#self-install

[hinamie]

green

[archerdepartures116]

My favorite unofficial trio I’ve made in my head

[miamaimania]

"You Are Still Here" (1994) by Mona Hatoum ◆ Four words that turn a mirror into a conversation

[pummelingbat]

Persecution Complex, or: "Just You, Me, And The Weight Of Your Dead Girlfriend Between Us"

[s0fter-sin]

still thinking about gaz doing ghost’s skincare

even when they’re on base and the worst of the all-encompassing exhaustion is held at bay, he knows ghost doesn’t have the energy to spare to do any kind of in depth routine; knows as much as it makes him feel good to feel soft and clean and cared for, he won’t be able to keep up with it by himself

gaz just didn't expect how good it would feel to do it for him

how accomplished he'd feel when he figured out the right combination of products to soothe ghost's sensitive neglected skin without him breaking out or getting even more dehydrated, the best moisturiser for his scars, researching no-wash products so he doesn't have to get up once they've started; all ghost has to do is lay back and let gaz work

it's an honour, not only to be trusted enough with ghost's - with simon's - face but also to watch him lose every ounce of tension in his body

they usually - and how amazing that they have a usual, that this has become a routine - end up with ghost's head in his lap, a soft pillow beneath his head so he can just rest. it's not uncommon for him to fall asleep entirely as gaz follows his steps

bottles of cleansers and serums and moisturisers all bought just for him, each one dutifully researched with ghost's skin type in mind, all stored in a black leather bag moulded into a skull bc gaz found it browsing one day and thought it was too perfect. ghost doesn't even know what they all do, just knows how blissful it is to feel the gentle pressure of gaz's fingers massaging his face; following the contours of scars that haven't pulled or flared since they started doing this

gaz never tells him about the rollers he could use instead, the applicators that are technically better for his skin bc it would mean he'd know that gaz uses his hands just for him; that he can feel how much he craves his touch and knows he enjoys it just as much, if not more than the actual results

gaz just tells him that a thorough massage after everything is applied is necessary for all the products to marry up and sink properly into his skin and spends the next half hour smiling down at his superior as he lets go of all his pain and trusts him to keep him afloat

[cosmicwhoreo]

Idk I wanted to play around with the "robot spider" thingy he's got goin on-

[19silvermirrors]

🌾 New shots from the 79 with their respective steeds (an Akhal-Teke and a Shire) walking in the field photoset🖤💚

[accirax]

Valentine's Day is fast approaching on the set of DRDT... sounds like time for a sequel! 💕

[mispatchedgreens]

more of xu da's internet activity, placed thoughtfully (to me) in the reincarnated band au, featuring the most beautiful woman alive, one bug person crouched on the rooftop of the recording studio while ouyang is being Fussy downstairs, and the rarest creature ever to be caught on film: grumpy bitch ass smiling. permission to imagine esen, chin to chest, flopped on the couch, staring at ouyang's photo, ablaze with jealousy at all of his interactions with xu da, while wbx rubs at his temples in preparation for yet another oblivious, nonsensical sibling conversation.

[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.

[the-girl-with-too-many-ideas]

You know, from the perspective of the SVSSS world, Shen Yuan and the system would be regarded as Lovecraftian horrors if you think about it.

[girlpanthera]

Idk if you guys know this, but I'm an actual artist, I dont just draw jimmy urine fucking anton chigurh. For proof, here's my soldier sculpture clutching this image i drew of jimmynyah and himself in his hand as he dies

[midnight-mismanagement]

I think it would be funny if in season 2 it becomes a running gag of Vox sending spies to the hotel who just end up captured into the net of found family and friendship and become part of the clientele and Vox doesn’t get why he keeps losing contact with them (and assumes Alastor probably killed them) until one day Charlie comes to personally thank him for bringing her so many souls for rehabilitation and for believing in her cause and Vox just. Doesn’t know what is happening. And short circuits.

[weaponizedmoth]

Approximation of Meg Halsey. Inprnt | Instagram | Ko-Fi

[19silvermirrors]

Qijiu having finally resolved their issues all thanks to these horses☺️

[shera-dnd]

My brother's girlfriend is staying here for a month, so she asked me to download a game she wanted to try on my computer

It happened to be a gacha game, so I went on a rant about how I find gacha games to be both morally and artistically abhorrent

And my brother just walks by the room and goes "so do you still have that gacha you were playing the other game?"

LOOK

I WAS SPEAKING FROM EXPERIENCE!