#feeling inspired and grounded

[emmabirb8]

It really is SO funny (and meaningful, actually, if you think about it) to me that Stanley was the only member of the Pines family who was never able to be manipulated by Bill.

Stan's paranoia and distrusting attitude served him in the best way possible. Yeah, it sucks that he was basically cut off from forming lasting positive relationships up until he moved into Ford's shack in Gravity Falls, but MAN, that was kind of a small price to pay when you realize he unknowingly kept himself protected from one of the most dangerous entities in all of space-time by having that mindset and keeping his walls up all those years.

Can you imagine how fucking disastrous things could've turned out if Bill had gotten to him? Successfully infiltrated Stan's dreams, utilized his connection to Ford to his devious advantage as a bargaining chip, and used Stan for all he's worth to orchestrate Weirdmageddon his way? Ford spent 30 years hiding from Bill, constructing the quantum destabilizer, and putting all his energy into taking him out - to prevent him from meddling in the lives of those he cares about and to protect the world from his evil.

But it turns out, all you really have to do to foil Bill is just... not be swayed by him in the first place. There was NO combination of words in the human vocabulary Bill could have said to get Stan on his side at any point in the story, and tbh that's fucking hilarious.

Get fucked little man, you got outsmarted by the '''lesser''' twin, and he didn't even have to put any effort into it at all.

(And as the icing on the cake, he wrecked your sorry ass too. Smashed you to smithereens in one second flat.)

Truly tho, I think Stan is Bill's match. His equal opposing force. The yin to his yang. Essentially, when put together, they cancel each other out, lmao.

And I just know Bill will be forever haunted by that old man. He can make all the pitiful attempts to reach out from the Theraprism all he wants, but even if he were to escape someday, somehow, there is no coming back from that level of pure humiliation. 🤣

[johnnyshrine]

★ 113 // “Dissociation”

[blae-kitta]

Sketch page! Margaritabille au by @kerink with Bill making a caesar, Ford in the outfit I'm living in rn, a joke post I've already posted of where Ford loses a bet, and an interaction that been lodged in my frontal lobe for ages and was gonna make a proper comic for and then didn't

[charmtale]

sailor moon episode 200 .. revolutionary girl utena episode 39

[mxtxfanatic]

What I find so interesting about Jin Guangyao's explanation about why he finally decided to kill Jin Guangshan is that even though he's lying in his retelling to get the others to lower their guard, the original convo and the impression it left on him gives us such interesting insight into the Meng mother-son duo. This is what he says in Guanyin Temple:

“Why was a sect leader who spent money like water unwilling to do the smallest favor and buy my mother’s freedom? Simple—it was too much trouble. My mother waited for so many years, weaving together so many difficult circumstances when she talked to me, imagining for his sake so many hardships. And the real reason was only a single word: trouble. “This is what he said, ‘It’s especially women who’ve read some books who think they’re a level higher than other women. They’re the most troublesome, with so many demands and unrealistic thoughts. If I bought her freedom and took her back to Lanling, who knows how much fuss she’d make. It was best that I let her stay where she was just like that. With her conditions, she’d probably be popular for a few more years. She wouldn’t have to worry about her spendings for the rest of her life.’ “‘Son? Oh, forget it.’” Jin GuangYao’s memory was extraordinary. With such a word-by-word repetition, one could even imagine that drunk expression of Jin GuangShan’s when he said these words, “Brother, look, these three words are all that I’m worth to my father, ‘Oh, forget it.’ Hahahaha...”

—Chapt. 106: Hatred, exr

This is the actual scene and context of what Jin Guangyao is repeating:

Jin GuangYao had long since gotten used to this. He knew when he should appear and when he should not. He gestured towards Xue Yang and stopped in his tracks. Xue Yang clicked his tongue, his expression quite impatient. Just as he was about to go downstairs and wait, he suddenly heard Jin GuangShan’s gruff voice, “Women—shouldn’t it be enough as long as they water their flowers, powder their faces, and make themselves look as pretty as possible? Calligraphy? What a disappointment.” Those women all wanted to please Jin GuangShan originally. With these words, a flash of awkwardness passed over the pavilion. Jin GuangYao’s figure froze somewhat as well. Soon, someone giggled, “But I heard that back then in Yunmeng, there was a talented woman who charmed the entire world with her poems and songs—zither, chess, calligraphy, as well as painting!” It was clear Jin GuangShan was dead drunk. The wine could even be heard from his stammering voice. He mumbled, “That’s——not how things work. Now I’ve realized. Women shouldn’t play with those useless things. Women who’ve read some books always think they’re a level higher than the other women. They’re the most troublesome, with so many demands and unrealistic fancies.” ... Up on the pavilion, the women agreed with laughter. As though he remembered something from the past, he murmured to himself, “If I bought her freedom and took her back to Lanling, who knows how much fuss she would’ve made. If she stayed where she was, she might be popular for a few more years and she wouldn’t have to worry about her spendings for the rest of her life. Out of everything, just why did she have to bear a son, a son of a prostitute? What could she have hoped to...” A woman asked, “Sect Leader Jin, who are you talking about? What son?” Jin GuangShan’s voice drifted, “Son? Oh, forget it.”

—Chapt. 118: Villainous Friends Extra, exr

Jin Guangyao's scheming seems to be a trait learned from his mother. We've already seen and heard from multiple different characters by this point that Meng Shi bore a son in hopes that it would get her bought out of her brothel contract, but she did more than that. She learned the arts and education. She cultivated herself into appearing like any young woman from a noble family, even though she was a prostitute. The purpose of this crafted image was to attract the attention of a nobleman who would fall for her charms and hopefully free her from the brothel. The final part of that plan was to bear a rich man a son as, like one patron said, leaving a son to be raised in a brothel was both cruel to the son and embarrassing to the nobleman. And she wasn't aiming just to have her contract bought out, but to be bought out and her status elevated to that of a nobleman's wife, a plan that left her peers bitter. Unfortunately for Meng Shi, she picked the one lecher with a face thick enough to do exactly what the other patrons wouldn't. She bore a son, and Jin Guangshan disappeared like smoke. On top of that, her having a son decreased her popularity amongst other patrons. All of that hard work ruined in one fell swoop.

Jin Guangyao takes his mother's scheming and intensifies it. Instead of picking and sticking to one persona, he shapeshifts into soft, gentle, learned, efficient, helpless... whatever he needs to be in front of those he wants to curry favor with. However, he is also able and willing to do what his mother (willing or not) couldn't have: when those above him disrespect his station, he kills them. He forges a friendship with Lan Xichen by helping him escape the QishanWen and revealing curated moments of vulnerability with the other man to feign intimacy. He shows his efficiency and dedication to quality work to Nie Mingjue while subtly manipulating the man into attacking his enemies for him. He reveals his bloodthirstiness and petty, vindictive nature to Wen Ruohan, which earns him a spot as the clan leader's right hand man. And all the while, he is silently killing those who remind him of his low reputation, quelling dissent about his rise to power. But just like his mother, there's one target he cannot catch: his shameless father.

I won't make the argument that Meng Shi was wrong for attempting to use a child to manipulate her way into a marriage. The woman was enslaved to a brothel; there were no good means of escape in that system that didn't rely on manipulating some of the most immoral men in society. However, her lack of consideration (or possibly prioritization, since we do not get her actual thoughts) on how her actions would affect the child she schemed to have did backfire on her son. Meng Shi wanted her son to be what she thought his father would want: the powerful cultivating son of a cultivation clan leader. Jin Guangyao carries this same wish with him, that he be seen as his father's son. Instead, Jin Guangyao would be forever known not by who his father was but who his mother was: a prostitute.

What ultimately gets Jin Guangyao to commit to his father's death is not that Jin Guangshan disrespected his mother, but that he finally heard from the man's own mouth that everything he had been taught by his mother was a lie. It's not that he just hadn't found the correct persona that would make his father acknowledge him. It's that he would never be able to shapeshift his way into his father's acknowledgements. It's that no matter how many images he cultivated with how many different people, no matter how many people he killed in front of his father's face or behind his back, he would never be Jin Guangyao, proud son of the Jin Clan. Even to his own father, he could only be "the son of a prostitute" too uppity to realize that she'd never be a nobleman's wife and her son would never be a cultivator's heir. And that's why his father's death isn't the only product of overhearing this convo: Jin Guangyao's first order of business is actually to raze his mother's brothel to the ground along with all its patrons and prostitutes, already planning for the establishment of a Guanyin Temple with his mother's face in its place:

Jin GuangYao, “No, thanks. Save your energy, Young Master Xue. Will you be free the next few days?” Xue Yang, “Won’t I have to do it no matter what?” Jin GuangYao, “Go to Yunmeng for me and tidy up a place for me. Make it clean.”

If he were to be forever damned as his mother's son no matter how much he changed, then let her change for once. Let him be not the son of a prostitute but of a goddess, instead.

[demigod-of-the-agni]

You can't be Spider-Man until you've had half your mask torn off and you're lying on the ground beaten up and bloody with murder in your eyes

[meirimerens]

the pathologic Kin is largely fictionalized with a created language that takes from multiple sources to be its own, a cosmogony & spirituality that does not correlate to the faiths (mostly Tengrist & Buddhist) practiced by the peoples it takes inspirations from, has customs, mores and roles invented for the purposes of the game, and even just a style of dress that does not resemble any of these peoples', but it is fascinating looking into specifically to me the sigils and see where they come from... watch this:

P2 Layers glyphs take from the mongolian script:

while the in-game words for Blood, Bones and Nerves are mongolian directly, it is interesting to note that their glyphs do not have a phonetic affiliation to the words (ex. the "Yas" layer of Bones having for glyph the equivalent of the letter F, the "Medrel" layer of Nerves having a glyph the equivalent of the letter È,...)

the leatherworks on the Kayura models', with their uses of angles and extending lines, remind me of the Phags Pa Script (used for Tibetan, Mongolian, Chineses, Uyghur language, and others)

some of the sigils also look either in part or fully inspired by Phags Pa script letters...

some look closer to the mongolian or vagindra (buryat) script

looking at the Herb Brides & their concept art, we can see bodypainting that looks like vertical buryat or mongolian script (oh hi (crossed out: Mark) Phags Pa script):

shaped and reshaped...

[everybuddiewantssome]

"The phrase we're trained to offer them, 'I'm sorry for your loss', as we know now, doesn't offer much."

CSI: For Warrick (9x01)

[lilacerull0]

writing essays to my sister about 13 going on 30 and suddenly she is like... "it's wonderful that you perceive kindness and happiness as profound and layered" and then i was like "i think it's wonderful how you always see potential and magic in what i perceive as dull and omnipresent darkness" and then we started gossiping about something unrelated.

[lanternlightss]

Yaaay writing requests ^^. Do you think we could get the old mondstadt gang (everyone lives) reacting to venti after ascending do godhood? 👀. I think it'd be interesting >.<

As beings of Anemo, there is little reason for wind wisps to partake in the act of breathing. Why would they, those made of that same air as the one whirling around them, need to? This remains true for Venti, even after they had taken a form alike to Cecil’s own.

If. If only Venti did not take a liking to breathing, pretending—for a moment—that they have lungs to use, the subtle up and down of their chest, at first a conscious choice that you could see being made, moving towards one they do without thought. Something human. Something mortal. It makes them happy, to be able to mimic such abilities, such mundanity.

This is, to say, that he is impressed they have learned how to do it whilst they sleep (their wings twitching intermittently); as he feels the occasional soft breaths (he counts—a full minute of complete stillness, followed by a shuttering, jagged exhale, repeat) being blown across the hand that they rest beside, having used his left arm and waist as a pillow during the night.

He does not mind, not at all. Had sat up to place his right hand atop their head once he was not blinking sleep from his eyes, playing with the strands.

Briefly, he entertains the thought of humming them a lullaby, or perhaps, a tune to celebrate this moment, that they are all here, together, still. He dismisses it the moment he begins to toss the idea around, knowing that those same people included in that “they are all here, together, still” in the room with him (Amos, in her own makeshift bed beside him—Cecil “borrowed” the one he is using, truth be told, he should be in the room one down—with Valentina besides her sat in a chair, and Felix standing at the entrance) would kick a fit if he even dared to strain his voice further (orders from the healers.) How elated he had been when they told him he could still talk, simply had to be quiet, low.

“…how asleep, are they?”

Aha, speaking of his dear companions.

Cecil inclines his head towards Felix, though his eyes never stray from Venti. “I do not believe they will be waking up, for a long while.” (Thank the winds for that, they deserve it—he had heard that whilst he and Amos’ injuries were being attended to, the rest of them had been running themselves particularly ragged dealing with the everything.)

He hears Felix sigh heavily in response, and the shifting of fabric. Shoulders, presumably, fell? He brings his eyes up to scrutinize—the man looks one awful sway away from collapsing.

“Good, that means we can have this discussion in peace.”

That … particular phrasing does not inspire a good feeling. He forces himself not to show outward unease at the words, instead, curling the hand in Venti’s hair to touch at their forehead, and lightly gripping what he can of the sheets with the other.

“Are you sure we should be having any discussion? Both you and Valentina should get rest, too—you look a dead man walking, Felix.”

And—there, Felix’s relaxed shoulders seem to tense, his jaw clamping and working in a gritted motion subtly. Cecil is waved off, both in tone and by the fluttering of his hand, “I will rest easier after this.”

He chances a glance over, to where Valentina has scooted to the very edge of her seat, clutching at her knees in a white-knuckled grip, with furrowed brows. Amos, meanwhile, is propped against pillows, slightly slouching, her bangs and unbraided strands casting a shadow over her eyes, as she burns her gaze into Felix.

The first to speak of them is Valentina, leaning forwards: “Which discussion have we not already taken care of?”

Felix does not look away from Venti, but a grimace overtakes his face, angling his head in a way to hide himself behind both his hair and the large fur of his cape. He seems rather… uncomfortable, now—his crossed arms pulling further into his chest, one hand flexing. It continues to stay this way, even when gesturing to where Cecil’s wisp cuddles against him, and speaking the words, “What do we do about them?”

Her eyes harden, back straightening in an instant. “What is it that you mean.”

(Cecil is quick, to check on Amos. Her bangs have now completely covered her eyes, and he cannot truly gauge a reaction. He worries the sheets between his fingers.)

That discomfort shines, in the floundering of Felix’s limbs—his arms flinging outwards, his hand waving about as he grasps for words. “The whole point of this was that we did not want a God to rule over us, the way they had! And then, whatever it is of that…. those heavens, has decided we were wrong in that thinking, that they sent us another God to deal with, not a moment’s peace from the previous? Are we to never escape from the divine?”

Valentina stands, her mouth twisted into a tight-lipped frown, both her fists raised to her sides and clenching. She is stopped from going farther by Amos raising an arm in front of her.

A brief spark of irritation whisks throughout Cecil’s chest, and he wishes Felix had chosen a better moment to do this—Amos, as well, is not supposed to talk above a quiet voice, or for long periods of time. “I fear we would have encountered divinity whether we wanted to or not—tell me, why is it that many had told us of a frozen land, yet when the storm vanished, the snow was fading?” Her arm shakes imperceptibly, “Had it not been for … what decision it was, that transpired before we succeeded, we would have come to face the God responsible for declaring the war.”

(That is, to say nothing of their neighboring nation and Boreas’ wolves….)

She turns, and, he notes, that for the first time since Venti’s presence had made itself known (when they had near silently glided into the room, the door creaking shut just so, with Anemo slowly dissipating from their form, and playfully tousled Cecil’s bangs in a light breeze) Amos looks directly at the God, who has huddled closer—they seem to be trying to lay themselves over all of him—whilst the conversation had gone on.

Her eyes seem to soften, staring a few seconds longer, then dropping her attention to the end of the bed. She turns away, her arm falling to her lap, hands lacing together and nails gently clinking against each other.

“Perhaps we should count ourselves fortunate, that of all beings to ascend, it was the Elf.”

Felix scowls and presses his back against the wall, the sound of his cape sliding across it echoing, nearly drowning out the even quieter grumblings of his, “Fortunate is not the word I would use.”

How terrible for him, that for as far as he is from Cecil, his words still ring clear—words that cause that spark of irritation to flare into a burst of small flames, flames that have to be forcefully smothered out. Over the little time that the bard has not been able to walk the grassy lands, has he forgotten? Nothing, not a single noise, escapes from those who always listen, who keep their ears pinned to the striking chords of the winds.

His eyes narrow, bordering on a glare. And this is not quite shaping to be a “discussion”; would it be a proper one, they would actually be going somewhere, and not talking in practically circles.

“Why unfortunate?” Felix’s head snaps to him, and Cecil (pushes the flames) risks skimming his hand to where Venti’s right ear is, holding his palm there (a useless gesture, really, yet he does it anyhow). “You would not start anything if there was no value to be had of it—so, please, what is it you wish to truly say?”

The man opens his mouth, pauses. Cecil continues to stare, lowering his chin, his brows drawing together, upward, and the edges of his mouth threatening to fall.

Boots scuff against the floor, when Felix titters side to side, considering. A breath rushes out of him, harsh. Then, as if it were a leaf fallen onto still waters and sending ripples across the surface, he utters: “If they turn against us—what are we to do?”

Try as he might not to (flames slipping between the gaps of his fingers), Cecil lurches forward, and halts himself rather awkwardly halfway through it hearing Venti make an indescribable noise. He looks to them, seeing them curl inward, their brows knitted, wings dazedly moving to shield their body. A wince pulls at him, as he adjusts back to where he was (almost to, he should say—positioning himself to hide them from Felix’s view, his torso bent over them), and the hand covering their ear runs to their hair, massaging; they start to relax from it, wings spreading, and nestling their face into his waist.

(A splendid sight, yet… a bitter feeling forms, coating his mouth.)

Scratching at where two strands—resembling the ones they had as a wisp—sprout, he presses, a hiss to it, “Turn against us..?”

He holds his hands in the air, by his chest. “I know. I know, I have seen them.”

If the emotion of “incredulous” could be humanized, Cecil would be the perfect role, right then. Has he? Has he??

Admittedly, for most of the time he has been awake, he can count on one hand and two extra fingers how much he was fully lucid during it. When the pain constricting in his chest was not clouding his vision, when there was no fog laid over his mind, his surroundings dizzy, his limbs feeling inexplicably heavy. Shoving this all aside, however—during those lucid moments, and finding Venti waiting for him, their entire demeanor brightening at their locking of eyes; he noticed how terror and apprehension threaded through their being.

He does not think they have a capacity to harm—not for those they love, not for those they have a branch of trust to—by the fact that they cannot bring themself to hold his wrist in a firm grip without panicking of potentially “breaking him.”

(Or that they, wind now trapped in a bottle, a shell for them to be tied to, try next to everything to compact themselves to the size they once were. From curling into a ball on the wooden chair, from using their wings to hide themself away, from bowing and crumbling in the cradle of his palms.

How they are bigger and powerful, certainly, yet the world around them still remains so much more than they are.)

Felix slumps. “It would only be as a precaution. We should be prepared—”

There is a clanging of armor, signaling Valentina’s steps inching towards Felix. When she speaks, her voice is stern, tinged slightly by bafflement.

“No, you are aware, just as I, to what they are capable of! They are listening to the people, and doing what they can for them!” Her hand clenches, metal shuddering. “And even… they have been this way, they stopped at nothing to keep my clan safe, out in the frozen barrens. We should have seen a sign by now if they were to change, the winds are simple creatures. There is no reason for this precaution!”

“Are we to lay all our trust in what was? Their knowledge is more! They are not such a simple creature! They know intimately the hopes and dreams of mere humans—what that does. They have become privy to how far mortality can go, to how much a human can take before their life is snuffed from them, and now they have the ability to do something about it.”

He sweeps a hand, jerkily, to the two in bed, during the last words.

Cecil bristles. Their injuries are not to be used for matters like this. No one should have expected that death would not be nipping at their heels during the revolt, that they would not have to grab on to the world of living and dig. A retort readies on his lips, lips pulled back, only to—still.

(Oh. There is no air being blown across.

Oh.)

Valentina side-steps to the other side of Amos’ bed, hackles fully raised, a righteous glare upon her face. “You truly know nothing of the wind, then, if you believe they would willingly go back to those restraining—!”

“Enough.”

They both startle. Cape, whipping. Armor, clanking.

“Enough,” Amos repeats, the words sounding as though they were scraped from her throat. “The both of you… shall we have someone watch over, when you are outside here? You have swung knives.”

In unison, their shoulders hunch. She draws a soft breath, half-watching Valentina stride over to grab the canteen of water from the side table, offering it to her—while Felix seems to attempt to meld into his cape. She takes it into a tight grip, the tips of her fingers trembling, but does not bring it to her lips. Opting to swish the water inside, instead.

“A godhood is delicate,” taps at the canteen, the sound reverberating, “Especially one at … at the very beginning, of their divinity. A sign of change would not be in mortal lifetimes—it drips, one by one, slow.”

She turns to face them, once more. Trailing from where Venti’s wings flutter, the sleeves of their robe half splayed over the bed, to where Cecil is furled around them, a few pieces of hair strands falling over his eyes as he bows further at her stare. Eyes meet, hers, tinged in an old pain and weighted by exhaustion; his, bordering on guarded, cracked with pleading.

Underlying all of that is an understanding.

(You can never quite understand a God’s thinking, will only get to see the glimpses of what layers that sit just underneath the surface, a scratch of it, but love—

A God’s love, their eyes and arms locked around you, is something all encompassing.)

“We should continue to offer them the kindness they gave us.” Another tap, another tink. “Whatever path they follow down, whatever they choose to do, hundreds or thousands of years after this—at the least, they will remember having us by their side. Should they give an inkling, now, however—”

“All these what-ifs,” Cecil murmurs bitterly, withholding a sneer. “Could we, say, let them take their own steps first? They hardly have a proper footing!”

The puff of air that escapes her is almost amused. Her gaze drifts downwards, where the water of the canteen sloshes as it is tipped to her mouth. She sets it gently into her lap, after, a chorus of clinking coming from the repetitive thumping of her fingers.

“Of course.” She hands the canteen to Valentina, and the trembling of her limbs seems to have worsened. The blunt ends of her nails press into the palm of her hands, briefly, and she goes to pull the bed’s cover up to her chest, hiding her arms by tucking it over her fists. Then, “I have not seen you receive any medical care, these past days. Have you been shirking?”

Venti’s wings puff, a minute flinch going throughout their body. He pets at their hair, twirling it between the gaps of fingers—he had been checked on the day before his wisp had visited, and watched as they checked Amos’ health, too, quietly asking if the soreness had lessened, after the healer left, and her reply of rolling her shoulders and commenting that it does not feel like she is being crushed.

“Hee, I was hoping you would not catch that…” He nuzzles into their head. Backs a bit away, nary an inch or so, and brings his hand to their jaw, stroking his thumb along their cheeks. Venti tenses, brows scrunching. He continues, mock whispering, “Psst, Miss Amos revealed one of my secrets, can you believe…? Quite mean of her, hmpf! You would be my knight and defend my honor, would you not, Venti? My dearest?”

There is a pause, where he can see them debate with whether they should “awaken” or not. He waits, humming lowly—and is rewarded when two glittering green-blue teal jewels blink up at him.

“Knight..?”

“Yes! I shall gather you a shield, so that we can deflect her peddling—”

“My deepest apologies for not wishing your wounds to infect.”

Cecil leans to stick his tongue at her (she wrinkles her nose in jest), feeling more than seeing Venti sit taller, their hands moving to grasp at his wrist. A perturbed expression greets him when he turns back to them, searching him for anything critical. His heart squeezes, flips, squeezes.

He reaches out to brush his hand against a braid, tracing the poof part that is held together by a band. Hopes that the twinkling in his stare is enough to convey Do not worry, a “go along.” The ruffled feathers of their wings start to smooth out, fluttering about, as they squint at him—message received. “How many missed?”

“Only one session, I promise. My bandages… may need replacing, a little,” ducks his head, bonking against their forehead, and offers up a gentle, crooked smile. “Walk me back?”

They graze their own hand over his, holding it loosely. Nods, and lets go, standing from the chair, using their foot to push it away farther. Cecil shakes off his arm as he yanks the cover down to the end of the bed, throwing his legs over the side, the soles of his feet hitting the floor. Venti holds their hand out for him to take, pulling him up (though, he notes, they keep their fingers intertwined tightly with his.)

“You will be going?” Felix questions, uncrossing his arms.

“Mmm. I believe Amos has had enough of my shenanigans.” He waves his hand, stepping in front of Venti, having them still out of Felix’s view.

“… if you need any he—”

“Fret not, I have the most wonderful guiding wind!” He leans into Venti, as subtly he can, beaming. They are besides the man, now, and he tugs them closer to the doorway. “We should be on our way now, might be able to catch a healer along our journey.”

He waves to Amos and Valentina, receiving waves back (though, on Valentina’s part, seem slightly reluctant to see the both of them go.) They both skirt around the doorway and down the hall, where Cecil exhales, his shoulders sagging.

If they wish to still discuss such a topic, fine, if that is what will bring them ease in this environment. Everyone is on edge and wary, equally they are relieved and excited. He has seen how some shuffle around the new God, confused how to interact with the wisp. But if they wish to do it while the person they discuss is there, unaware, they are welcome to be his guest to explain to Venti why that topic involved which of the best ways to stab them in the back was—especially when there are more important issues that should be focused on! That warrior, in particular….

Urgh.

He squeezes Venti’s hand, placing his head upon their shoulder.

“My darling knight, I love you no matter what.”

…they squeeze his hand, ears flicking, and wings puffing once more.

[tiercel]

Insane for years i began to ruin my own art to the point i almost gave up drawing entirely cause i became so obsessed with seeming perfect & was absolutely, positively certain everyone would look at every minute detail of my art to make fun of it and now that ive given up on all that my art has actually improved by tenfold

[supurman-a]

this is here i rp if you guys were wondering.

[arolesbianism]

Design concept

[linkvcr]

Heyyy do yall have any doodle requests [kicks legs]

[darthyolk]

I've finally finished my first boss for my demon hunting game Judgement Nights! A guard dog for a much stronger demon, Grub keeps their secret safe and hidden from all mortal or demonic eyes