#whether they fit or not

[turontot]

Hello DisTortion!!!

(PLEASE DM ME FIRST IF YOU PLAN ON REPOSTING!)

[sabertoothwalrus]

modern au laios

[ohgaylor]

So Long, London (redesign) — inspired by Training Season, Dua Lipa

[hyakunana]

Until the End and Beyond

[literalite]

she's so cute wtf

[intotheelliwoods]

And it was a year ago today when I first posted 2 Arms Left, with all of my heart, Happy Birthday 2AL! Drawing this whole comic has been such an experience for me over the past year, I have learned so much and met so many cool people! :)

What is even more interesting is that I still have story to tell, with due time they will be told!

Thank you, so so much to everyone who has followed and stuck around thus far! And welcome to the new people!

2 Arms Left Masterpost

A small follow up comic

And here is what Poptart's sleeve looks like in color!

[canisalbus]

What if Vachete holded hands as LPS

.

[hypewinter]

Jazz wasn't crazy. People might argue that burning her childhood home to the ground with her parents still inside would be an indicator of insanity. But how else was she supposed to react after coming back home from college to find out her parents had brutally killed her brother via vivisection?

Dying her hair blonde wasn't crazy either before anyone asked. Plenty of girls dyed their hair when they needed a change. Besides, she could never live with herself if she kept the same hair color as that vile woman.

Admittedly Jazz would have to secede moving to Gotham had been a little crazy but it was the perfect place to start fresh and blend in despite her "quirks". She had even picked out a nice new identity for herself.

Clearly Jazz was not crazy as she had managed to land a job at Arkham Asylum as a psychiatrist. If she were really insane would they have ever hired her? No they wouldn't have.

Jazz was not crazy. She was very much sane. Just like her precious Mr. J.

[annqer]

nooooo pleaseeee dont kill meeee mr sunday I wanna be in da sequeeeel >_<

[littlecrittereli]

ougghhh guysssssss

Thinking about this AU idea again

(Dont worry I'm not done with Reprogrammed yet BUT THIS HAS SO MUCH POTENTIAL IT HAS NOT LEFT MY BRAIN)

I can smell the dramatic "YOU'RE NOT MY DAD!!!" exclamation from here

[eraserheadbabygirl]

tough talk for a guy within kissing distance

[snakebites-and-ink]

I've seen multiple awesome writers worried that people aren't going to like one of their series because it's "not real whump" or some similar sentiment, so I feel compelled to say this.

Some people prefer physical whump

Some people prefer emotional whump

Some people prefer psychological/mental whump

Some people like recovery arcs

Some people like fluff and comfort after the whump

Some people like whump that focuses more on angst

Some people like plot-heavy whump

Some people like worldbuilding-heavy whump

Also, the more niche a piece of writing is, the more happy the people who enjoy that niche will be to find something that fits it

Basically you can write whatever you want and there will be an audience somewhere who loves it.

[fjordfolk]

Way too much focus on designer breeds that should not be, not enough on the dogs history failed to breed-ify. like the Soviet Space Dog

[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.

[mxtxfanatic]

The common thread tying together how mxtx treats all her well-rounded character across all her works is that a character's past is as real as their actions. That means that a character's tragic past is a key part of their character and should be considered while analyzing them. It also means that their actions are also their own and must be considered when analyzing them. One does not negate the other. The trauma that a character experiences in the narrative is not erased by their shitty actions, but those experiences also don't redeem their immoral behavior. Everyone must live with the consequences of their chosen actions, regardless of what drove them to make those choices. That is the lesson.