#cw baby murder

[rustic-space-fiddle]

Forgive me.

[nowwheresmynut]

...

Be the change you want to see in the world ig

[shamura]

lammy :) dialogue from Chirin's Bell

[peridotsarelongterm]

Hey, some Good Samaritan on YouTube has colorized not just one, but both of De’s Lone Wolf (1954) episodes (see below for one - the other is called “The Murder Story” and is on the same playlist).

He’s a serious bastard in one and doesn’t live long in the other, but I guess it wouldn’t be pre-Trek De if those qualities weren’t present, so enjoy!

[curi0uscreature]

* When I say Nutty’s one of my favs I mean it in a way I’m aware of the absolutely heinous shit they’re able to pull (especially) in their staring episodes and that makes me love him even more 

[fanficsbysenneres]

Picture provided by @tockamybeloved

A Walking Dream

The day an assassin compromised the security of Zhongshui.

“Don’t. Move.”

“Do not,” Lord Yunzhong growled, “Even think about putting that anywhere near me –”

“If you don’t stop moving it’ll poke you in the eye!”

“Mei!”

“Xiǎoqīngwā!”

Lord Yunzhong closed his eyes as he heard his father chuckling at her nickname for him.

“Son,” he instructed mock-seriously, “You must let a wife have her way, unless you like an empty bed.”

“We are not married yet,” Yunzhong lifted his eyes as if in silent plea to Xuanwu, “There is still time –”

“Oh, so you don’t want to marry me anymore?” Mei was stern. “Well I’m sure I can find another fiancé –”

“Never.” Yunzhong became serious. “I would never allow it.”

“If you would not, then best let her have her way with you, son.”

“See,” Mei twirled the flower between her fingers, “Your father knows what’s good for you!”

Yunzhong surrendered.

“Do it,” he sighed.

She stretched up on her toes to reach his golden crown, carefully trying to slide the pink bloom within its meshed design, eyebrows drawn together in concentration.

The crown hummed and whined softly, shifting and reshaping its design to thwart the intruding stem.

Yunzhong shifted restlessly as the small tyrant pouted.

“Be still!” She scolded them both.

“It won’t let you touch it.” Yunzhong grumbled.

“It will let me touch it, if it knows what’s good for it.”

Finally, the crown seemed to give up, and allowed the offending bloom to be placed coquettishly to one side, above Yunzhong’s left ear.

“There,” Mei pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Now everyone knows you belong to me.”

Yunzhong felt his spirit leave his body.

Her fingers threaded through his, and she smiled up at him.

For one moment, he felt as if he were in a dream. When she smiled at him in just that way, it felt exactly like he was dreaming. The mischievous sparkle in her golden-brown eyes made him want to take her sweet face in both hands and reassure himself it was not a dream and kiss her again and again until it was her spirit leaving her body –

“Mei!” The moment was interrupted by a certain little brother. “Mei, leave my brother alone and come play with me!”

Changheng pulled unceremoniously at Mei's arm, tugging her away to where he’d dumped a bag of marbles on the tiles.

“Help, help, I’m been kidnapped against my will!”

“And that is what you deserve,” Yunzhong pretended to growl, “For disrespecting my crown!”

She shot him a cheeky grin, before allowing herself to be pulled away completely, and knelt down next to Changheng.

“Come now, son,” Yunzhong’s mother was suddenly murmuring at his side, “If you keep looking at her like that you’ll burn her alive.”

Yunzhong barely heard her, enjoying the sight of his fiancée leaning forward to skid a marble in a race against Changheng. Even her bare forearm could make him lose all intelligence.

“Time for us to receive the ambassador,” she called to Yunzhong’s father.

“Dongfang has not been responding to my communications,” he overheard his father murmur as she smoothed a hand over his robes. “I’m beginning to worry someone has been intercepting them.”

“It’s probably nothing,” she soothed. “He lost his wife, he has a newborn son, we must allow him time.”

“Perhaps his ambassador will be able to reassure us.”

They both turned as the ambassador from the Cangyan Sea was announced; his father anticipating the arrival with calm, his mother smiling as she stood beside him.

What happened next was carved into Yunzhong’s memory.

A man pushed into the reception room, wild-eyed and staggering.

“Your majesty –” he gasped.

But he did not finish.

A sword erupted through his chest, spattering blood in a violent streak across the tiles.

He fell forward with a grunt as the air left his body.

Behind him, the ambassador for Cangyan Sea stood, his black robes and gold emblem a stark contrast in the white reception hall.

His crazed stare snapped from the Emperor, to Yunzhong, to Changheng.

His mouth was red, as if he'd swallowed something that had burned him, and his face was pale as if he were deathly ill.

“What's – what's wrong with him...” His mother said faintly.

Blood dripped down the blade of his sword as he lifted his other hand, bright flames materialising in his palm, and he shot a spell out towards Changheng, an ever-growing ball of white fire that singed the air and sucked all the breath out of Yunzhong.

Mei was on her feet and sliding in front of Changheng, arms outstretched, face pale and determined – but the shield she threw was too late, too weak, and it did nothing to stop the fire.

For one terrible moment, Yunzhong was powerless to do anything except watch.

The fire greedily swallowed her as Changheng’s small body slid backwards across the tiles and away from the fire’s all-consuming mouth.

And then, too late, he knew what Mei had done.

She had not tried to save herself. She had known there would not be enough time. She had instead thrown Changheng backwards. She had chosen to save his little brother instead of herself.

The fire burned her, a black figure within the greedy flames, the flakes of her robes burning upwards like hundreds of tiny orange butterflies, and then within the next moment, she was gone.

His Mei was gone.

A grunt and a gasp to his left made him turn, slow – too slow – and his mother was now lying on the tiles, a gash in her throat, sword clattering to the tiles, hands clawing at her wound.

His father was unconscious underneath her, covered in blood – though whose blood it was he did not have time to tell because the ambassador was now turning wildly towards Yunzhong.

“Death to all Shuiyuntian!” He twisted the sword he held, the sound of the blood-soaked handle in his grasp suddenly loud in the silent hall. “You intended to crush us – but I will not let one of you leave this room alive today! Or else it will bring my people disaster!”

But even as inexperienced as he was, as afraid as he was, Yunzhong recognised the uncertainty in the man’s face. The creeping doubt in what he said. 

He looked at the dark blood creeping across the gold-veined marble floor. 

He tried not to look at the mark on the tiles where his fiancée had last stood, arms out to protect Changheng.

“This will be your last day.” He told the deranged man, the words curiously distant, as if someone else had spoken them, and not himself.

He could hear the guards arriving outside – hear them thumping on the doors, trying to get through whatever evil magic held them shut – again, too little, too late, and no guard would be in time to prevent whatever happened next.

The ambassador fixed his eyes on Yunzhong, as if he could not hear the urgent crashing against the doors, as if nothing and no one else existed except them. He saw the ambassador had been wounded, perhaps on his way into the pavilion, perhaps by his father before he'd collapsed. There was blood pouring down the side of his face, and seeping through a wound on his thigh. His teeth were bared, whether in hatred or madness it was impossible to tell, but to Yunzhong he appeared to be grinning, teeth like fangs against his bloodied lips.

"I won't burn you like I did her," he hissed. "I'm going to feel your blood on my hands before you die."

Yunzhong had no training in cultivated attacks. They'd never thought he'd need it. He carried no physical weapon. Why would he?

He was defenseless.

Save for the sword of his mother, still lying on the floor where it had fallen from her limp fingers.

He leapt for it as the ambassador lunged to kill. Yunzhong's landing slipped, he slid to one knee, his fingers splayed in a dark liquid, her rose hurtled out of his crown and rolled across the tiles, its soft pink petals now sticky and red, but he could not allow himself to react. 

Seeing him fall, Changheng cried out from where Mei had pushed him to safety, his chubby little hands fisting in terror, and the ambassador’s grin turned feral as he turned without warning and ran at the helpless child.

Three steps, two steps, one step, the ambassador's sword arced downwards, to plunge into his little brother’s skull – 

Thump.

The head hit the wall.

The body slumped sideways from the force of Yunzhong’s blow.

Changheng’s crying stopped, his eyes growing round, as if some part of him understood the danger that had just been despatched.

Yunzhong did not hesitate, but lifted his little brother up into his arms, and, with a hastily wiped hand, shielded Changheng's eyes.

He walked past his gasping father, past his lifeless mother, past – no he did not look anywhere else – went to the doors, and let the guards in.

Ao3

[cat-attack1701]

CW BLOOD!!!He’s just so happy to commit brutal murder in the name of science!

Clean Version: x

[togepies]

malice thief // gloomstalker

[izzysarchivedblogs]

❛ don’t go. please. ❜

IT IS WASTELANDS TIME BABY ! Not actually featuring Peter Parker, but the memory of Peter Parker !!

trigger warnings -> blood, death, murder, depression, alcoholism

Sunlight bleeds through the curtains, they are almost pinkish with how old they are, how the sun has drained them of color over many years. MANY YEARS. that always brought a smile to his face, lips chasing up his jaw. . . . his hand goes to drag along a bare back, his hand goes to. . . . REACHES FOR ⸻

Hand closes around a machete, just in his reach as he finds himself flat on the ground. GRIPS TIGHT TO THE WEAPON. (he should have held on tighter ⸻ TOO LATE, that was years ago). Aches and pain be damned, ❝ FUGGOFF! ❞ He growls into as he takes a swing, blade bites into ankle and he doesn't finish moving. FULL FORCE THROUGH FLESH AND BONE.

Blood gets in his mouth, which only enrages him more. FUCKING SHIT BALLS ON FIRE. He's getting on his feet when they fall from their own feet, yelps of pain and he coughs out the blood onto the ground. BOW ⸺ BOW ⸺ WHERE THE HELL IS IT?

Once it's located, he's reaching, REACHING ⸻

His hand makes contact with what it was looking for. Soft strands of hair, all frizzed up. Fluffy, brown locks that fingers card through languidly. A rumble is in his throat, interrupted when lips find purchase at his adam's apple. PETE ⸻

He may be old as well, arteritis in every bone or some shit. DOESN'T MATTER ⸻ He's got a nice bottle of WHISKEY that waste away most of the aches. The ex-blonde, silvering waterfall of hair thrown over his shoulder as THE BOW STRING IS DRAWN and than ONE, TWO, THREE ⸻ arrows go through a had, a throat, a stomach. That last one will bleed to death, and he's not in the mood for mercy or caring. LET IT HURT.

The problems are dead, or well, dying. The one little bitch is TRYING HIS PATIENCE, but the archer moves on. He was close, he knows he was close. He picks out what he had been looking, KEYS, from one of the corpses and the whining really was getting on his last nerve. ❝ Shuddup, t'is take me ta' your boss lady? ❞

An answer is not waited for because he's been on this road for months now, years even, and IT'S ONE MORE TO TICK OFF. Another head to roll, and HE WANTS THIS. He needs, he needs, he needs ⸻

Those lips keep pressing upwards, wet against his jaw line and cheeks. His hand drags back downwards, feeling his bare skin until his finder, down his spine and feeling every vertebrae there. Blue eyes meet dark eyes, YOU GOING TO KISS ME OR NOT, begs on his lips. An alarm goes off, and dry lips have to turn away. Wet lips pouting and he knows that look ⸻

When he finally gets there, looks upon the house at the top of the hill and end of the street. EVERYTHING IN HIM GOES COLD FIRE. Grip tightens and FINALLY, it's her time. It's her time. SHE HAS TO DIE. The world was hell, left to rot, and it deserved to burn. She deserved to burn, along with the world. Maybe in ash, it could all be reborn.

HE deserved to burn with it too.

A hand's going up to his face, cupping his jaw and turning his attention. They've been lazing in bed for over three hours, counting their blessings that the new baby was still sleeping and Mayday either still asleep or self entertaining. WE'RE SO LUCKY WITH THEM, he had mumbled and he's pulling away. HAS TO as his Avenger card beeps at him again. There's a look in Peter's eyes, happy and light. "DON'T GO. PLEASE." Rumbly voice than met with lips on his lips finally, and he wants to crawl back into bed. Stay there with him.

Now his memory, which has been getting funnier and funnier. The memory comes back up again, except now is this really a memory? As he gets his way past the exterior security, and as he has to go fast. Taskmasters would be on top of him if he took too long, which he could handle it or DIE; he wasn't done yet with everyone on his list. OTHERWISE, HE DIES AND THE PAIN WOULD BE OVER.

He sees him standing there, corner of his vision than in front of him. Peter Benjamin Parker, but preferably Peter Barton-Parker to him. HE'S LOOKING AT HIM. Sad eyes, frown on his lips and he's moving to stand in front of the doorway, to where he need to go. TO WHERE HE'D BE KILLING KARLA SOFEN.

"Don't go. Please."

This time, he is sad and twisted, broken voice. He could not handle this. NOT NOW. ⸻ GO AWAY, PETER. Karla has to die, he needed to kill her and you should hear what she's done with herself. IT'D BE BETTER. The world hurt, it needed to burn away all the, and maybe. . . . . He knows past his own lies, this wasn't justice. VEAGANCE ⸻ REVENGE KILLING.

"Don't go. Please."

Clint walks right into the ghost, FEELS LIKE COLD FIRE (how it kills him, how he wants him to be real and catch him in his arms). He swallows, tries and the lump gets caught in his throat. GOD HE NEEDED THAT WHISKEY NOW. Be quick about this, he can make for his stash and than skip to the next town. One more person down, the list gets shorter.

There's a limp form of a blonde woman, sitting in a chair, wasted way. TOO MUCH POWER. DYING BODY. Arrows shot through her skull, into her chest. "You can't kill me that easily, Clint. My body was already dead."

Clint coughs, LAUGHS CRUEL, and he's got the biggest sneer at the voice that comes through the house. Interior weapons engage, walls moving in, ❝ Awww hell, Karla, sweetheart ⸺ Don't you remember always sayin' I was smarter than I looked? ❞

HE CAME PREPARED. Karla Sofen and her systems were going to burn, with the world, with everyone in it, LIKE HE BURNED. He'd kill her, and all of them, and leave behind a trail, a mess of ash and blood. IT ALL HURT.

"Don't go. Please" ⸺ He wish he hadn't. "Don't go. Please" ⸻ TOO LATE.

[kaatiba]

oracle wip - an opening snippet

There’s a new guard.

You notice her because she looks you in the eyes, and that’s something no one does any more, not even Alyss. You flinch, but only on the inside.

One moment you’re not focusing on anything, in that foggy space where you’re almost-asleep and everything’s far away and dreamlike, and the next you’re aware, with a jolt like a shock, of what’s happening, what she’s doing.

She has green eyes, this guard. A dark, deep green that’s almost black. She looks into your eyes and you look back because you quite literally can’t not, even as you brace yourself—

But nothing happens.

She doesn’t start screaming or shaking, doesn’t start gibbering or clawing at her face, doesn’t collapse. She just looks at you, and after an endless moment her eyes drift away, trailing over your face, your body, suspended before her. Her stare is as tangible as a touch, leaving phantom prickles in its wake that linger even after she looks away, turning her back on you as the other guard—Menik—shifts with a sigh.

She seems as sane as ever. Whatever it is that’s wrong with your eyes hasn’t driven her mad.

Maybe she’s already insane, you think. Or maybe she has some way to protect herself.

You don’t know. You can’t ask her. You can’t do anything.

You don’t like remembering that.

You let yourself drift off again.

*

The guard’s name is Ro. She’s new to the palace. She talks easily, lightly, with Menik. You listen. You could tune her out, but she’s far more interesting than the inside of your head or anything else in this horrible gilded room. She’s made you curious, and you haven’t felt anything besides numb despair and seething hatred for so long.

So you listen, all your attention fixed on her.

She says she’s in her twenty-fifth year and her father was a soldier and her mother a farrier. She says she has a sister Menik’s age, who’s married with three children. She says she was so excited to become the oracle’s guard, but it’s actually kind of boring, and is it always like this?

You wonder if you’re imagining the wrongness in her tone. (You spend a lot of time imagining things, after all. It helps the time pass.) When Ro talks she sounds almost, but not quite, genuine. Her tone is just a little too airy…or maybe you’re just too wretched to be able to take someone who seems so cheerful seriously.

Menik laughs. “Everyone gets disappointed,” he says, leaning on his spear. All you can see of them are their backs, since they’re facing away from you. “They expect to see wonders while guarding the oracle, given he’s…well. An oracle.”

“So this is really all he does?” Ro asks, nodding her head toward you and glancing at you over her shoulder, looking you in the eye again for a brief moment. It’s electric. Electric that she does it, electric that doing so doesn’t affect her at all. “He just…floats there?”

“Mhm,” Menik hums. “Unless her majesty’s visiting, but we’re to wait outside when that happens.”

“Oh,” Ro says, sounding disappointed. “But—so does something happen when the queen visits then?”

“Doors’ spelled silent,” says Menik. “I’m sure plenty happens, but we don’t hear none of it.”

Nobody…nobody hears you?

That shouldn’t hit you like a blow, but it does.

Nobody hears you. Nobody hears what happens in this room. Nobody hears the prisoners, Alyss’s enemies, be driven mad as they’re forced to make eye contact with you. Nobody hears your screaming or your begging or the dull answers you give Alyss for her interrogations or the tantrums she throws when your answers aren’t useful enough.

Soon you won’t have anything at all to tell her. Maybe then she’ll finally kill you. If you die here, will you finally go home? Or will it just be the end of everything you are?

You’ve lost track of the conversation, of the world. When you tune back in, Menik and Ro are gone, replaced by Talma and Rafe.

They’re boring. They never do anything but play cards or read books or have naps. They’ve been guarding you since the beginning, however long it’s been, which means they don’t really guard you at all anymore. Nothing ever happens. There’s nothing to guard you from.

They don’t realize that they’re here to guard against you.

Theoretically, anyway—after all, you can’t move. Can’t even control your blinks or your breaths. You just float there, trapped inside yourself, until Alyss deigns to let you out.

But she likes to be prepared. If you do manage to break out somehow—it would take a miracle—the guards are there to stop you. Your only weapons against them are your eyes, and they have strict instructions not to meet your gaze, lest they be driven mad…so none of them do.

Except Ro.

Why does she do that? Why does she look at you? Did she somehow know she’d be safe? How is she safe? Is it something about her, or is it something done to her, or is it something about you and her that’s different from you and everybody else? Even Alyss doesn’t look you in the eye anymore. No, before she releases you, she blindfolds you and ties your hands so you can’t rip the blindfold off and try and make her look at you.

You chew on these questions until the frustration of not knowing, of not being able to ever know, unless someone says something where you can hear it, starts to make you want to scream.

For a little while, you do. Scream that is.

Just silently, inside your own head.

It’s not as satisfying.

*

You eventually lose interest in Ro too. She stops talking so much, settling into her position as a guard. She doesn’t look at you all that often anymore either. You miss it. Miss being seen. Miss being interested in what’s happening around you. You spend more and more time lost in your head. That should probably frighten you, but the capacity to be frightened has been worn out of you.

Nowadays you’re either frothing with pointless rage or numb.

So it’s a shock, a complete and utter shock, when one night, indistinguishable from the countless nights you’ve spent in your prison, Ro pulls a gimlet blade of a knife from her belt, turns to Menik, and slits his throat in one swift movement.

Menik doesn't even have a chance to make a sound before he's crumpling into Ro's waiting arms and being lowered slowly to the floor.

She pats his cheek with a solem expression at odds with the crow-brightness of her eyes. “This is a better ending for you than letting you be found by the Queen," she says. "She'd have made you suffer. This is quick and painless—look, you're already gone."

While you’re still reeling from the murder, she begins doffing her armour, until all she’s left wearing are the clothes underneath and the leather armguards. As she undresses, she stares down at your spell circle, brows furrowed, an expression of intense concentration on her face.

Heart pounding double time in the hollow of your throat, giddy anticipation thrumming through your veins, you wonder what she’s going to do next. Or attempt to do, anyway.

She must be an assassin.

Those tapered off a while ago, though you’re not sure how long ‘a while’ actually was. It doesn’t matter; other assassins have tried to kill you. Seven, at last count, but there could have been more that never even made it into your room.

Unfortunately and obviously, none of them have been successful. None of them have even gotten close to being successful. Your prison is too well-formed—the three concentric rings of spells keep you unable to move or speak.

The outer ring is all about security. That’s the section that prevents anybody from crossing its bounds and acts as a shield against projectiles both mundane and magical in nature: the only things allowed through are air, light, and Alyss.

The middle ring maintains your body, preserving your physical health and mobility, placing you in stasis so that you don’t need nourishment as often and no waste is excreted.

The inner ring is all flashy sigils that make you float and cause a breeze that makes your hair move for added ambience. It's a complete waste of magic, in your opinion, but it adds to the mystical effect, and Alyss always did have a tendency towards spectacle.

She'd explained your prison to you in painstaking, gloating detail, while you'd had no choice but to listen, paralyzed and terrified and devastated.

You’re curious to see how far Ro gets. What she’ll try next. How much she knows about your trap. Being a guard, she’s had ample time to study it, if she can see it. To the unmagical, you just look like you’re floating on an altar. Anyone with enough magical ability will see the glow of the sigils. Anyone studied would be able to decode the spell. Only a master of magic would be able to unmake it, and not without alerting Alyss that her spell is being tampered with.

But she shocks you again. She doesn't try to unravel the spell. Doesn't test it with magic or weapons.

She just walks right through the circles, unimpeded and casual, until she’s only a foot away from you. It takes her all of three steps. The sigils flicker like electricity shorting out beneath her feet and then resume their steady glow once she’s no longer touching them.

You would goggle at her if you could manage anything but the resting placid expression your face has settled into.

She looks up at you. She’s standing too close for you to be able to make out more than the top of her head at about chin level with you. This is it, then. For all of Alyss's efforts, someone's beat her.

An assassin has made it through. You wonder, with staggering relief, just how Ro's going to kill you. You're not even afraid as you once were about dying. Not anymore. Not now that it means this is over.

Ro will kill you and you’ll either be free or dead, but either way, you won’t be trapped anymore, locked inside of yourself, inside of this room, inside of this world.

You feel a twinge of regret that you won’t be able to make Alyss suffer worse than she’s made you suffer, but you know your loss will hit her where it hurts the most. And if there's any justice in the world, your death will mean a reset.

Alyss will be dead along with you and she'll lose everything. You wonder if she'll even have time to know when she loses it all.

Ro shifts. If you could brace yourself you would.

But death doesn't come. Instead, her hand wraps around your wrist.

You register the searing sensation of her skin only after you’ve plummeted to the ground, suddenly and fully in yourself.

For a second you don’t remember how to breathe or move or even hold yourself up, assaulted by sensation—her hand still on your wrist, all calloused palms and long fingers and warmth, your knees smarting from their collision with the stones, the weight of your overgrown hair, of your clothes, of your limbs, of gravity bearing you down, down, down.

You make a horrible gurgling choking noise and your whole body jerks wildly—trying to get away, trying to get ahold of yourself, trying to look up at her, trying to breathe.

“Woah, woah, take it easy,” Ro says, crouching down in front of you and grabbing you by the shoulder with her free hand, grip firm to the point of bruising, forcing you still, holding you upright.

You've never been so aware of anyone’s touch before in your whole life—

You inhale harshly, exhale brokenly, stop flailing, though you can’t stop trembling. “L-let go,” you croak, trying to break free of her hold on you.

Her touch burns. Not in any magical way, no, just in being too much.

She’s very strong, or you’re very weak; all you really accomplish is an exaggerated twitch rather than anything effective.

“If I let you go the spell will take you again,” Ro says, brow arched high. “And I want to talk to you.”

You twitch again, but towards her rather than away, the base instinct to grasp tightly to what will keep you safe driving you to twist your hands in the material of her shirt and cling. Weakly, sure, but fervently. She looks down at your grip on her and then up at you, and obviously, clearly, allows it to happen.

“How—why—what is this?” you ask, stumbling over the words, your tongue, your teeth.

“A temporarily suspended assassination,” Ro replies, smiling cheerily. Her eyes crinkle up with the force of it. There are droplets of blood on her cheek.

“If I kill the oracle, I’ll make a fortune from two different contracts. I haven’t decided if that means I have to kill you yet, though.” Then her gaze goes sharp, her smile razor-edged. “But shouldn’t you already know that?”

You blink at her, mind rapidly spinning, twisting, turning over itself. Oracle, right. You’re the oracle. Alyss’s oracle.

Except you’re not. Alyss is a liar in this as in all things.

What do you do now? You only have more questions, but asking them is admitting to not knowing, and if you don't know then you’re not an oracle, and if you’re not an oracle, will Ro still kill you?

The possibility of surviving, of escaping—

Death is better than being trapped, but living free is better than being dead. After all, you can always die later. If you get out of here, you can torment Alyss the way she’s tormented you. You can take everything from her, the way she’s taken everything from you.

Ro is staring at you, expectant. You make a decision. It’s ironic, or maybe self-destructive, proof that you’ve lost it completely, that it’s the same decision that ruined you—to tell the truth.

“'M not,” you rasp. “'M not the oracle.”

[lesbianclaryfray]

u can’t make this shit up. not even a denial of genocide just bringing up hamas at any and all criticisms lmaoooo

[spilledbutter]

LOOK AT OUR DIRTY SCRUNGY MAN

[rosepetalgold]

Patton: Remus, you should be proud of me!

Remus: Why's that, daddy-o?

Patton: I did something illegal today!

Remus: No shit! Arson? Murder? Extortion?

Patton, glancing around: *whispers* I took fallen leaves from the succulents at the store so I can propagate my own instead of buying any.

Remus: That's not--

Virgil: Shhh, just let him have this.

[winepresswrath]

drusilla's canon grandma kink is a thing that can be so charming & unhinged.

[petrichormoon]

posting my fav frame from a video im working on (yes if you recognize those lyrics yes it is to that song)

im very determined to do more gourd grove content during october

[acewizardinspace]

We see the attack on the jedi temple in ep 3, the Kenobi show and from Grogu, and they all show how horrific it was, but none of those have shown us the elderly.

It is only logical that during the war most of the people in the temple were those too old or sick to fight, yet, in all of these scenes we are only shown what appears to be mid-life adults.

But I just can't stop thinking about the elderly jedi.

The jedi who haven't picked up their lightsabers in 10 years, let alone actually turned it on, standing up to protect their homes. The jedi who gave themselves one final mission, to save as many of their people's children as they can. The jedi who fought in their hover chairs, who didn't even try to evacuate, who tried to stall the onslaught for just a little while longer.

I get really emotional thinking about the elderly jedi who are typically forgotten in these discussions.