
"People rent to strangers all the time."
"I don't have a job. Money. I can't pay you—"
"Been needin' a receptionist for some time. Pay is fair. Hourly."
You blink, eyes hot. Wet. You feel the sharp edge of hope digging in, that deadly, terrible thing that only ever falls apart when you finally relax.
"Just like that?"
He nods, sharp and firm. "Jus' like that."
"I have a kid," you blurt out, panicked. This conversation is getting away from you. Slipping through your fingers. And the worst is that it sounds so good. Too good. "I'm—I'm pregnant," you add like he doesn't already know. Hadn't heard you mutter it to the paramedic hours ago.
The look he levels you with is an incendiary thing. You feel it in your chest. Deadcentre. "I know," he rasps, head bending down closer to you. "Doesn't change anythin'."
"How could it not?"
"How should it?" He counters.
"In a few months, when the baby is here—"
"I won't change my mind."
"You say that now," you breathe, pulse thudding in your ears. "But when it's screaming in the middle of the night, and—"
His hand reaches out slowly, like he's trying not to startle a horse. Fingers grazing your arm, warm and rough, before closing around your wrist. The one that's bruised and sore. Swollen in his hand. Its done with measured purpose, confidence, that the panic doesn't have time to surge. Instincts too incipient to keep up with the sure, steady way he winds around you.
With his hand on your wrist, fingers folding over the hurt—hiding them—he leans down, thumb stroking along your skittish, unraveling pulse, and makes you meet his stare. Open, maybe, for the first time since you met him. All raw want, naked truth. The bare, fractured look is enough to steal the air in your lungs, snuffing out the innate protests that spume whenever someone offers any sort of help or charity. The no crushed under his heel.
"m'a man of my word," he low, drawing the words out. "I'll be there for the cryin' and the dirty diapers and the sleepless nights."
"And when I can't work for you?"
His lips quirk. "I offer better MAT leave than most places. Reckon you could even do the bloody job from bed."
"Price, that's—this is insane—"
"John," he grunts, giving another shrug before peeling away from you. "Savin' me the trouble of talking to these idiots. Ain't nothin' crazy about that."
"I could be a horrible person. A murderer. Rob you blind, and leave you with you nothing."
It has the opposite effect of scaring him off. If anything, he looks amused. Squares his shoulders, stands to his full—intimidating, impressive—height. Stares down at you with a brow quirked and strange gleam in his eyes.
"Think I can handle myself, love. And if you wanna rob me, bite the hand, so to speak, then I promise you, you won't like the consequences."
You swallow. His tone sparks against your sense of self-preservation, and you fight the urge to take a step back. To put distance between yourself and this grizzly-like man with blunt teeth and sharp claws.
He senses your hesitation. Must because he quiets, shoulders sinking. Hand warm on your skin, giving a slight squeeze before he lets go. You ignore the urge to chase that heat again, and hide a shiver behind a shift.
"How 'bout a test ride, mm? A trial. Stay for a few weeks and then decide if you still want to leave."
Too good to be true. You know this deep down in your marrow. Every instinct inside of you rebelling against this, screaming trap, it's a trap. But there's a truth to what he says, and maybe if you weren't pregnant, you would have flipped him off and ran because men like him aren't kind to girls like you unless they have a reason to be.
You're just not sure what he has to gain in all of this. Why he put himself between you and harm without so much as a sparing glance. Stayed, too, and barked at everyone who got too close. A thunderous shadow full of teeth.
And maybe it's that. The blood concealing into a thick, pulpy plum over the split of his knuckles, the blood on the gravel that isn't yours, the goosebumps rising over the spot he touched, colder than the rest of your skin, that makes you quieten under his heavy stare. Softening into something agreeable. Unreasonable. Instincts shoved into a box.
So you nod and let him place his hand over the small of your back, guiding you to his truck with a firm nudge. Say anything when he helps you in, hands fastening the seatbelt with a clipped I'll be back when he finishes, keeping his wary eyes on you even as he moves quickly towards your car, grabbing your suitcase from the back. Promises to get your car later, too. Bring it back to his house.
And yours, too, he adds, glancing your way after he tosses the suitcase in the backseat, searching for something you're not sure he'll find. So you look away, staring at the dust on the dashboard as he rounds the truck, and slips into the front seat. It smells like him. Fresh leather and the wild. Cedar and moss. Tobacco. Something heady. Masculine. Soaked sage. Loam. Gasoline.
You lean back on the headrest, breathing it in. Trying not to think.
You'll keep your luggage packed. The keys in the ignition. When whatever it is he's planning comes to the forefront, you'll be ready to run.
But right now—
You just want to sleep. Your jaw aches. Your wrist. There's a knot in your stomach—not good for the baby—and it thickens each time you look at his bloodied knuckles curled loosely over the steering wheel, the other on the stick. Close enough that you can feel the heat bleeding into your knee. All fire and spite, and—
Touch her again, and it'll be the last thing you ever fuckin' do.
"Get some rest," he grunts, eyes slanting towards you in a brief, heavy flick. "I'll stop and get some food soon, too, but it's a two hour drive to mine. And you look dead on your feet, sweetheart."
Love. Sweetheart. I won't change my mind.
You swallow down the protest that swells, the lingering residuum of self-preservation that won't let you bear your neck just yet, and offer a slow nod, blaming the easy submission on fatigue. These aches and pains that weep, tender to the touch.
Your eyes slip shut against your better judgement, the warm interior of the truck, his smell, bleeding a sense of soporific comfort you can't remember the last time you ever felt. Just a quick nap, you think. Long enough to rest your eyes—
It's swallowed under the deluge of exhaustion that rushes through when your shoulders drop, lax. He mutters something, but it's awash under the seafoam that fills your ears, lapping waves dragging you further and further away from shore. Something that sounds like girl good but you can't be sure. Hypnagogia is a terrible a thing that likes to spin dreams, play pretend in the cradle of your subconsciousness until the lines between reality and fantasy blur. Ignoring it is easier than admitting that it floods you with a warmth so deep, sweat gathers along your hairline. Feverish and sickly sweet.
Fingers dance along the edge of your brow, rough and coarse, and it's a devastating thing, isn't it? All this tenderness along the broken edges of yourself, nails grazing the fractures like they can be fixed, pushed back into place, and not as if they're about to shatter. It makes you want to lash out even though you can't feel your body anymore, stuck between worlds of wake and rest. Later, maybe, when the phantom press doesn't feel so sweet you'll snap—broken jaw and brittle teeth—at his hand until he remembers to never touch you again. A risk he won't take.
But with the knot in your belly, a baby there, too, and a body more contusion than flesh, you let it happen. Mewl, maybe, a quiet little slip of a thing, and curve into the palm resting over your cheek. Small and docile, leaching comfort as fast as you can before you remember yourself.
in the moonglade, you murmur thank you and swallow down a rough, painful sound when he scoffs under his breath, and says ain't got nothin' to thank me for, sweetheart.
#this is rough and messy but i woke up with this idea burning in my head and couldn't write it out fast enough#john price x reader#captain john price x reader#wips#fic: prairie wolf
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wound tree martyr doodle from before work ‼️‼️‼️
#i was gonna post this alongside some other stuff but i realised when i got home that. all i have is shitty sketches and a burn study wip#siltcord very much hyped me up thank you guys :^]#always the sweetest i tell you#the silt verses#the silt verses fanart#the wound tree#nonsexual nudity#body horror#gore#catwip
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Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones…
#fallout#joshua graham#the burned man#fallout new vegas#is this anatomically correct? f no#fnv#malpais legate#sketch#wip#new vegas#honest hearts#fallout honest hearts#burned man#art#digital art#let me just reiterate that the dlc is deeply flawed and joshua graham is not a good man
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wyd in this situation 🙈
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Posting a sneak-peak of this now because I'm about to be In The Shit school workload-wise, so this'll take me a while to finish.
Doing some character design exploration/expression sheets for Celestia and Luna. Figuring out Celestia's weird ass anatomy while I'm at it.
#mlp#celestia#fanart#my art#wip#the grand galloping 20s#delete later#look at me fucking smart guy signed up for 4 art classes in one quarter#so now i have 4 concurrent art/film/creative writing projects going on at the same fucking time#taking bets on how fast i burn out#anyways the idea behind the faces is the front face is the surface. it displays whatever emotions celestia intends when she's in control.#the two side faces––sadness and anger––are sides of her she has less control over. i drew all 3 faces active for the exploration#but in reality only 1 is active at a time. the others will either close their eyes or go catatonic like a puppet or doll#the final face on the back of the head is the deep subconscious. every ugly and violent and hateful thought and emotion#that lies buried under the surface. celestia has no control over that side of her. if she ever wakes
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Nutmeg Tiger, it's okay. Burning Spice is just being Anon's designated chew toy-
#art wip#burning spice cookie#So yeah there's gonna be some art with this dude for this week :P#Originally I was gonna have Saffron instead of Nutmeg there#but then I thought that guy's too much of a scrub to talk with Burning Spice casually ASDFGDFGH /lh#The idea for what I'm working on is basically going off the concept of people who like biting their partners :>
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𓃗
𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞
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𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ꥟ Joel Miller x Fem!Reader
𝑆𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛!
𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ꥟ It had been years since you ran away from Joel Miller, a hunter, frightened for your life and of who he had become. Before the infected roamed he was the grumpy single father of a chirpy little girl who lived across the street from you and kept himself to himself… until he didn’t, not with you at least when you began watching over Sarah while he couldn’t. He became someone who you could talk to, a friend dare you say, a silly little crush and your lifeline at the beginning of the apocalypse.
Now you are residing in Jackson, a slice of heaven in a cruel world, the perfect distraction from your past and the hell you went through to get away from it. However, you realise that the past really does always come back to haunt you when all too familiar faces arrive at Jackson and you have no other choice but to face Joel again, who makes it his mission to fix your broken friendship.
Unable to fight your heart, feelings resurface and lines blur when it becomes clear that you are just as much Joel’s lifeline as he is yours.
𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!
𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ꥟ Horror themes, not following the second season/game so kinda au, reader can sing and play guitar, weapons, bad language, death, parental neglect, angst, mentions of pregnancy and stillbirth, blood, violence, nightmares, PTSD, a lil smidge of dark!Joel, Jackson!Joel, soft & protective with a bit of a dad bod!Joel, unrequited love until it isn’t, jealousy, mutual pining, age gap (reader is 36 and Joel is 56) and smUUUUT (‼️) so you must be 18+ to read❗️
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬!) ↯
𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞
𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦 <3
𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫 ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! 🫶
𓃗
#immie writes#joel miller#pedro pascal#the last of us#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller x y/n#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x female reader#joel miller smut#joel miller series#joel miller slow burn#pedro pascal x reader#the last of us series#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#joel miller angst#joel miller age gap#joel miller fluff#joel miller the last of us#the last of us fanfiction#the last of us fic#jackson!joel#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal fic#joel miller hbo#joel miller wip#joel miller pedro pascal#joel miller masterlist#Joel miller writing
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the roach and cheese compel me
#hi i keep. forgetting tumblrs real#and that i need to post the drawings i make#anyways they're haunting me theyre gripping me and dragging me screaming from my pureshadow wips#cookie run#crk fanart#cookie run kingdom#burning spice cookie#golden cheese cookie#not ship but could be#do they have a ship name?#i have forgor#my drawbs
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on god i am COOKED wip
#these mfs got me so cooked im drawing BACKGROUNDS FOR THEM#i love their dynamic dude wTF#never been one for the enemy dynamic but ho boy did they show me the way#art#cookie run kingdom#crk#crk fanart#burningcheese#goldenspice#golden cheese cookie#burning spice cookie#wip#crnl's crk journal
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i know they underutilized the frankenstein aspect in the movie but it really does feel like the creature was perfectly created for lisa regardless. from what we saw, he spent his whole life lonely; dead parents, isolating social life, failed romantic prospects, the whole shebang, but he never gets to do anything about it because he dies, suddenly and unstoppably. until he’s suddenly alive again and the whole world is different but there’s this girl who tended to his grave when nobody else would have given him that respect, who’s experiencing the same things he did who actually has the chance to get back at the people who didn’t care for her, one tiny bit of familiarity to him… of course he’s going to kill for her just to see her happy.
#i’m just rambling atp but i really love them man#hits esp hard if you’re annoying like me and factor in trans!creature#theres something so intriguing about devotion to the point of destruction#burning the whole world down for a place in each others arms#lisa frankenstein#b.txt#i’m gonna explore this more in my current wip i think#once i get the scene rip refs i need
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jamlizul dynamic
#twst#twst oc#jamil viper#azul ashengrotto#lizette teller#bibi draws#this has been sitting in my wips for way too long lmao I'm just gonna post it#I swear jamil and liz both like azul...eventually#in good slow burn fashion admitting that to themselves is another hurdle entirely#jamilizul
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wait did i not post my mh study doodles here
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/ac14975b2047f81718906d9f00123243/1e6f360a683140c0-4c/s540x810/7f82216d2fa6af67ceda0f07968ad9331c510aad.jpg)
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just me learning the main fellas
#my wips#marble hornets#slowly produced these over the past few weeks and lost sleep for it every time#i hate the 40 hour work week burn it to death
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![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/2f2340054f9e79d5827e698cb208d0b7/75a672fa01c2097d-ac/s540x810/03c90bca8e83e3e57167866d1ef812390ad0ba46.jpg)
Lights out
#I spedran this in abt 45 mins#I have a massive perfectionism issue with my art where if I start something beyond a WIP I have to full out complete it#If its a WIP I have no problem abandoning it#But otherwise I can't simplify#And it's a massive problem as it leads to burn out as well as frustration and anxiety over my art#So this is the beginning of me trying to let go an learn to leave things messy or simpler#Also I miss them sm#They really are everything to me <33#Tim Drake#Bernard Dowd#Timber#Timbern#I do have an actual piece in the work as well :D#My art
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![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/067aae300262cb709373e02c2949ffa7/c48d21b408d8c7aa-fd/s540x810/480cacc9f7f20c33469aa60437a12bb4764a0192.jpg)
Make the first shot count. You won't get a second.
#fallout#joshua graham#fallout new vegas#fnv#fallout: new vegas#the burned man#fallout honest hearts#malpais legate#honest hearts#burned man#art#digital art#sketch#wip#let me just reiterate that the dlc is deeply flawed and joshua graham is not a good man
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![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/c4092ca10820535f69ec38fd03f4ba00/f4a60bb083a0eb97-1a/s540x810/c4374d3c5567fccec778e4a505ebba6ab1f529dd.jpg)
uh oh we’re doing it
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