LittlePerson

DO NOT MESSAGE ME FOR AID. im tired lol brain frozen... i need to draw my goober more 27 he/him trans aaaaaaa

[injuries-in-dust]

I disabled this feature and was actually surprised by how much faster my laptop became. My computer is only a couple of years old but this one feature was just sucking so much life out of it behind the scenes. I'd hate to see how much an older computer would be affected. AI features that we don't want are just the absolute worst. They don't make anything better. It was actively making my computer run slower and hotter.

[zolltraak]

[uncle-beanbag-mojave]

We would fully accept any Japanese buckaroo

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

Foreigners will never understand how someone like Rawhide Kobayashi would immediately become a beloved local fixture in whatever small American town he ended up in.

[brazenautomaton]

every single time someone pulls the "How would you AMERICANS like it if someone came to AMERICA and" reversal, the answer is always "we'd fucking love it"

[not-so-innocent-bi-sander]

@kurtwagnermorelikekurtwagnerd

Your tags summed up the exact feeling I had about this

[tikkunolamorgtfo]

I just Googled the Swedish-Japanese guy in the OP, and according to this interview, his Japanese name was given to him by the master gardener he was apprenticed under:

“The family name ‘Murasame’ was given to me by my master. The given name ‘Tatsumasa’ is a combination of ‘dragon’ (tatsu), the [zodiac] year when I was born, and one character from my master’s name,” says Murasame."

So I think maybe it's less like naming yourself 'Brandon McFreedom' and more like moving to the states to work under a veteran car mechanic named Bud McLean, and then having him turn to you after a few years on the job, and say "Son, it's time for you to become an American so you can open up your shop. And when that day comes, I think the world should know you by a new name: McLeo GM Corvette."

[teaboot]

Named by his superior by conventions one would apply to a super chill stray cat

[pikabelle]

This is actually how samurai would get new names when they entered adulthood and began serving a new master. They'd generally go by a "childhood name" given to them by their parents at birth, then when they came of age (or their life circumstances just changed), they'd get a new name made up of kanji relavant to their life, and one of those kanji would usually be from the name of their new master.

TIL that gardeners follow a feudalistic heirarchy and abide by the Eight Virtues of Bushido.

[mocacci]

They are so normal your honor

[mocacci]

@everythingeverythingbagel

Le Bonus:

Grace tried puppy eyes! Too bad they don't work on Rocky.

[shamicazu]

This happened a lil bit ago and I had to immortalize it

[justtzen]

[angy-brows]

I wanna know all about Fear and Hastur's past relationship and why it didn't work out. :3c

When he first arrived in the cult, Hastur barely spoke to anyone. He was in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by unfamiliar people, and was just basically kidnapped by the harbinger of the end times, so to say he wasn't too keen to socialize was an understatement.

That was until he met Fear, who refused to let the man isolate himself, even if he didn't even get his name until a few days later.

"Fair enough. Hastur." "Fear." "... You're joking."

The two end up bonding more over their unusual names, and eventually the two of them became friends that persisted after Hastur decided to stay. Neither of them shared the same views, but they could agree that staying in the Cult was safer than going out into the lands of the Old Faith while the Bishops were still alive.

And then there was the first Rite that spawned Goldie, which at the time no one knew what was going to come out of that egg, so they stuck together to keep an eye on it. While they were "will they won't they" friends before Goldie came into the picture, it turned into "oh they definitely did" around this time.

Where their bond fell apart was caused by a few factors:

One wanted to reclaim his autonomy, away from divine influences, and started to become more closed off and cold; the other wanted to remain subservient to the Lamb to the point that he'd bend over backwards for them, while also letting his own fears and anxieties rule over his life and those around him.

Both of them still had a small part of them that was saying "do I actually care for you or am I using you as some sort of escape/replacement"

Hastur ended up seeing Leshy long after he and Fear broke it off, which I mean... Your ex starts seeing the guy who literally allowed the ritualistic sacrifice of your entire family and countless others. I'd be pretty pissed too, ngl

There is a fourth factor, but while they were involved it, it wasn't their fault.

Maybe partially their fault - they really hate that fucking hare.

But despite all of this, there is a part of Hastur and Fear that still care for each other.

It's just not enough to save either of them.

[utopians]

the avatar movies are crazy bc "what if colonizers literally inhabited and puppeteered the bodies of indigenous peoples in order to exploit their homeland" sounds like the premise of some sort of anticolonial horror film, like specifically the kind of thing that would be commenting on self-indigenization among white settlers, but because it's James Cameron his whole takeaway from that premise is "it would be preddy cool"

[utopians]

actually sorry. the takeaway is also "the white settler possessing an indigenous body would actually be extremely good, perhaps even The Best, at being indigenous, and he would become their Leader"

[miaumiaoumao]

Lamb in the truck 🚚

[alagaisia]

Hey. Why isn’t the moon landing a national holiday in the US. Isn’t that fucked up? Does anyone else think that’s absurd?

[alagaisia]

It was a huge milestone of scientific and technological advancement. (Plus, at the time, politically significant). Humanity went to space! We set foot on a celestial body that was not earth for the first time in human history! That’s a big deal! I’ve never thought about it before but now that I have, it’s ridiculous to me that that’s not part of our everyday lives and the public consciousness anymore. Why don’t we have a public holiday and a family barbecue about it. Why have I never seen the original broadcast of the moon landing? It should be all over the news every year!

[alagaisia]

It’s July 20th. That’s the day of the moon landing. Next year is going to be the 54th anniversary. I’m ordering astronaut shaped cookie cutters on Etsy and I’m going to have a goddamn potluck. You’re all invited.

[watermelon-converse]

Hey. Hey. Tumblr. Ides of March ppl. We can do this

[emi--rose]

Hell yeah moon holiday

[hello-delicious-tea]

Ooh coming up we should celebrate

[ariaste]

PITCH: We call it Moon Day, and then every 7 years when it falls on a Monday, that's an even BIGGER deal and we call that Moon Day Monday and go absolutely apeshit about it (the next Moon Day Monday is in 2026 so we have a couple trial runs first)

[sarostheghostcat]

MOON DAY MOON DAY MOON DAY

[wafflebloggies]

moon day is 20th July!!!

[silly-jellyghoty]

Scheduling this a day earlier to remind you all and myself about the Moon Day tomorow!

[sashaforthewin]

Happy moon day to all who celebrate

[kitsuneofthemist]

This is your reminder to prep for Moon Day on July 20th.

[airagorncharda]

OH HEY, THATS TOMORROW

[reallyveryfishy]

book Rocky is so hilarious because he is 100% done with grace’s shit all the time and yet he loves him so much

Like Rocky going “we’re always going to use earth units. Because your STUPID little brain can’t convert quick enough. So I taught myself the conversions in one minute just out of convenience. Because I love talking to you. Stupid.”

[dramatic-dolphin]

and if i said nolan's odyssey starring no greek actors and with no recognizable aspects of greek culture or involvement by greeks, is the direct legacy of white supremacist colonialism that treated ancient greece as not just the pinnacle of ancient culture, but of an artificially created "european" culture, which white western europeans and their settler descendants, as the new pinnacle of culture, were the sole spiritual inheritors of.

[hiveswap]

^^^ PEOPLE ARE STILL THERE. There's a metro station across the street from the colosseum where i found a hair in my pizza slice. We drove by ruins of an amphitheater next to a motorway in greece once. It's literally just real places where real people live and have lived. It's not mythical perfect lands that once existed. I went to Itacha in 2023 and there was not enough parking space.

[angy-brows]

[adairtrashart]

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆~~~⋆~~~˚~~. .~~˚~~~⋆~~~⋆｡˚⭒°𖦹｡⋆

🎉🌸commissions open🌸🎉

i made my commission sheet so much better and clearer looking awawawawawawa

i did also increase prices a bit but thats because i didnt realize at the time how much kofi would be taking from me and i want to offset that

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆~~~⋆~~~˚~~. .~~˚~~~⋆~~~⋆｡˚⭒°𖦹｡

Adair Trashart's Commissions

Commissions Open! Click to see Adair Trashart's commission menu.

[torpublishinggroup]

How to Fake It in Society by KJ Charles is m/m historical romance about a dashing con man and a man entirely out of his depths.

It’s 1821. Titus Pilcrow makes paints for a living. He’s quiet, kind, and seriously overworked. Abruptly inheriting a massive fortune courtesy of a dying elderly woman who is not about to let her murderous nephew inherit is both going to make his life easier and infinitely more complicated.

Enter Nicolas-Marc, Comte de Valois de La Motte. London Society believes he is the son of an infamous French noblewoman who stole a diamond necklace. In reality, Nico is an actor in an immense amount of debt with gangsters on his tail. His plan had been to marry a certain elderly woman, but someone beat him to the punch.

Titus becomes the target of every scammer in London. How is Nico to resist? It’s a fair exchange, really. Nico can teach him how to be a gentleman, and in the process, secure a solution to his looming woes. It is a flawless plan, just so long as neither of them falls in love.

Read an excerpt from chapter one below.

Titus Pilcrow read the note with disbelief. Then he read it a second time in the hope he had misunderstood. It still said the same thing.

“You’re throwing me out?”

“I’m not throwing you out,” Mr. Henry Morris said. “I am giving you notice that I have found someone who will pay a higher rent for the shop, and it is all of a piece that you must make me the villain for it. Have I not kept the rent absurdly low for years? Am I not entitled to earn my bread as well as you?”

“How much more?” Titus demanded. “That is, can I not match it?” The words gave him an instant qualm. His rent was not in fact low at all, and his work had never been greatly profitable. The raw materials were costly, and though people loved the quality of his products, they were less keen to pay for them.

“An extra three shillings a week.”

“A week?”

“If you have not the funds, there’s really nothing I can do.”

Titus wasn’t a shouter, and the thought of another argument with Henry made him feel sick, but he would have liked to shout and argue all the same. His throat was closing. “I have paid my rent in full, on time, for six years and you’re giving me a month’s notice?”

“You’re supposed to pay your rent on time; it’s hardly praiseworthy,” Henry said. “And if you had not treated me with such unkindness, always casting blame—” The familiar complaints went on, buzzing like bluebottles in Titus’s ears as he tried to think.

Henry had the right to raise the rent by whatever extortionate sum he chose. He was the landlord, the property owner, and money always flowed in the direction of those who already had it, like streams flowing down to a lake. For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance, Titus’s father had often repeated to his four younger sons, but whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he hath.

His shop was being taken away. This was calamitous.

The premises in Red Lion Street, a quite respectable address a little way off bustling Holborn, were small, the bull’s-eye windows rather obstructive of light, but it did for Titus’s needs. He ran Pilcrow’s Improved Colours, making up his cakes of watercolour paint and his oils, slept in the cramped back room amid sacks and boxes and a clutter of canvases, and tried not to be irritated by the jeweller with his family of nine who lived upstairs. He spent more of his time wrist-deep in noxious substances than he might have liked, but he found the work satisfying, and took pride in his reputation for supplying reliable, well-made colours. He spent untold hours in conversation with artists about shade and permanency, what pigments could not be used together, the minutiae of hard work and technical knowledge that underlaid inspiration and vision. He’d built Pilcrow’s into something to be proud of.

And now his shop, his home, his income, his whole little world would be snatched from him, because he’d been fool enough to sleep with his landlord.

Henry Morris had taken over the management of the property from his father three years ago. He was a charming man, witty, lively, a sparkling talker—not, perhaps, a very good listener, but Titus was used to letting people do all the talking. That suited Henry well, and his attentions had become marked. They’d had a few drinks, Henry had taken him to bed, and it had all been thrillingly far from Titus’s quiet routine.

It took a couple of months for the cracks to show.

The problem was that Henry wanted passion in his life, and any sort of passion would do. Sometimes he would fuck wildly, or make extravagant declarations of feeling, but on other days, which became more and more frequent, he was only happy making them both miserable. He would snipe and complain, then throw around accusations, insults, and verbal cruelties that escalated until Titus was finally provoked into protest, and then the onslaught would really begin. There would be tears, screaming, throwing things, breaking things. Afterwards he would weep, and say that his feelings and Titus’s lack of sensibility drove him to these extremes, and then he’d mope in a sad, distraught manner until Titus gave him the reassurance and apologies he needed. And it would be all love and flowers until Henry felt the urge to do it again.

Titus had spent an increasingly unhappy year buffeted by Henry’s alts and rages, bewildered, guilty, and unhappy, desperately trying to extricate himself from the affair without making things worse. He had finally said a firm No more a few months ago. Henry had not taken the rejection well, even by his standards. And here they were. Titus should probably have seen it coming.

In truth, he’d give a lot to get away from Henry, but this would cost him everything. He would have to pack up his pots and powders and poisons, find affordable premises in this horribly crowded city, advertise everywhere in the hope some of his customers would follow him. It would mean starting all over again. The prospect was appalling.

“Henry,” he said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “Please. Can we not find a compromise? I have been a good tenant for a long time. I can pay more—”

“Five shillings a week more?”

“You said three!”

“That’s the other offer. You need to improve on it. We all have to work, you know. You can’t expect to live on my goodwill after you treated me so callously.”

“I—”

Henry’s mouth curved in the smile Titus knew well, eyes glittering with gleeful anticipation, and Titus realised abruptly that he couldn’t do this one more time, not even at the price of his shop. He simply couldn’t bear it.

“All right,” he said. “A month’s notice it is.”

Henry’s mouth dropped open, shocked at the lack of resistance. “What—is that all? You can’t even scrape together a few shillings? Or do me the courtesy of a proper farewell?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Titus said. “Goodbye.”

Henry reacted as poorly as might have been expected. Titus ignored the tempest; the scale of the disaster was such that he simply didn’t have it in him to care for Henry’s reproaches. He just stared through Henry as he raged, and felt a twinge of unkind satisfaction in watching him storm out, frustrated.

It didn’t last. He had a single month to find new premises, and no idea what he was going to do.

He had come no nearer to a solution two days later when he went to call on Miss Whitecross.

She was one of his most lucrative clients: an elderly lady of immense wealth, and an amateur painter of limited talent who used supplies with wild abandon. As an artisan who put a lot of hard work into the colours she splashed about so wastefully, Titus found that somewhat grating. As a shopkeeper, he could only applaud.

Her latest order was for brown pink, vermilion, ultramarine, orpiment, and violet lake. It was a large and costly set of paints, and she would probably interrogate him on whether he had adulterated the vermilion with cheap red lead. Miss Whitecross was a suspicious woman who liked to feel that she was up to every rig and row. Titus had realised early on that her frequent accusations of dishonesty sprang rather from her own fears than any real doubt of him, and he had learned not to take offence. He feared he might struggle to find the necessary patience today, but he needed the money.

Her house was in Carey Street, not far from Titus’s shop. It was a wide and airy street that skirted the Inns of Court, a very pleasant address but decidedly not one for a fashionable lady. Miss Whitecross made no claim to that. Her father had made his money in manufacturing and she wore her lineage with pride rather than trying to disavow the taint of industry. She dressed and lived well, but she had never aspired to move westwards, where the height of the Ton was based, and her house was spacious without grandeur.

Titus pulled the bell. The door was answered by a worried-looking butler.

“Hello, Mr. Thorpe. Is all well?”

“Mr. Pilcrow?” the butler said blankly. “What is it?”

“I’ve an order for Miss Whitecross. Is something wrong?”

“She’s not well. You can’t see her.”

Oh, no no no. It was a four-guinea order because of the expensive materials. He couldn’t lose four guineas now. “I’m sorry to hear it, but—well, it is a very big order. Would tomorrow—”

“No,” Mr. Thorpe said, the word heavy. “She . . . she had a fall yesterday. She went right down the stairs, and her hip is broken. It doesn’t look good.”

“Oh, heavens. I’m so sorry.” Titus was, truly, for a woman he liked despite her obstreperous ways; selfishly, the loss of a good customer was one more blow in a week that was already quite bad enough. He glanced down at his expensive parcel with regret. The paints would last a little while in their bladders; perhaps he could find a buyer while also finding a new shop. His heart sank at the thought, but it couldn’t be helped. “I won’t disturb you further. Please pass her my very best wishes, and I will pray for her recovery.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pilcrow. That’s very gen—” The butler stopped dead, mouth open.

“Mr. Thorpe?”

“Yes. Yes. Would you have a moment to come in? Just for a short while. I, uh, may be able to get you the money.”

“Oh, don’t trouble her with that now,” Titus said, heart overriding brain. “Really, her health is far more important.”

“Please, Mr. Pilcrow,” Mr. Thorpe said, sounding positively urgent. “Half an hour of your time, that’s all. The mistress would want it.”

Titus followed him inside. It felt horribly intrusive, as though he were dunning a woman on her deathbed, but Mr. Thorpe had been with Miss Whitecross forever. If he thought it would make her feel better to pay a bill, he was doubtless right.

Mr. Thorpe showed him into the parlour and disappeared. He remained absent for so long that Titus began to feel quite uncomfortable. He didn’t have anything to read or a pencil with which to scribble, so he sat, bored and uncertain, on a spindly chair too small for the well-sized room, surrounded by little tables bearing china vases and statuettes and dishes, and some truly dreadful watercolours on the walls, which he recognised as being perpetrated by his hostess.

The room had a good high ceiling, large windows. If it were his house, Titus would hang oils in here. Then he thought about Miss Whitecross’s oil paintings and felt relieved she hadn’t.

Well, it was her home so her taste ruled. And Titus could only respect a level of self-esteem that allowed its possessor to decide My work is worth displaying in the teeth of the evidence. He hadn’t pinned a scribble of his to the wall since he was a child, making sketches and showing them to his brothers. That had been “drawing attention to himself ” or “giving himself airs,” cardinal sins for the younger Pilcrows and strongly discouraged.

There were footsteps and muffled voices in the hall, but nobody came in. Titus wondered if he’d been forgotten. He wondered why Mr. Thorpe had felt it necessary to bring him in. He wondered about his shop.

Out by the end of the month. He wouldn’t find new premises without closing up his current place and dedicating himself to the search, but that would cost him business he couldn’t afford to lose. Maybe a fellow colourman might lend him an apprentice? But that would take time to arrange, and it would all need to be done so quickly, and he hated to be rushed. It flustered him, and he always seemed to do the wrong thing when he was flustered.

He had no choice. If he didn’t find somewhere, he would soon have neither shop nor home.

What would he do if he couldn’t find new premises in time? Where would he put his tools and supplies? He had friends who would give him a space to sleep, but he couldn’t bring his many boxes of poisons and powders into people’s houses. He might have to sell off some of his stock or tools, but if he did that, clawing his way back would be even harder. He’d seen all too often the frightening speed with which people could fall from comfort to destitution; one bad accident or stroke of misfortune could send you sliding inexorably downwards. The void was yawning beneath his feet.

He was wondering whether he could appeal to his brother for help, and if there was any chance the appeal would be heard, when the door opened and Mr. Thorpe came in.

The butler was wearing an extraordinary expression, something almost like excitement. “Please come upstairs, Mr. Pilcrow. She wants to see you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please. This way.”

Titus gave a mental shrug and followed him. Perhaps Miss Whitecross wasn’t so badly hurt after all. That would be good. The hope dwindled as he was admitted into her bedroom, where she lay with a lawyerly sort of gentleman sitting by her. The old lady’s face was cut and bruised in a way that looked obscenely wrong on elderly features, and her skin was otherwise an unpleasantly pale grey-yellow shade, almost isabelline.

“Miss Whitecross,” Titus said. “I’m so sorry. How are you?”

“Bad,” she said, voice thin. “Dying. Murdered.”

“What?”

“Laxton tripped me,” she whispered. “My nephew. At the top of the stairs. His foot between my legs. I fell.” Titus’s mouth dropped open. He looked round at the lawyerly man, who grimaced. Miss Whitecross caught that and glared at them both. “I’m not a fool. He tripped me, I tell you, and I fell and broke, rot these bird’s bones of mine. He’ll go unpunished for my murder, and be a rich man for my death. Damn him. Damn you all.”

Titus cast a desperate glance at the butler and the lawyer, but neither was looking at him. “And God rot the Laxtons, all of them,” Miss Whitecross went on, voice shaky but intent. “His father made my sister’s life a misery, and his son is like him as peas in a pod. I had such a scheme to spite him—it would have been a grand jest, but he got wind of it, and he killed me.” She paused there, gasping for breath, and finally got out, “And you fools are doing nothing!”

“We have brought Mr. Pilcrow, ma’am,” the butler said gently.

“Er—” Titus said.

“Yes.” Miss Whitecross’s thin fingers were clutching spasmodically at her sheets. “Pilcrow. You’ll scotch the snake for me. You’re a gentleman born, ain’t you?”

“Yes? My father was rector of a parish in Gloucestershire, but—”

“And you’d like to be rich.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She glanced up at the lawyerly man. “Tell him, Carnaby.”

He bowed in his seat. “Madam. Mr. Pilcrow, I am George Carnaby, Miss Whitecross’s attorney. What she proposes—I must say, this is irregular—”

“Get on, fool,” the old woman croaked. “I might die while you talk.”

Mr. Carnaby sighed. “Miss Whitecross proposes that you marry her. Now.”

“. . . what?”

“You will marry her, and become heir to the Whitecross fortune, without encumbrances or restrictions.”

“But,” Titus said. “But—the circumstances—”

“Irregular, but I am happy to swear that Miss Whitecross is of sound mind.”

“As am I,” Mr. Thorpe said strongly.

“Her reasoning for this action, is of course—”

“Hate,” Miss Whitecross said. “My money will pass to the Laxton toad if I’m not married. He can go to the devil and say I sent him. What about it, Pilcrow?”

“But—what—”

“Don’t gibber,” she said with a feeble shadow of her usual acerbity. “Won’t ask you to bless the marital bed. Not with my bones. Snap like twigs.”

Mr. Carnaby’s expression was indescribable. Titus groped for a response. “Don’t you need a licence?”

“Got one already. I was going to make myself a lady, but the fool’s gone away, so fill in your name. It’s your lucky day.”

Titus had no idea what she meant by that, but he was more concerned by “lucky” in this context. “Miss Whitecross, please,” he said. “You’ve time yet. You’re well cared for. Please don’t give up.”

Her eyes met his properly then, faded and full of pain. “I’m dying, and we all know it. Help me, Pilcrow. Laxton broke my sister’s heart and his son has broken my bones. Let me spite him and I’ll rest easier.”

Titus contemplated the proposal. To marry a woman close to fifty years his senior on her deathbed, for no better reason than money on his side and malice on hers—it was contemptible. He’d be a laughing stock.

He’d be a rich contemptible laughing stock.

“All right,” he said.

[nudibro]

CW: depiction of disassociation and eye contact.

Suffocating Part 2 of 2 PART 1

Nari gets a fancy fish feast afterwards~

Despite the Lamb being adverse to touch, they try to help Nari physically when he needs it. Especially early on when he first gets into the cult. Other than grounding techniques, he's basically forced to go through physical therapy for his legs. And of course the Lamb helps him with balance and all.

I love my lil traumatized kitty.

ID above and below as always~ :D

[Image Description: A 12 page sketchy comic in grayscale. Image 1: Narinder's eye is the only thing shown through the twisted fabric of the blanket. A single tear drop roams down his face. A muffled voice is in the background, the text blurred. The text unblurred says, "Hey Nari. Nari? Narinder?!" Image 2: The Lamb kneels down in front of Narinder, worried and confused as to why Narinder is in that state. Even the crown is concerned. Lamb: Are you alright? I heard you screaming! What-" They cut themselves off. Image 3: Lamb softens their expression. Lamb: Oh. You had another nightmare. I'm going to start getting this blanket off, okay? I'll be quick. The crown morphs into a Hand and helps the Lamb take the twisted blanket off of Nari. Image 4: Lamb: There we go. Narinder lays on his side silently with a blank expression, one hand flat on the floor and the other close to his chest. Image 5: The angle changes and shows the front view of Narinder, tears welling up in his eyes. The Lamb shifts to the side and start to slowly move down and lay next to him. Lamb: It's okay. I'm right here with you. You're not alone. Now... I'm going to lay down next to you. Image 6: A close shot of Narinder's scarred arm and the Lamb's shackled arm. They rub their hand across the scar softly, stroking it to try and soothe. Lamb: Then I'm going to touch your arm and gently rub it. Image 7: The Lamb lays right beside Narinder while rubbing Narinder's scar. Narinder's eyebrows raise and his hand twitches, slowly coming back. Lamb: I promise I am right here with you. And I will wait with you while this passes. Take all the time you need. Image 8: A close shot of the Lamb's front view. The light of the night shines behind them. Their eyes shine as they smile at Narinder. Lamb: And hey. You don't have to do it, but try to match me. And do what I do. It'll help a lot. Just do your best. Image 9: The Lamb's expression softens more as they start to inhale and exhale slowly, taking deep breaths as they continue to rub Narinder's arm. Image 10: A close up shot of Narinder as they stare at the Lamb. Light shows back in his teary eyes as he slowly comes out of his disassociation. Image 11: Narinder closes his eyes as he listens to the Lamb's breathing. He follows along and begins to match their breathing. At first it is faint and shaky but then turns into deep breathes the the Lamb's. His third eye opens to stare at the Lamb. Image 12: Both of them are now drawn as chibis. Narinder sits up and rubs his head, the crown wraps around his neck in it's snake form. The Lamb sits up with him. Narinder: Ugh, my head. Lamb: Go slow, you're just getting out of it. Narinder: I'll move as I damn well please. Lamb: Welcome back, Nari. End ID.]

[laserbobcat]

Are you doing @tidalfoam’s splashing into summer meme? If so, what fruit would you pick ? 

I saw a few, it's cute! I assumed it was a few friends having fun. I wouldn't do it either way because I'm bad at following trends on time I'm pretty hectic with what I draw. I have a hard time planning what I draw or not draw. I would pick lemons cause I drew Lambie biting one a long time ago.

[littlesnowtigier]

Mostly look through COTL for the adorable and amazing art but another ship name for the Lamb and Nari could be “the one who baas” and IDK if this is original or I just haven’t been looking at tags