#IDK HOW TO TAG THIS BUT HEY

[thunderbottle]

thank the earth and all the stars for trans lesbian sex

[inkskinned]

we were sitting on the floor and i was cutting out tiny pictures to make a collage for a friend's birthday. you were on your phone and you laughed about something, and i was still in love with you then, so i asked what had you giggling.

"sorry. i was just..." you took a moment and went back to texting. "i was telling someone about how you're afraid of the dark."

i'm afraid of the dark because something bad happened. "oh." i felt a little slinky of shame crawl down my throat.

you glanced up, and maybe it showed on my face, because you rolled your eyes and held the phone to the side casually so i could see the group chat. "what? was it a secret?"

i looked down to the scissors in my hand. "i just..." no, it's not a secret. it just felt like something private, something serious. saying why would you tell someone that just feels like an accusation. it's unfair. i honestly am not even ashamed of it, it's just a fact about my person that i don't usually share.

what a strange experience. is this a human thing or a generational thing? for our grandparents: did they need to worry about how quickly someone can just... share your personal information? again, i didn't even really have a true objection. what could i say? i want any person in my life to feel they can be honest with their friends. it's not like i said don't tell anyone this.

i cut out another letter to complete the rainbow happy birthday, started hunting for the exclamation mark. i heard you sigh dramatically.

"don't make a big deal about this," you said.

this entire conversation was a pattern for us, and this was when we got to my least favorite part of the pattern. i would get my feelings hurt in some oblique not-technically-terrible way, and then it would be making a big deal about something. you'd get frustrated for me for being soft, but i was born soft. you knew i was soft when you pierced me. it's one of the things that made controlling me so easy.

"i'm not," i felt my voice crack. the question came without my wanting. "why are you guys talking about me?" and why are you saying that thing? why not like - i'm telling them how you're generous and kind and pretty.

you let out this low, tragic groan. "oh my god." you tossed the phone away from your body. "there, see? i just won't talk to them if you don't like it."

the rest of the hour went the way it always went, between us: i said i don't actually mind if you talk to your friends but -, you found a way to call my minor expression of discomfort "being dramatic." you got upset that i had been offended. i ended up apologizing, even though i hadn't actually done anything.

afterwards, you picked up the phone again. after texting for a little bit, you snorted. "okay," you said, "but it is kind of funny you're afraid of the dark. i mean, when you think about it."

[keferon]

…..I should be working rn but one of the songs in my playlist hit harder than usual so

[imclou]

can't believe fnaf brought me out of art hibernation man what a turn of events

[technically-human]

Hi i'm absolutely in love with the reverse au!!

I want to know, in this verse does edwin still confesses to charles? if so how is it different? i feel if he did he would end it by apologizing, you know, religious guilt and all

There’s a train that goes through Hell.

Its journey starts in Wrath, and it departs already full of souls. It took Charles far too many years to realize that there were separate, more spacious wagons that demons could board. Not that he could understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t.

Actually, Charles couldn’t recall ever boarding the train. As far as he could tell, he just appeared there one day, and had spent the next tortuous decades trying to get out. It was part of the torture. Getting out was entirely possible. More than that, it was necessary.

The train had no regular schedule that he could discern (not at first, though he had always been good at finding patterns, and was eventually able to crack it) but it would make quite a few stops before finally returning to the Wrath ring. Souls inside the train were already angry and far too close to each other (close, so close not even air could squeeze in) but when they got really violent was when the train made a stop.

Getting out didn’t mean you were free, no matter where you managed it, be it Sloth or Gluttony, Pride or Lust. No, as soon as the train finished its journey, you would appear back inside, in Wrath where you belonged, suffocating once again, getting ready to claw your way out for the millionth time.

Because if you didn’t get out, The Conductor would get you.

If he thought about it calmly, Charles could probably say that he got out of the train more times than not. Still, being caught by The Conductor once was bad enough, as there was no coal in Hell, and something had to serve as combustible. Souls could not burn to death, and the whole journey always felt longer than eternity when he was caught. Once it was over, he would be inside again, and fight with more desperation than before, not caring who stayed inside so long as it wasn’t him.

He couldn’t understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t. But as the souls pushed and bit and clawed and punched their way out, Edwin boarded the train. And that wasn’t even the most groundbreaking revelation Charles had that day.

ko-fi

[mrs-schoenheit]

Alice in Wonderland

Where is the path to Wonderland

Over the hill or here or there

I wonder where

- I listen to this song while working on this piece !!

[rambunctioustoons]

fun and games until you've gotta breathe or something!

[seafoamsol]

Hey, different post than usual, but this is just a PSA for people who may follow or have purchased anything from @/kagebros, or are looking to join any of the zines run by them @/allsparkzines. They have a history (and present) of tracing for profit.

I don’t think this one requires an overlay. It’s a trace of the yolopark bumblebee shockwave model kit promotional image, as a “sketch”.

Which they changed, once people noticed it! Changed most of it. They traced a different promotional image for the gun, which remained largely the same, even in the final piece (right).

Their matching Optimus Prime poster is a trace of the still from a [ Paramount promo video ], 36 seconds in.

There are several other examples that I can’t fit into this post without making it overly long, but if you have purchased or have been gifted anything from them, there is a chance it has been traced.

Regarding tracing as a tool:

Go hogwild! Trace all you want! Tracing is a very useful tool for learning shapes and forms, but like any other tool, it’s only useful if you use it correctly. The ultimate goal of tracing is to understand. It’s training wheels. Just don’t hide and lie about it, because as soon as you do, it becomes plagiarism.

Even within the finished versions of the Shockwave poster, it’s still clear where parts have been traced or copied without understanding. It’s a shame, because transformers as a franchise having so many toys makes it very easy to make references!

Here's an example of how I use them:

Luckily for me, the Cybertron toys and models are more or less exactly the same. I don't own the toys, so I have two images from a [ toy reviewer ] on top. Many angles to help me understand exactly what's happening. Granted, I could just ask my friend who does own the toy for him in the same pose, but tracing over that directly would make it too stiff and it wouldn't mesh with my style.

TL;DR: Kage traces, blindly and without disclosure, for profit.

[tsubanoboo]

she should've been at the cluuuuuub

[calebsrottingcorpse]

Happy last day to be legally gay (ft. brain dead Wittebane doodle under the cut)

[dyrpyn]

This election isn't looking great now.

BUT.

There is one thing you must ALWAYS. ALWAYS REMEMBER.

Your two greatest, most powerful weapons against evil, against bigotry and fascism, against hate, against even hate that comes from inside the self...

are Hope, and Spite.

If nothing else can fuel you, let these. Embrace these. Let these consume you, let them become all that you are.

Let Hope help you find light in the little details, silver linings to cling onto with bleeding hands and pockets of joy to admire in every day. Let it inject you with good faith, motivation to spread kindness where it is needed most, and deepening trust that this won't last forever.

Let Spite charge you with fury that carries you to make moves and take actions. Let it lead you to little victories right in the face of evil. Let it fuel you to do the strongest, most meaningful thing you can possibly do in this potential age: Thrive.

With enough reframing of perspectives and looking in the right places, even the most oppressed can find little ways to thrive in their personal communities, to find joy in every day. To forget how bad things are for even a second. To believe and see proof that they can change it all. To cling onto their Hope and Spite.

And THAT is the most powerful message you can send to those who wish to eradicate you.

We are the cockroaches who survive the radiation. We are the banged-up sewer rats who get in countless scuffles and still come crawling out of the tunnels covered in wounds to see the sunrise. For it rises every day no matter what may be brewing underneath its shine.

And we will watch every sunrise together. We will hold hands and sing in our defiance. We will always remain connected through our shared suffering and yet especially our shared Strength.

And with our weapons kept at our sides, we will all make it.

[catlover4536]

@carnivalcarrion Remember when I said I had something for you?

Yeah, me too.

[dovalore]

did you know? he's the guy that sells houses

design thoughts under cut

he got hit by the kittification beam, i'm afraid it's terminal

another design! this means i get to share the song that inspired it

he's not wearing a suit because i wanted to have fun with his attire and the actual suit kinda bores me, he's got a retro futuristic suit now!

i did try and keep the colours and placements somewhat similar so it's not as different as it could be, plus the monochrome works out when the rest of him is super vibrant

speaking of, i'm not entirely sure what he looks like without his suit, probably just really green

glorp was like, the starting point, but another cat that came into play was mew because y'know, cute little space cat, best mythical pokemon in existence

his antennae glow in the dark, so do his irises. actually, a fair amount of him glows in the dark (green bits on gloves, star on chest, purple bits on his tail and boots)

eyelashes? whiskers? why not both? he's an alien after all, i added them in pretty early on in my initial sketch because i wanted his head area to have a little more visual interest and it kinda made sense since the eyes on his skin already kinda float off his head

smooth to the touch (though whether it's because you're making contact with fur or skin is up for debate because i don't know either)

not really pictured: quasar is tall as fuck because his body is so damn long

theoretical champion design thought: he'd have rocket boots! complete with boosters at the bottom to help with jumps

his design is meant to compliment peekaboo's! together, they are peesar (pronounced pizza)

that's not the reason i chose the name, it's the title of a song and i was like... sure that's spacey enough let's roll with it even though there's not much else that came from there for him

[casino-lights]

I posted an excerpt a while back from a wip I titled "shameless illario apologism" and I think it's time I post the whole thing because this stupid man resurrected my urge to write. a drabble about the ending of A Murder of Crows is beneath the cut with some mentions of Illario x oc because he is unfortunately my pookie. enjoy!

He looked so pitiful on his knees, gasping for air, one eye red and swollen from a particularly swift blow to the face. A single tear streaked down his bruised cheek, leaving a shimmering trail that caught the light with every breath he heaved. His doublet was more crimson than blue now, each dark blotch blossoming further across his chest as the blood from his wounds soaked into the embroidered silk. 

It would never come out. Yet more stains to add to the ones quickly mounting on Illario Dellamorte’s reputation.

“What are you waiting for, cousin?” he panted, fully expecting Lucanis’ blade to sink into his flesh any second now. “Finish what you start.”

Though he cast his eyes downward, he refused to close them. He would not meet his end in the dark. But his grandmother’s voice made him raise his face, and his heart plummeted into his stomach as he watched her make her way toward the stage he knelt upon.

“Get up, Illario,” she said flatly, as if she were simply asking him to take his feet off the coffee table. “No one from House Dellamorte kneels.”

As Viago hoisted him roughly to his feet, he found himself wondering if his parents were forced to their knees as they died. Were Lucanis’ parents? Were their cousins? Were their cousins even old enough to stand?

Illario forced himself to meet Lucanis’ eyes. Defiant, even until the end. If he was going to die at his cousin’s hand, he would look him in the eyes first. He would look their grandmother in the eyes and hope, as he had hoped his whole life, that maybe she would see that her least favorite grandson was capable of more than she thought. 

Lucanis asked his companion what to do with him. Rook. The woman who saved him from the prison he was in by Illario’s hand.

She responded with a question in kind: “Didn’t you say he’s like a brother to you? That he is your brother?”

As if Illario needed to feel even more shame. It was hard enough to look Lucanis in the eyes without memories of their childhood flashing across his mind. Wyvern-hunting. Prickle-burrs. Canes across the back. Coffee in the kitchen. Too-hot cookies. Tying knots with bloody fingers. Sauce-covered faces. Tear-stained cheeks. Crying against each other in the dark.

Lucanis was all he had. The only person he could ever rely on. The last member of his family who didn’t hate him, didn’t hurt him, didn’t think he was worthless. And Illario betrayed him.

Of course, when Illario taunted him, told him he used to be somebody, Lucanis replied with a bitter, too-quick, “And you never were.” Maybe he was hiding the hatred all along. Maybe he never respected Illario at all. Maybe Zara was right. His family never loved him.

“He was my best friend,” Lucanis said, looking at Rook. “One of my only friends, before you.”

Zara’s voice rang in Illario’s ears. A touching lie.

In a voice thick with the blood that coated his throat, Illario rasped, “You think you can show me mercy? That is not up to you, is it? Caterina is still First Talon.”

And like clockwork, Caterina answered, “His decision stands. Lucanis is the new First Talon of the Antivan Crows.”

Lucanis looked more surprised than Illario. He couldn’t muster shock. With both of them alive and present, this was the only possible outcome. This was why Zara told him he had to get rid of them. This was what he had suffered Lucanis’ presumed death to prevent.

“Viago, keep him out of trouble,” Lucanis said with a weary sigh. “I’ll come by to discuss the details in a day or two.”

“I’m no miracle worker,” Viago replied dryly, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

Illario the troublemaker. Dellamorte the Lesser. It was who he had always been. Sometimes, when he was in a more generous mood, he would joke about it. But it was always true, whether or not he gave himself the nickname in jest. Caterina saw him as an annoyance and a burden, and Lucanis… who knows how Lucanis really saw him? Right now, he was treating him like a little boy throwing a tantrum, not someone who had the throne of the most feared guild of assassins in Thedas within his grasp mere minutes ago. Was it brotherly love, or blatant disregard for everything Illario had accomplished?

All this for nothing. Worse than nothing. His grand prize was a crippling, mortifying defeat at the hands of the Demon of Vyrantium and an outsider, in front of every Talon, every House, every Crow with any kind of sway. The best he could hope for now was either a merciful death or a lot of short memories. His reward for his scheme, nearly two years in the making, was disgrace.

As Viago pulled him away, he looked only at his cousin. He mustered half a grin through the searing embarrassment. “Lucanis…”

“Don’t, Illario. Not now.” And he turned his head away.

Every step hurt worse than the last. His adrenaline wore off, leaving him tired and sore. He felt as pitiful as he looked. He felt like a child. His chest burned, his throat felt raw, and though his wounds stung and still seeped blood, it was his lungs that tightened, swelling with the urge to cry. 

He had not cried since Lucanis’ wake. Ironically enough, Viago had to escort him up the stairs then, too. Illario suddenly wished he was as drunk as he’d been that night, or that Viago would be merciful enough to knock him out again. Based on the sheer hatred in his eyes, though, that seemed like a faraway prospect. And his head would still hurt in the morning without any of the blissful forgetfulness a drunken stupor would bring.

The only thing missing from the next morning would be Lidia. She’d practically torn the Diamond’s guest wing apart looking for him after the wake. She hounded him until he ate, followed him through the city until he was weary enough to sleep, held his head in her lap and ran her fingers through his hair and soothed him until he could drag himself out of bed. She never knew how much of that paralysis, that deep depression he fell into was pure guilt. And still, all she ever did was defend him. After that depression was over, when Caterina and Viago questioned his ability to return to work; after Lucanis came back, when he tricked her into leaving the Diamond just in time for Zara’s people to take Caterina; after he killed Zara, when he held Lidia with scrubbed-raw hands and told her he didn’t want to fight anymore and that he could finally give her everything he promised if she could only just trust him a little while longer…

There would be no similar concern from her this time - not after what he put her through. He drained her blood in her sleep so he could find her if she ever left. He lied to her for over a year about where he was and with whom. He kissed her goodnight and held her until she was fast asleep before swapping his chest for a pillow and sneaking out their bedroom window so he could see Zara. 

He would return to Lidia before sunrise. That had been his promise to himself. Return to Lidia before sunrise, because she always looked her loveliest at dawn. He slipped back in through the window after a bath and crawled back into their bed, and she curled up against him and smiled and mumbled something drowsily about how he smelled nice. Every time, she asked if the job went well. Every time, he said yes. And every time, he felt that heavy ache like stones piled on top of his chest, another weight added with each contented sigh or nuzzle of her head.

He touched Zara with the same hands he touched her with only an hour before. He did it so many times he lost count. He always tried to make it up to her in the morning - a one-sided debt that kept growing and growing as he drew from her seemingly never-ending well of trust without ever replenishing it. Another betrayal to add to his list. Another person who actually loved him, lost to his own ambitions and Zara’s unfulfilled promises. He thought he would only lose Lucanis. He had prepared himself for that. He thought it would be quick and painless and Lucanis would never feel the sting of knowing his cousin - his brother - sold him out. 

And now he stood at the door of the smallest guest room in Villa Dellamorte, having cost himself Lucanis, Caterina, Zara, Teia, and everyone else who may have loved or even simply tolerated him once. He had no one and nothing to show for his efforts.

Not even Lidia. 

It would have been too much to hope that Viago would bring him to his own room. That would be much too comfortable for a traitor like him - and much too close to the new First Talon’s room. He stepped inside the guest room without a word to Viago, whose disapproving stare said more than enough to fill the silence.

As Illario sat weakly on the footstool at the end of the bed, Viago rolled his eyes and finally broke the quiet. “I’ll have a healer stop by. It’s more than you deserve, but I’m sure you know that. The First Talon wants you alive. Think on why.”

He locked the door behind him. And Illario was alone.

[rotisseries]

God's Country, Ethel Cain

[borzoilover69]

Height headcanons.

Honestly as far as significant height differences go im on the tamer side significant height differences are crazy man.