In a lot of folklore, faries are hurt by or reppeled by iron
Concept:
Due to Bilbos' fae heritage, he's allergic to iron.
He would say it irritates his skin, but truthfully, it burns him. Even small brushes against the metal make it look like he was burned by a hot brand for days.
He obviously doesn't think to bring it up with anyone. It didn't seem important until Thorin's hand gently brushed the back of his, and Bilbo pulled back with a hiss.
Thorin stared wide-eyed (and a little heartbroken) for a second until he spotted the strip of red skin Bilbo was trying to hide.
"You're hurt, when did that happen?" Thorin went to take the hobbits hand for a better look, but Bilbo skittered back in a slight panic.
"Ah no it-It..well I think it was your ring," Bilbo said.
"My ring?"
Bilbo revealed the small rectangular burn on the back of his freckled hand and Thorin had to bite back a gasp.
"I'm allergic to iron you see, it ma-"
Before Bilbo could even finish the sentence, Thorin had wrenched his ring off his finger and thrown it with all his might into the forest.
Bilbo couldn't quite find his words for a few minutes as he stared slack jawed in the direction the ring had vanished into.
Thorin had just thrown off his ring. Thrown it. His ring he had worn every day Bilbo had known the dwarf. He just threw it into some bushes and would likely never see hide or hair of it again.
my 20 page kingdom hearts comic featuring Saïx/Isa and Xion (2019). I really don't know what possessed me to do this tbh, but I was so proud of actually finishing it! Probably one of the longest comics I've ever drawn!!! I really like drawing comiiccssss
already feel like deleting this LMAOOO ive never posted anything like this and it feels so weird and new but flambert took over me 💔 hoping to whoevers up there that ppl i know irl wont find this hsgsheb
One day someone on the team jokingly called Robert "mom". Robert rolled with it a did his best impression of a concerned mother, reminding his "kids" to wash hands before lunch (looking at you, Punch Up) and to pee before next shift. The joke went on and became daily thing. With dispatcher bearing honorary title of Mama Robert. With occasional laughs of "Your dad doesn't pay enough child support for it" referring to small salary. HR finally wakes up and decides to get on Robert's ass about inappropriate language. Z-team storm into their meetings demanding that HR leave their Mama the fuck alone. HR calls higher-ups. Big guys up there don't really care what the fuck Mecha Man is doing as long as he provides good results with Phoenix program. And he does. If his uncontrollable team wants to call him mom, buy him a stroller. End of discussion. HR feeling humiliated and swear this is the start if their villain ark
Here’s a collection of sketches/doodles I’ve been sitting on with my Persephone au 🙏 I have five more that couldn’t fit within the limit so I’ll share them in a separate post later tonight
I’m trying to flesh out what their interactions/dynamic are like and maybe I’ll go back and do some more polished pieces with them later
I’m in so deep, I have like this whole secret plot formulated in my head 🫣
Here's Gabby in the style of the cover art from Gris 🙌
I Was listening to the Gris game soundtrack by Berlinist, and then the theme 'Komorebi' started playing, and at about 4:48, the base tune sounds EXACTLY LKE THE NOTES OF GABBRO'S FLUTE!!! Literally put my hand over my heart when that happened 😭
Then I go and look up the definition of 'Komorebi', and this is what Google says:
'"Komorebi (木漏れ日) is a Japanese word that describes the sunlight that filters and shines through the leaves of trees, creating a mesmerizing play of light and shadow. It's a poetic term for the dappled light and dancing shadows on the forest floor or any sunlit scene filtered by tree branches."
Now, if any of you have read my fic 'Refraction', you can imagine what this sparked in my brain 🥺
Spoilers, thought dump, and 'Void version' below:
SPOILERS:
Gris struck a very deep chord for me, as the game is about a young woman's loss and journey through the five stages of grief. Each stage is represented by a colour, and the progression of the game introduces more colours to your surroundings.
By the end of the game, you will have faced your biggest obstacle: yourself (which is different for everyone, whether it be fear of moving on, self doubt, or depression), and learned to recover your 'voice', which for me is symbolic of finding joy after the pain, and becoming what makes you You again.
Thoughts:
Having lost two parent figures in rapid succession, this game had me weeping. I don't know how developers and storytellers manage to create games like Outer Wilds and Gris in such a way that they help those who connect with the story and music to heal in some way, but this was certainly the case for me.
Why Gabby for this piece? Because of my HCs for them according to the Refraction/Postcards verse: Loneliness and loss, invalidation and being misunderstood, helplessness and guilt, have driven them to isolate and repress themself both physically and emotionally. Despite these things, Gabbro is still a subject to the need for connection, but fear holds them back from reaching out or allowing themself to be vulnerable.
I hope by the end of the story, Gabby will have been freed from the burden of guilt, and find the strength to let others in again despite the fear of disappointing or being disappointed.
You were probably his first real listener. First fan, even.
His account had no followers. No clout. No tags. He wasn’t even looking for one. He just posted banger songs—heavy and haunting.
You were high out of your mind one night, scrolling through underground tracks, trying to find something that hadn’t been overplayed into dust.
Then you hit the bottom.
Clicked on his album.
And it changed everything. The voice was deep, like smoke and rage.
The beat was grimy and sharp. It wasn’t just rap. Or rock. Or alt.
It was all of it. And none of it. It sounded like a demon crying through broken speakers.
You thought for sure he’d be famous. But he wasn’t. So you DMed him. Didn’t even think he’d see it.But that same night, he replied. You talked for hours. He asked for your number. You FaceTimed until the sky turned grey.
The next day, he invited you to his spot.
To listen. To smoke. To just... be.
Honestly it could have ended badly and it would have been the worst decision you ever made. But the vibe—the intensity—
You didn’t have to speak. Just your eyes did all the talking.
It wasn’t lust. Not really. It was that aching, desperate something that clutches your ribs and won’t let go. You didn’t know if he felt the same, so you played it casual.
Casual as in…
Basically living together.
Unspoken everything.
No sex. No labels. Just you and him.
He’d send you unreleased tracks. Half-finished verses. You started running his page, organizing stuff, posting updates. You weren’t official. But you kind of became his manager.
His shadow. His safe place.
His favorite ear.
He never said thank you. Not in words, anyway. But every song had pieces of you in it. A line that sounded like something you once whispered. A beat that matched the rhythm of your laugh. A song titled with your birthday, but flipped backward so no one else would know.
And then it happened.
One day, everything changed.
Some random TikTok kid found one of the old tracks and used it for an edit. A week later—millions. Plays, likes, followers.
He hated it.
You watched him pace around the apartment, wild-eyed, muttering,
“They don’t even get it.”
“They’re just biting now.”
“Where were they before?”
But you were still there. Sitting on his kitchen counter. Hoodie that wasn’t yours. Eyes tired but soft.
You handled it. Emails. DMs. Interview requests. Labels circling like vultures. You told him which ones to ignore. Which ones to play with.
He let you do it. Trusted you. Only you.
He didn’t post selfies. Didn’t talk in interviews. He just kept making music. And every time, you were the first to hear it. Headphones passed between you. Knees touching. Eyes closed.
One night, he paused a track halfway through. You looked up at him.
He didn’t say anything for a while.
Then “You think I’d be doing any of this if it weren’t for you?”
You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You just reached for the play button.But he stopped you. Caught your hand in his. Held it for a second too long. Then another.
Your chest felt like it would crack open.
Still, nothing happened.
Still, it was... casual.
A year into the fame, you were all the way in. No more crashing at his place—you lived there. The two of you had upgraded to a bigger apartment, one that felt more like a bunker than a home.
Dark walls. Concrete floors. Unfinished ceiling that looked like it belonged in a warehouse.
But it was warm. It smelled like weed and sage and your shampoo.
Music always humming from a speaker somewhere. Sometimes his guitar was just lying on the couch. Sometimes your books were.
You shared space like you shared silence—easily.
You were still juggling school, barely hanging on some days,
but you made time to manage his account, answer emails, line up deals. He made music and money. A lot of both. Labels wanted him. Brands begged. Venues called. You handled most of it.
He hated everyone except you.
And the relationship is still undefined. Still everything.
He’d hold your hand in public. Pull you close when crossing the street. His arm would always be around your shoulders like it belonged there. To anyone watching, you were together.
Like… together together. And maybe you were, just not officially.
No titles. No pressure.
He kept his mystery locked up tight. Still no face. No selfies. No stories. That was about to change though. His first concert was coming, a real one. Not an underground event or livestream, but a sold-out, packed venue with screaming fans.
You asked him, quietly one night, “Are you nervous?”
He just looked at you, exhaled smoke, and said, “Not about them. Just about you seeing me like that.”
You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t need to. Just reached over, took his hand, and held it like you always did—like it was normal.
Like he was yours.
---
The city was buzzing like a live wire. You could feel it in your teeth.
The venue was packed, lines curling around the block. People had signs. Painted their faces. Screamed lyrics. It was insane.
You watched from backstage, heart beating a little too fast,
wearing his leather jacket and tight short black dress.
He was pacing a little, fingers twitching, jaw tight. But he looked good. Too good. Tall, jacked, inked up— black tank clinging to him, tattoos peeking from his neck to his fingers. Hair messy like always, like he rolled out of bed and still looked like a god.
No mask tonight. No hood.
This time, they’d see him.
You caught his eye just before he walked out. Just looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him. You nodded once. That was enough.
Then he stepped out.
And the place. Exploded.
Screams.
Like actual shrieking.
Phones shot up so fast the light almost blinded you.
Someone in the front fainted.
A girl sobbed.
The crowd was feral.
He didn’t flinch.
Just walked to the mic like he owned the world.
When he finally spoke—
“Yeah. It’s me.”
—people LOST it.
A whole different war broke out online .
“WHY IS HE HOT??”
“I THOUGHT HE WAS UGLY???”
“HE LOOKS LIKE HE KILLS PEOPLE AND WRITES POETRY ABOUT IT.”
“Someone said he was faceless—why is he the face of my future now???”
His name trended within an hour. Clips went viral before the second song ended. People were pausing videos just to zoom in on his hands, his tattoos, his jawline. New fan accounts popped up in real-time.
But he only looked at you.
Once.
Halfway through the set, spotlight behind him, crowd screaming his name, he glanced toward the side of the stage. Found you. Smirked like the devil. Then tore into the next song like his soul was catching fire.
When it was over, and the venue started to empty out, he came offstage drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling. Still high off the energy, off the chaos. You handed him water. He took it, but didn’t drink. Just stared at you.
“They love me now,” he muttered.
Then, quieter, “But I still only care what you think.”
Your throat closed up.
You didn’t answer, didn’t need to.
He tossed the bottle. Stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. His hand found your face like he’d been meaning to do it for years. Fingers on your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. His forehead rested against yours, and he whispered, “Say something. Anything.”
You looked up at him, breath caught.
“You’re mine,” you said.
And this time, he kissed you.
---
The concert was over, but the night wasn’t.
You two didn’t even go back home. He tugged you into the car, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, saying nothing but “Let’s go out.” You didn’t ask where.
The club was already dark and pulsing by the time you got there. Lights flickering red, music loud enough to feel in your ribs. People turned when you walked in, like they knew. He hadn’t even been unmasked for four hours, but already, the city recognized him.
He didn’t care. Just grab your hand and pull you to the middle of the floor. Bodies everywhere, sweat, bass, smoke. And still, it felt like it was just you two.
He was behind you, hands on your waist. Not even grinding, not all sexual—just close. Like he wanted to keep you tethered to the ground. His face buried in your neck every now and then, lips ghosting skin. You leaned into it. Eyes closed. Smiling.
Someone recorded it.
Of course they did.
Posted it within minutes.
On Twitter (or X whatever that cursed app is):
@.cryboutitgrl:
this man just revealed his face and already pulled up to the club with the baddest girl i’ve ever seen????
@.undergroundangel666:
bro was faceless yesterday now he’s 6'4 tatted and got a mysterious girlfriend. i’m sick. 😭
@.smokysylvia:
wait wait wait. is she the one from the side stage?? the one he kept looking at????
@.hotguyshateus:
yeah i zoomed in. it’s her. same leather jacket. same girl. he’s in love i’m sorry.
@.helooksinlove:
she whispered something to him before the encore and he kissed her after the show. we lost. I fear the album’s gonna be sad and horny now 😩
The internet was spiraling. Fan edits were already in motion.
Clips of him touching your face, that blurry club video, someone even managed to catch a shot of the two of you leaving the venue—
his arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into his chest.
You checked his account the next morning. A million new followers. Inbox was flooded. Everyone wanted to know: Who was she? Who was the girl?
And all he did was post a blurry photo of the two of you sitting on the floor that night, you leaning against him, laughing into your cup,
and him looking at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believe in.
Caption: “She been here since zero followers. Don’t ask again.”
--------
bonus::: the first text and meet up...
It was around 2:37 AM when you messaged him.
“idk why no one knows abt you yet. this is actually insane.”
You didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t even think he’d see it.
But twenty minutes later—
“yo.”
One dot. No emojis.
You blinked at the screen.
“that was you?”
“the message?”
“yeah. thanks.”
Simple. Dry. But then he asked:
“wanna hear some unreleased?”
Your breath caught.
“yeah.”
He sent a file. No title. Just noise at first. Then the beat dropped— low, almost crawling. His voice— raspy, like smoke and teeth. You could barely breathe.
Before you could even process, your phone lit up again.
“what’s your number”
Not a question. Not begging.
You gave it.
Thirty seconds later: FaceTime.
Your heart slammed. You almost didn’t pick up. But your thumb moved on its own.
Click.
It was dark.
No light but the red glow of a monitor on his side. Backlit tattoos.
Shadows across his jawline. Hair messy. Shirtless. Sitting back in a desk chair like he owned time.
You didn’t speak.
He didn’t either.
He looked at you. Eyes flickering across your face through the screen like he was studying something rare.
A small smirk tugged at his lips.
“damn.”
One word. But it cracked something open.
You laughed, too soft. Told him he looked like a villain.
“good.”
Then:
“you real?”
You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head. Let him stare.
And then, just like that— you both started talking. Not loud. Not excited. Just low. Whispers like secrets in a church.
He showed you the corner of his room. Posters. Wires. A mic stand leaning. Unfinished lyrics on the wall in sharpie.
“i stay up all night,” he said.
“no one to talk to.”
“you do now,” you whispered.
His lips twitched. He leaned forward like he was trying to see more of you through the screen.
“can i call you again?”
You bit your lip.
“i’m not hanging up.”
And you didn’t. Not until the sun started bleeding through your windows. Not until your eyelids got too heavy. He didn’t say goodbye. Just watched you drift off to sleep. And whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it:
“don’t leave.”
You woke up with your phone in your hand, battery barely alive.
Your screen still had his name on it. Still connected. He never hung up.
You sat up slow, blinking through sleep. Heart pounding when you remember everything. The music. The call. His voice. The way he watched you fall asleep like he meant to remember it forever.
And then—your phone buzzed.
him:
“u still down to pull up?”
No address.
No time.
Just that.
And still…
you replied:
“drop the pin.”
You didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t even think it through. He could’ve been a killer. Could’ve chopped you up, turned you into a beat.
But your chest was quiet.
Calm.
It was cold when you stepped out. Your hoodie swallowed your frame.
Headphones in, but no music playing— just replaying his voice in your head like a loop. When you reached his spot, it looked like nothing. Gray building. No buzzers. Just a metal door and the pin.
You texted him once.
No reply.
Then the door creaked open. And there he was. Tall. Sleeves rolled up. Tattoos crawling up his arms. Hood half on. Eyes heavy like he hadn’t slept.
He looked at you for two full seconds before stepping back.
“come in.”
You did.
It was dark. Not scary dark—just dim. Curtains closed. Cigarette smoke faint in the air. There was a speaker set up on the floor and wires running like veins all over the place. A mic stand crooked in the corner. A mattress on the ground, black sheets. And his scent—something between weed, laundry, and the ghost of cologne.
You stood there like you were in a museum.
He didn’t touch you. Just nodded toward the couch.
“u want tea? or... water? i got like 4 capri suns too.”
You laughed. He smiled for real that time.
You stayed for hours.
Then one day.
Then two.
The playlist never stopped. He let you read his notebooks. You found one where your name was scribbled on the top corner of a page.
He didn’t explain.
At night, he didn’t try anything. Just let you lay next to him, in his clothes, backs turned but feet tangled.
You remember the first time he turned to you in the dark and whispered: “i don’t like being alone anymore.”
I see you @fruitykissblog blocking me just bcs I gave proper credits for the arts you reposted......seriously, why reposters can't just reply and communicate instead of just avoid the issue and blocking people ==""
