#(( WHICH. SHE KINDA IS

[theoldkyokodied]

One wedding and three funerals

Background paintings under the cut

[girlbogg]

hey has anyone else noticed that totk looks a lot like princess mononoke sometinms (<- guy who has never had an original thought)

[taxinealkaloids]

kill your darling, it's just that easy!

[dollopheadsandclotpoles]

[mossytrashcan]

tax paying citizen of silly city. you hug her and she squeaks like a clown nose

[teaboot]

UPDATES ON THE YOUNG LORD

He is three weeks old and his mom's owner has sent a picture

Momma is the big grey cat, the ears are the bottom of the photo belong to one of his sisters, and the runty black jellybean up by her chin is him.

[qqueenofhades]

I'm sure it's only a coincidence that a few days after Putin says Biden "needs to be undermined from the left" to help Trump win, noted Russian agent Jill Stein, who the Kremlin already extensively promoted in 2016 in the successful effort to hurt HRC, and who already endorsed fellow pro-Russian tankie Cornel West, jumps back into the 2024 race as the "Green Party candidate" talking about how "the two-party system has failed us."

For the love of fuck, let's not do this again.

[haunted-xander]

What's there to be afraid of?

[rystiel]

look. i view the doctor as asexual but the implication that he’s had kinky handcuff-escape sex with houdini is a bit funny so i’ll accept it

[dawdlecentric]

Every time Nijika says Daijoubu / 大丈夫

[agentc0rn]

Oh? Looks like Ogerpon wants to give you a flower! Will you accept?

>Yes

>No (you'd better not click this)

[frogsinajar]

I keep making doodles where june is the protagonist of a family sitcom with all the homestuck kids, so have a bunch of them

[puppyeared]

ouppys and kibbys

[anininas]

Little idea for double sided "charms" I had back in january

This isn't supposed to be merch or something though, just a project I started for fun and kinda forgot about

[lovesickeros]

☆ you sow; & thus you shall reap what you are owed

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, violence {☆} word count 0.8k

You are dying.

Gold melts into the dirt, bleeds into the very earth that you'd molded by your own hands – a familiarity you do not understand the source of – you know it to be true, yet you do not remember it as Teyvat does. It weeps, in turn, for the way you bleed upon it, the way your lungs strain for breath.

It is fury and sorrow and fear and hatred so raw that your mind buckles.

You will die.

"A dying godling and its judge, it's jury – it's executioners," The voice is hollow and cold, sweeps across your broken body like the first chill of winter, "Archons who saw themselves Gods, now brought to heel by their own hubris."

A cold hand upon your cheek, the brush of a thumb across your lip, the gentle caress of cold across your skin. You know her – you don't remember, you shouldn't recognize her but you do – and she knows you. The cold beckons and you follow, let her kindness settle in the hollow space of your chest. You want to speak, to cry and scream and rage, let the world burn around you in a fit of flames so hot even she cannot contain it – but she silences you, quiets the anger seeping into your blood, quiets Teyvat itself.

"Do not speak, little godling. Guide my hand," She is cold; her hands are not gentle, yet it is bliss compared to the callous, cruel hands that have shattered you. She is cruel and cold and brutal but she is love in the way she kisses the crown of your head. She is love in the way she is the bulwark between you and the world that has scorned you – she is fury in the way she brings them to their knees. "And I shall enact judgement most divine."

They will pray for forgiveness, and they shall find themselves wanting.

"It wasn't our fault!" They cry, but you cannot recognize the voice – it breaks and cracks like glass. "They were too human. How were we meant to know? We– we thought they were.."

Silence.

You watch your judge – the executioner, the blade that shall carve their sins into the very marrow of Teyvat, stand above you like death. As cold as winter and just as brutal. Your temple has been painted in the gold of your divine blood, and she shall complete the masterpiece with their own. The Archons shall become the grandest art in the world – this temple the canvas, their blood the paint and their bodies the palette. The cold that cuts sinew cradles you – it sings to you, whispers sweetly in your ear and carves bone from body in the same breath. The cold presses it's lips to your wrist and it cradles a heart within it's palm – judges them and finds them guilty.

It is her spear that rests between their ribs, her sword that dissects and her dagger that carves – the cold devours.

In the breadth of this divine sanctuary, the Archons dwindle. They become the pieces of a divine work of art, they bleed and bend and break upon her hands. She shakes the heavens and carves mortality into the bones of the divine – your word is Law, and you weave their deaths into the roots of Teyvat itself.

They shall know of their grand folly in every moment henceforth and longer still and they shall weep.

And as the curtain falls, as the world crumbles beneath fist and blade, she cradles your face between hands too cold – as gentle as a shard of ice between your ribs, as brutal as the kiss of gentle snowfall. The world buckles at the loss of six, but she alone does not allow it to break – you will have to mend the wounds of the world when you are well, but today you weep and Teyvat weeps with you.

And alone, the cold remains.

Stone has eroded, the wind has ceased, the flames have been extinguished, the storm has been silenced, the forests have gone quiet and the seas go still.

But the cold remains, bathed in gold.

It wraps you in thick furs, cradles you against the winter storm that brews beneath a veneer of composure. It brings you home – lets the world settle into a stillness and silence that inspires only dread and still she presses a kiss to your brow.

It is cold, but there has never been something so warm.

Where hands have broken you, she drapes you in furs, wipes away the thick gold that clings to your skin. She pieces you back together where you have been shattered, reshapes you where you have been bent – makes of you something new. Not a god and not a mortal but something wedged between them.

But you are yourself.

And you are where you belong.

They shall put you back together and you shall know only the worship worthy of the divine. They shall carve this world into your image, tear out and burn away the rot that festers.

All you need to do is say the word and they shall be your tools to make this world your own.

One word and those who wronged you shall burn, too.

Just one word. That's all it takes, and they shall take away your pain.

[bruciemilf]

I love your idea of Martha and Thomas bring separated in death out of bitterness and spitefulness of both families but I have this idea of Thomas and Martha not being separated because Alfred would have threatened both the Kanes and the Waynes with his shotgun and everyone knew Alfred wasn’t a person that could easily reasoned with when it came to his family

I hear you, and both have such delicous potential for angst, and while I’m sure Alfred would rather eat thunder and spit lighting than give Bruce over, how fucked up would it be if Martha’s brother made him choose?

“Give me my sister, and you keep the boy.”

A ghost for a corpse seems even.

Philip already terminated his custody rights, — it’s the easiest choice he ever made; it’s the hardest choice he ever made, — so he has no say. Only calls Jacob a fucked up son of a bitch, and he can see their mother in him.

It’s not often Alfred loses, but when it happens, it’s fateful, and it’s definitive, and it’s never, never well for the other person. He can’t win, because there’s no winner.

Imagine Bruce, young and scarred and sleepless with grief, staying wide awake. He’s not haunted by his parents’ graves; He’s haunted by the fact they’re empty.