trees are very 🥺 because sometimes i’ll stand under the shade of a tree and look up at it and it’ll sway its branches about in the wind and i’m like oh my God i’m alive and YOU’RE alive. we are alive together and made up of the same starry stuff and standing right next to each other in this moment on this earth. do u feel it when i reach out and press my hand to your trunk? can you hear me? i think you’re so neat. and then the sunlight filters through its leaves just so and that lovely green color leaves me dazzled. it’s just very nice to be an alive thing next to a different sort of alive thing
Guards! Fuck each other witless against the floor. Her royal highness requires references for her yaoi drawings of the knights of the round table fandom
I love how some fics are called shit like "They Only Shoot The Birds Who Cannot Sing" and it's like the most insane porn you're ever read and then some fics are called Spit On Me and it's 18,000 words of the most achingly id-scratching prose you've ever read and they're both. They're both so fucking good. thank God for fanfiction.
Well. I am rather pleased with him. Hope you'll like him as well, folks 🩶
Gale as the Evening Start from Alphonse Mucha ✨
Yes I know, I know, Mystryl is technically dead at this time, but she was still (as Mystra is now) the embodiment of the Weave, so I put her old symbol instead of the newest Mystra one, as a marker of Gale's love for magic, rather than Mystra herself.
And I've swapped the original design from Mucha to have a good view of the orb.
Others in the series can be found here :
Astarion as 'The North Star'
Shadowheart as 'The Moon'
Wyll as 'The Morningstar'
Lae'zel as 'The Comet'
Next (and last, for now), Karlach ❤️🔥 No idea when I'll get to her though ^^
Its been a 5 months since he last saw Peter. He was back for the summer - college for the semester was over and he wouldn't have to head back til late Aug.
Bucky lit a cigarette, he was out on the balcony watching as Peter got ready for bed. Only giving a nod when Peter waved at him.
He was on the night shift for the next few days. To protect the house. Guard Peter. Protect the bosses son at all costs. Not like that would be a chore. If he hadn't already swore loyalty to Stark, he would have as soon as he met Peter.
“So ditch him,” comes out of his mouth before any critical thinking takes place. He holds out his hand. “Have dinner with me.”
“What?” Emma’s eyes widen. “That’s okay, I’m—I can take the bus back home.”
It’s clear from her tone she thinks the offer is just because her date stood her up and he feels bad. A miscommunication that must be rectified as soon as possible. Brendon doesn’t like being misunderstood.
He lets himself look her over, take in her bare legs, her short dress, the way the straps drape over her collarbones. “Dressed like that? No you can’t.” Impatiently, he reasserts that she should take his hand.
“Really,” she pleads, eyes wide and shining with emotion, “just go home. I’m fine.”
“I know you are.” That’s not the point.
It gives her pause. Two little lines appear between her eyebrows, adorably furrowed in confusion. “I—you what?”
He softens. “I know you’re okay. I’m asking you to dinner because I want to take you to dinner.”
Thinking abt immortality and how meticulously you’d have to keep track of all of your shit so some nosy historian didnt spot your old journal or coat or copy of a book and call an infuriating time-based finders keepers
“It’s two hundred years old” they say. “It’s essentially public property” they say. It’s a letter you sent to your friend and it’s in a museum now and you’re screaming
Why are vampire stories always I Want To Drink The Sexy Neck Milkshake and never two vampires texting about the passionate letter one wrote to the other in 1863 but never sent that the other just saw in the Smithsonian’s fall exhibition on Love Through the Ages and what the fuck, Claude, why didn’t you say anything
discord letting you have custom emoji has really ruined my ability to communicate effectively on other apps. what do you mean i cant send jalute. what about givehand. cryingpat. torment. sittinghere. tvek. cant even send my wonderful beloved frogheart. whats the bloody point
slowburn or love at first sight // fake dating or secret dating // enemies to lovers or best friends to lovers // there’s only one bed or long-distance correspondence // hurt/comfort or amnesia // fantasy au or modern au // mutual pining or domestic bliss // smut or fluff // canon-compliant or fix-it // reincarnation or character death // one-shot or multi-chapter // kid fic or road trip fic // arranged marriage or accidental marriage // high-school romance or middle-age romance // time travel or isolated together // neighbors or roommates // sci-fi au or magic au // body swap or genderbent // angst or crack // apocalyptic or mundane // happy ending or unhappy ending
What a fun game @the-claire-bitch-project 💖
I'll tag @theonceandfuturequeenoftarts @curioushabitforarivergod @rustandstardustbinds and @librarydecolombiana
The maple tree outside Peter's apartment window kept track of the years better than he did.
Bare branches became green buds, green buds became thick summer leaves, and by the time they turned gold and began gathering on the sidewalk below, another year had passed.
Six this time around.
Peter leaned against the sink, staring out the window as a handful of those leaves drifted past. Six years since the world forgot him. Sometimes that number felt impossibly small, and others it felt so big he could barely breathe around it.
He was older now. Older and grown in more ways than the version of himself that stood outside MJ's coffee shop could ever have imagined. He'd lived entire lives since then. Finished one degree, started another. Worked half a dozen jobs. Moved twice. Made friends, lost some and kept others. Came close to falling in love again, before the fear won out.
And still, some mornings, it felt as though he could walk into the next room and find everyone there waiting for him. May in the kitchen, MJ with a book in her lap, Ned sprawled across the sofa—a snapshot in time, a life unlived.
Peter shook off his scheduled bout of melancholy, drained the last of his orange juice, and set the glass in the sink.
Enough of that—he had somewhere to be. Or rather, somewhere he absolutely should not be, but was definitely headed to anyway.
His group therapy session originally ran on Tuesday nights, which had worked well enough until work started scheduling him for evening shifts, so he'd switched to the Thursday afternoon group instead.
It was disconcerting spending an hour trauma dumping with a dozen other strangers, only to emerge into bright sunshine at four-thirty in the afternoon. But, despite this, he'd kept coming back and while he didn’t want to admit it, the real reason wasn’t his fucking work schedule.
It was because of who else attended the Thursday sessions.
Bucky Barnes. The goddamn Winter Soldier. A blast from Peter's own past and from actual history.
The first time Peter saw him sitting a row down from him, he'd spent the entire hour staring down at the floor and trying not to vibrate out of his skin. Then Bucky showed up again, and again, and eventually, they'd even exchanged an awkward word or two over the stale doughnuts and shitty coffee at the back of the room.
Bucky didn’t remember him, of course, he’d never even known Peter personally back when Spider-Man and Winter Soldier had a reason to interact—though he was sure to have seen his face when it was plastered all over the city—but he was still friendly enough to the stranger in his therapy group. They'd spoken again while waiting out a thunderstorm just inside the front doors of the building, and soon enough began to gravitate toward one another to sit side by side and exchange the occasional glance when someone said something particularly egregious.
Then he'd seen Bucky jogging.
Peter had been walking home from work when he spotted him down by the river, legs eating up the miles at a steady pace, long sleeves anonymizing the metal arm. He'd watched him disappear around a bend and felt something shift.
Three days later, Peter bought running shoes.
Now he found himself kneeling outside the front entrance of his building, those golden leaves crunching underfoot as he tightened his laces.
This was a healthy hobby! Who didn’t need more exercise and fresh air? It was a perfectly normal thing for a person to start doing, and he wasn't trying to run into Bucky; he wasn't tempting fate; he wasn't digging up the past.
He certainly wasn't stalking a former Avenger because he happened to be one of the last living connections to a life Peter could barely think of without a stab of grief so intense it felt like a physical pain.
Peter stood and brushed his hands off on his shorts. "This is fine,” he said up to the tree overhead, frowning up at its familiar branches. The statement sounded unconvincing even to him.
He'd spent six years avoiding his past out of fear of reliving it, and what had it bought him? A semblance of a life, an empty apartment, friends who didn't know all of him, a job he didn't hate but sure didn't love. Was that enough? Was being Spider-Man enough to fill the void Peter Parker carried around?
Would he be out here, looking for a glimpse of those familiar shoulders if it were?
gummygunk
titsay
baratheonpilled
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner
snowghoul
romaincrisis
