#fangs for nothing

[iztea]

time out.

(+extra)

[rennyrose]

Didn’t realize what day it was until it was almost too late (Aside from Easter haha)

[championsandheroes]

Being told that my character hasn't been cleaning themselves properly in at least ten days was honestly the worst and most shocking part of the game. Gale and Lae'zel can go on about how they like your musk all they want, it doesn't matter. Ten days of wandering around and fighting? We camp next to a river? And yet???

If you are interested in your own vampire spawn to bring with you on adventures so that you can skip out on personal hygiene, contact the Szarr estate at Patreon or society6.

[pinkshgum]

a little bit shy, but styled to die, everybody loves this goyle!

[moeblob]

Haha, it's so funny how I am so indecisive that I go "I wanna draw my son" and then have too many ideas as to how. So here!

Take Ferdinands (and a Felix, I suppose, bc they are boyfrinds in my heart and soul).

[mari-lair]

remember the terukane role swap au?

[carmillas-girlfriend]

send an emoji to my ask box and I'll give my opinion on an Our Flag Means Death character:

🧜‍♂️- Stede Bonnet

🐙- Edward Teach

🦄- Izzy Hands

✒️- Lucius Spriggs

����- Oluwande Boodhari

🗡- Jim Jiminez

🐈‍⬛️- Frenchie

🐦- Nathaniel Buttons

🌧- Black Pete

💃- Wee John Feeney

🔪-Roach

🦷- The Swede

👃- Spanish Jackie

🐍- Archie

🐕- Fang

🍲- Zheng Yi Sao

🍃- Mary Read

🐇- Anne Bonny

🍺 - Calico Jack Rackham

🎨- Mary Allamby Bonnet

[f-00r]

I miss the idiots

[difeisheng]

重逢

Fang Duobing thinks he sees him, one last time. All light and motion that doesn't stir the breeze, perched at the edge of Fang Duobing's bed, cloaked in white like the moon shining on his form through the window. If he would have dared to look upon him just a moment longer, Fang Duobing would have seen him smile. Warm like jade, set there like a sculpted figure. More distinct than the silhouette blurred on the back of Fang Duobing's eyelids when he curls away into the cradle of lingering sleep, the steady weight of Di Feisheng at his back. The weight that, still asleep with even breath though a dagger reflecting the stars lays beside him, tells Fang Duobing whoever he perceives cannot be any more real than a dream.

They're the only places the people he calls ghosts can ever find him.

Ghosts they are, ghosts they will remain, slipping through his fingers no matter how he grasps, and so Fang Duobing closes his eyes against the not-presence of Li Lianhua. Against hope he's too bone-tired to stoke back to life, whether in the world of sleep or waking. It's easier, in the darkness, where he can tell himself he's made his peace with absence and the world cannot fold itself around empty shape before him to deny it.

A breath falls against Fang Duobing's ear, more than A-Fei can be. He doesn't feel the bed dip with one's movement, but he does, more than hears, the faintest exhaled note of laughter against his skin. He does not open his eyes.

Something more deliberate than air brushes at his hair, stroking a loose strand out of his face. It's the puppetry of his own exhaustion and the wind, however his subconscious has chosen to make sense of it, Fang Duobing thinks. A dream, or an illusion, or whatever you might call this, is an unreliable thing. The joke is that you never realize as such until reality reclaims its place.

The amused laugh comes again, more whisper than can be wind. And then, in a silent night, more voice than whisper. "Zai jian, Fang Xiaobao."

He's too close, too easy to believe in, words at Fang Duobing's ear. Too easy to reach for with the soft touch to his forehead, a moment's impression of a kiss.

It is the teasing cruelty of it, the sting of the short-lived, that forces Fang Duobing to finally open his eyes. Only the moonlight is there to greet him.

Only he is there to call himself, for the thousandth time and with no other words left, a fool.

(They're not the last ones Fang Duobing hears that night, though he barely registers the rest. Later, caught on the precipice between sleep and the final ray of consciousness, bleeding away.)

(Despite that, he does know, with as much certainty as he knows he lives and breathes, whose voice it was.)

(He knows what Li Lianhua said.)

(Dui bu qi.)

~*~

In the morning, something lays cushioned in Fang Duobing's open palm. A hairpin, fine in detail. Two lotus pods, twisted together at the stems, down a curved, entwined line.

Seeds of rebirth. Restart. A signifier of a new life begun, and so the old, the dead, must have said their farewell. The weight of this pin, once worked through another's hair by his own hand, is far more than its delicacy in Fang Duobing's hold.

He realizes with a start, the sun dawning on a day like any other, where he will find Li Lianhua again.

When.

~*~

Not in this lifetime.

~*~

The knowledge is, in its quiet ache, a comfort.

[capobegone]

Help I have 3,000 words to write by Saturday morning and all I can think about is baby Hakuji

BABY BOY BABY :’(

[crimson-nail]

same guy

[advocaado]

Lightning Returns epilogue but everyone is together and happy.

(view on desktop for non-shitty image quality)

[rennyrose]

How to Workout-

Step 1: Make a Playlist

[becauseplot]

Writing this at ass o’clock in the morning so excuse any incoherency but I can’t stop thinking about how important it is (for me personally) to view/headcanon qFit as entirely perfectly 100% human, and by extension, qCellbit as well.

Like I’m sure ppl have talked about it before but there’s just something so intriguing about having FitMC be Just Some Guy who was hardened by the Wasteland, sculpted by the atrocities he witnessed and committed, no claws or wings or horns or tails to help him. No extra arms for when he lost a limb, no enhanced hearing to make up for his damaged eardrums, no tough scales for when explosions melted his skin, no powerful hybrid instincts to guide him through his life. He is doing everything (hurting, helping, building, tearing, creating, destroying, strangling, soothing, hating, loving, killing, healing) with nothing but his one human hand, which he’s hardened with callouses until it became a set of claws in its own right. He’s been guided by a gut feeling for over ten years now, because it’s all he’s got.

Now. qCellbit. I love cat hybrid qCellbit soooo much, don’t get me wrong. When I think of qCellbit or when I’m writing him, he’s usually a cat hybrid. But just like with Fit, choosing to view qcellbit as 100% human is just as enriching. Small little kid, defenseless and soft and alone, thrown into a warzone. Had to eat his own kind and kill with his teeth and nails and bare hands to survive. Became the most feared thing within the prison walls. Had to learn late in his life how to be a “normal” person in society, something that takes so much time and effort and therapy that sometimes he doesn’t think he is a person. On his bad days, and even on some of his good ones, he views himself as less than human, a creature incapable of loving and being loved. He looks at his hands—tender, naked flesh and blunt nails, ten fingers and two palms—and still sees the claws of a monster.

[heythereimashley]

🎉🎉🎉 SUNDAY RANDOMS 🎉🎉🎉

[zishuge]

I'm supposed to be working but instead I'm thinking about Li Lianhua growing vegetables and how, once upon a time, he was so happy that he almost cried when he finally managed to grow some turnips.

Thinking about how he must've been at rock bottom then - sick, injured, heartbroken, having just lost in one fell swoop everyone and everything he's ever cared about. His shixiong, dead. He believes it's his fault. His shifu, dead. He believes it's his fault. His sect, in ruins. He believes it's his fault. His people no longer believe in him. A-Mian doesn't love him anymore. It's all his fault, it's all his fault.

He doesn't have Hulijing yet. He's alone. He's heartsick. He'll be dead in ten years, or much sooner than that if he can't find some food and shelter. His Sigu Sect leader token is only worth 50 taels of silver. It turns out everything he has built his life around is worth only 50 taels of silver. I can hear his self-deprecating laugh. How foolish he must've felt, having his life's ambition put so violently and abruptly into perspective.

Have you ever been so despondent that you cling desperately to just one thing, anything, that you can focus on in order to not think about everything else? So: turnips.

Tending, weeding, watering, counting, day by day by slowly passing day. The vegetables grow and he survives. And finally, one day, he discovers that against all odds, he has turnips. These hands which he believes have caused the destruction of all that he once held dear, somehow managed to nurture creation and support life. Everything and everyone is gone, but here in his hands is this one small glimmer of hope that perhaps he is not only capable of ruin. How happy he must've been. Was it the first time he felt joy since before the East Sea battle? How he must've wanted to tell someone, but there was no one there.

You know who he must've most wanted to tell? His shifu. His shifu, who once told him that he didn't care about Xiangyi becoming any great martial artist. Just eat well, drink well, and live well. Maybe kneeling there in the dirt, gently cradling his small misshapen turnips in his hands — maybe that's when Li Lianhua finally understands what Shifu meant.