How Do Artists Do It?

How do artists do it?

Seriously, you started with a blank piece of paper, put some lines on it and somehow just created a whole damn picture that makes me feel feelings.

Just ... how? How is this done? What strange alchemy is this?

Love seeing my boy all rumpled up.

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s my body is a slaughterhouse.

[text id: my jugular misses your teeth.]

Rimmer snuggling a kitten! Be still my heart!

How do you always see into my soul? ❤️

Smegtober- Day 12 (Promises)

Stumbling into the room, Rimmer returned from Z shift, exhausted and ready to collapse. He considered revision before he had even finished his shift and decided against it today, something was just not right with him; from the moment he woke up, he felt heavy. Greeted by the sight of Lister sat hunched over on the floor, legs crossed and button up shirt pulled to shield whatever was in between them, Rimmer closed the door behind him. 

“Lister, what the smeg are you doing?”

He turned his head to look at him, not moving his body and pulling his shirt harder to cover whatever rested in his lap. The shirt rustled and meowed. 

“Nothin’,” he defended,” It's none of your business.” 

“You are unbelievable,” Rimmer scolded, crouching down at Lister's side and lowering his voice, “do you have any idea of the penalty for smuggling an unquarantined animal on board?”

“Yes, Rimmer,” he hissed, pulling his shirt  back to reveal a rather large, black cat, “I'm aware… but she needed a home. She's pregnant.”

Sinking further down to sit next to the third technician, Rimmer stared at the cat momentarily as though it was an alien, her large green eyes seeming to plead with him. He shook his head. Cats aren't that smart, Rimmer thought to himself, then again, neither is Lister.

The scouser gave him a similar look, brown eyes wide and pleading, just like the cat, “Please, Rimmer. Don't tell anyone. She's gentle and well behaved and I promise, I swear on me life, that she's clean. Cleaner than me even.” 

“Well, anything's cleaner than you,” the second technician mumbled with a sigh, slowly holding out his hand for the cat to sniff. She nuzzled into him, a soft purr emanating from her and reverberating on his hand as she pressed against him. 

“Rimmer, please promise me you wont tell anyone about Frankenstein.” Lister begged again. 

“Fine, I promise,” he tried his best to sound cold, failing miserably as the feline continued to pander for his attention, “But Frankenstein? Really?”

“It's a class name,” Lister protested, A grin plastered over his features, “and when I first got her I thought she was a boy.”

“You’re a total gimp, Listy,” he finally let a smile creep onto his lips, cooing as he picked up Frankenstein and pulled her onto his own lap, planting a small kiss between her ears and stroking her gently.

Sitting outside my daughters ballet lesson, and this woman just said, "it's better to be an old man's darling than a young man's slave." And honestly I felt that right down to my fucking toes.

Is this really a question? Does my reputation for being wholeheartedly in love with the worst/best character ever written not yet precede me?

Are there any fictional characters that you really wish you could have sex with?