Always - Blog Posts

Wiege is about what could be.

What still is.

What manages to be despite all odds.

And god if that doesn't just perfectly encapsulate what Alien Stage is all about.

The morse code spelled out "ALIVE" because Wiege, and Alien Stage as a whole, explores what it means to live and to be alive.

Yes Alien Stage is about the tragedies forced upon them due to a cruel universe far bigger than they can ever hope to match.

But it is also about the love found and bonds formed even in this harrowing world.

Day 4 : Hair

Tampunzel!!!!! 🤭

I’ve been wanting to do this for the longest time because I call him Rapunzel. We do not acknowledge any hair cuts given to this male in acotar 🙅‍♀️ Long hair will forever be the superior choice 😌

I’ve had this sketch for a while now but unfortunately I did not have enough time or energy to execute the vision in my head 😭😭 sigh.

@tamlinweek

Hello, a little request here!! ❤️‍🔥

Azriel gets jealous when Eris courts a female his father has ordered him to win her favor. The sole view of her hooked to his arm makes Azriel see red, and unable to bear it any longer he's dragged to the Autumn heir's chambers where he waits for his return to make a clear statement of possession and raw desire. *winks, winks*

helloooo lovely anon!! thank you for the request!! i love it and it made me realise i've never actually written jealous!azriel so must remedy that immediately. Hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the colour of her dress that Azriel loathes the most. 

A deep emerald green, layers of silk and lace that fall on the floor like spilled ink. They trail after her every delicate step, the click of her heels against the marble grating on Azriel’s nerves like clashing blades. 

She has no name—but she smiles and holds her head high and her eyes are green, two shades lighter than her dress, and cunning. The words she says are few, but the looks that dawn on the other guests’ faces as she speaks tells Azriel enough—that she is as cruel and mean as the male whose arm she hangs off, that she is smart, that she is familiar with the game she has come to play, here, tonight.

Her wings rest folded against her back, the open back of her dress framing them perfectly. Green, like her eyes, like her dress; beautiful gossamer webbing sparkling against her deep skin. 

Eris’ hand brushes against the small of her back. 

Azriel looks away. 

The ceremony is dreadful; he does not want to be here. But Rhysand dragged him here with a single, menancing look, and Azriel hates his brother, just a bit, just enough for his skin to pull tight over his hands when he curls his fingers into fists. 

At least the stone wall against his back is cool. They are in Dawn, and the night, as it descends slowly over Thesan’s court, is pungent and bright. 

The air smells faintly of oranges, blown into the open-roof ballroom by a gentle breeze. All manner of Fae mingle together, talking in low tones or bursting into laughter or dancing, fine dresses fluttering around ankles and females dipping low towards the floor. 

Azriel tries not to stare at her—but the light refracting off her wings catches his attention more times than he would like. When his gaze falls on her, his stomach clenches, a feeling like spiders crawling up his throat causing his wings to twitch against the stone. 

He should be working—he should be paying attention to countless of other things but her: this Fae that glides across the room with an ease even Rhysand would be envious of. 

Eyes other than Azriel’s track her movements avidly; whispers follow her as she makes her rounds across the room, leading Eris more than Eris leading her. She takes a sip of the peach-coloured wine in her glass and Azriel shadow’s show him how Eris’ eyes fall to her mouth, how they linger, for a moment, on the wet curve of her bottom lip, painted a burgundy shade. 

A burning ache alights in Azriel’s stomach. Eris’ hand on her back pulls her a little closer. The golden embroidery of his tunic shines against her green dress. 

Azriel wraps himself in shadows and disappears, just as Eris looks away from her and towards him.

He reappears high in the sky, the deep purple of the nights echoing green against his closed lids. He flies all the way from Dawn to Autumn, his shadows coiling around his limbs, demanding he return. 

But Azriel can’t, because the ache in his stomach has grown into a fury that stretches and wraps around his very bones. His pulse thrums in his ears, louder even than the wind as he flies over red and golden trees. 

He dives with desperation clustering his sternum and when he lands in front of Eris’ garden doors, the earth shuddering beneath him, Eris is already there. 

Eris’ eyes are bright, his long hair dancing with the wind brought forth by Azriel’s landing. 

“Azri—”

Eris’ words are cut short by Azriel’s mouth pressing to his, by his hand cupping Eris’ neck and bringing him closer, until thier bodies are flush. 

Azriel kisses his anger and hunger into Eris’ mouth—pushes him backwards until the curtains of Eris’ bedroom part and make way for them. 

Eris grunts into his mouth and kisses him back with the same desperation, his hands cupping Azriel’s face, fingers tangling in his hair. 

“Who was she?”

Azriel presses the question against the hinge of Eris’ jaw as he pushes him down onto the bed. 

“No one,” Eris says, then groans when Azriel’s blunt teeth bite just above his collar, where Eris’ pulse is alive and thrumming and Azriel’s. 

Azriel wraps one hand around Eris’ waist and pulls him closer to him, until their hips are pressed together and Eris’ breath hitches. 

Eris captures Azriel’s mouth in another searing kiss. Azriel wishes, fervently, that the Mother would let him rest, let him live in this moment forever. Let him keep Eris for himself, tucked away somewhere no one will ever find them.

“You’re mine,” he says into Eris’ mouth. “Even if they don’t know it, you’re mine.”

Eris’ fingers tug at Azriel’s hair. He pulls Azriel’s mouth away from his to leave a burning kiss against the side of Azriel’s neck. “Always.”

sanuso

how it feels to have no social media presence as an artist

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐑 as 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐀 𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐎

Favorite Season (36.7%), Season 3-Season 4. COBRA KAI.

I think we as a website are sleeping on the potential of Microsoft teams default memes

Me: *so tired my eyes hurt and I’m struggling to keep them open*

Brain: hoe don’t do it

Me: *clicks*

Brain: oh my god 

raise your hand if you’re a tired gay who needs a hug

how often on a daily basis do you wonder if you’re One Of Those Annoying People Who Cant Take A Hint and people only respond to you bc they feel obligated

whom else here gay and unstable

in!! the mood!! to kiss!!!

Me: *has to be forcibly restrained when walking past a book shop*

This was conceptualized, brainstormed, written, and revised in two months (I checked the date I mentioned the story idea to my bestfriend) if I wasn't writing this damn thing, I was thinking about it. Now it's up for you all to read ♡ please give it a chance, it's completed 🥰

Edit: LMFAOOOO I realize it would help to have the link fjfjfnf, here you go—

built to fall apart and fall back together

Not gonna lie, Yiga Clan warriors are still TERRIFYING to me. I cheesed the hideout quest in BOTW with Revali’s Gale and I’m still terrified whenever one of them finds me in the middle of nowhere.

Fan Joy July - Day 27

Drive a Man Mad by @adrift-in-thyme is just - AAAAHHH

Time and Warrior whump? Check. Yiga Clan acting evil? Check. FIERCE DEITY ANGST?! CHECKKK.

Go read this! Trin is seriously SO SO talented❤️❤️

does anybody else ever try to flowchart their own brain

— SCENT CHANGE?

₊˚⊹ notes ~ bf!jake x fem!reader ⋆⭒ warnings: kisses ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 word count: 100+꩜⋆ ˚｡⋆˚ genre: fluff, drabble | LIBRARY FOR MORE...

YOU'RE WRAPPED IN JAKE'S EMBRACE. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back. The scent of his cologne floats within the air.

As you lean into him, seeking solace in his embrace, you feel his warm breath tickle your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips brush against the delicate curve of your earlobe as he whispers softly, "I don't like your new shampoo."

You can't help but laugh at his words, "How'd you know?" you ask, turning your head slightly to catch a glimpse of his expression.

"It doesn't smell like you anymore," he replies, his lips pouted. "I miss the way your old shampoo smelled on you. It was... familiar."

You can't help but smile at his confession, touched by his attention to such small details. "Well, I can always switch back if it bothers you that much," you offer.

Jake tightens his hold around you, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "No, it's okay. I'll get used to it," he murmurs, his voice low and husky, "Besides, it's not about the shampoo. It's about you. I love you, no matter what scent you wear."

You snuggle closer to him, reveling in the feeling of his presence beside you. "I love you too," you whisper, your voice barely audible above the beating of your hearts.

Dodles

Michael Brown Jr. (May 20, 1996 – August 9, 2014)

I don’t think any of my family or friends will understand my love for Harry Potter.

The saddest thing about this was he never made it to 80. He live until 70.

so embarrassing when i forget im checking someone's blog and i start scrolling through and liking and reblogging shit as if it's just my dash. it feels like wandering into someone else's apartment and not noticing and making myself lunch

social media affirmations

She always gets the best posts for myself

God speaks to her through posts

She crafts the best, most engaging posts to meaningfully connect with humans

Her algorithm is intact

Her social media account is a safe space for herself and her followers

She follows wonderful people who follow her back

She learns something amazing everyday

Her blog generates abundance

She is seen by the intended audience

If you are a fan fic writer and you're alright with people making fan art of your fic, reblog this 💚