#down the rabbithole you go!

[starpros-sunshine]

the tempest cgs never get old do they <-filled with love

NO THEY DO NOT THEY ARE SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO <333333333 WAUGH <33333333 SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO GOOD Just. Come on they made Eichi look at Wataru Like That and they just expect me to be fine. Then they write the lyrics of their new solos Like That and just expect me to be fine.

[bloodwards]

bene gesserit costuming + occult and religious imagery

[katistrophe]

Just heard about the claim that Hans Christian Andersen used to have a note reading „I’m not dead“ or such attached to his nightshirt whenever he went to bed in a weird history podcast and had to pause to give a good long GODDAMMIT PTERRY.

[yeyinde]

devoured midnight mass and now i can't stop thinking about a Price-Priest au for some reason, but like:

he's a good leader. a pillar. but you keep making him question his faith, his morality. he clenches the rosary so tight in his fist whenever you come into the confessional that it leaves permanent marks on his palms. fresh wounds on his back from self-flagellation. hides in the confessional for days, muttering miserere to himself, acts of contrition. he's fully convinced you were put on this earth to tempt him. lead him into damnation.

you become his ultimate Test. he has to save you. has to. but you keep driving him mad until he breaks. bends you over the pulpit and fucks you in a house of god, consumed by his own downfall. all wicked, bastardised religion. the grievous weight of lust crushing him until he's broken in your hands. now a wrecked, wretched man in search of absolution that he decides can only be given to him by you. thinking along the lines of corrupted salvation. that slow crawl to unhinged, obsessive devotion. madness, honestly.

he's a zealot; you're the sanctuary that will save him. no matter what. after all, god made you just for him.

(except that god has fangs and eats flesh.)

[lostsoulofdragon]

regarding this post;

THE REST OF THE BOYS(ft. The Star Sanses, Error & Cross)!!! (In alphabetical order) (under the cut)

Blue:

Origami & writing amateur comedic theater scripts because it keeps him occupied and he likes to learn new things, like new paper figures, and new (character-) tropes for the scripts

Cross:

Model building because I think it reminds him of the home AU he lost (maybe that’s a bit dark, but I think that could be how he copes with it.)

Beading, because it might give him a sense of organization he rarely experienced. Like- being able to clearly control which color follows which, and where which color is stored.

Dream:

embroidery/lettering because it’s something that can be so very pretty, just like the childhood he remembers , and it requires a calm hand which he needs for his archery. (And I head canon he’s kind of insecure about his wonky natural handwriting)

Collecting stickers from every AU he’s been to, as a small token of his accomplishments.

Dust:

I think he would he makes candles because the light bulbs in his room would be to bright for his eyes (I headcanon the LV strains his energy/makes him feel overwhelmed).

Maybe that even causes sensory issues. That’s why I though to him making soaps, because that way, he can control if the soap is feeling rough, soft, chunky, and so on.

Error:

So we know Error is into making dolls by sewing - but what if we add crocheting to that? I think that’d fit him

Floristy- he likes cute things, and hey, flowers are supposed to be cute. No but seriously, it’s just relaxing seeing the colors come together.

Horror:

Fishing because it’s so calm and peaceful, and he is actually really smart so he memorized, like, every single fish.

And carpentry because he can blow of steam if he’s agitated by making furniture to fill Nightmares endless rooms(no, seriously, WHATS IN THERE?)

Ink (ngl I struggled with him):

Sewing because idk he likes outfit changes

poetry. no explanation.

Nightmare:

I headcanon him to have lost some of his senses when he corrupted. Especially his sense of taste. So what if he makes cocktails because he can regulate what he tastes? Fuck, who would dare touch HIS liquor cabinet? Exactly, no one. He can make the drinks as strong as he wants as long as he knows how to handle his alcohol.

Book binding. Not only does he own many books he wrote himself over the 500 years he lived, but it’s also productive as it makes sure SOMEONE can repair the fucking books in his many libraries.

[cobra-wives]

@rosie-tyler

i gotta say — my rewatch of poto (2004) involved massive amounts of cage references in a villain’s tragic backstory flashbacks with a reluctant enabler of bad behavior, a best friend who really wishes you wouldn’t trust that evil guy, the color red as symbolism for bloodshed being spilt, the color white as symbolism for purity, and… mirror breaking motifs? oh yeah, and a swordfight in blue lighting between the main villain and the protagonist’s old connection from their younger days, who will fight for their honor or whatever.

[kangaracha]

daffodil + chan

a song

the prompt: daffodil (a god bows before a mortal)

read it on ao3

---

"You have no power over me."

running through his hands like water, and suddenly the earth is not his to control. The skies do not turn with the twist of his head, lightning does not fork in the air when his eyes, dark as night and yet still lit by some unearthly light, fall upon you, his mouth wide as if to gasp for a breath he cannot take-

And yet, still, it shivers down your spine; the magic that draws you here even as you rip it apart, the prize of your conquest to rip the world into two.

"Take it back," he hisses through his teeth, the ground trembling with every syllable that slides down his tongue. You watch his mouth as it forms the words, the flash of teeth behind thin lips reminding you of the way that the swordsman you'd fought through to get here had smiled at you - the last of his seven challenges, the last of his demons, or angels, or citizens of the sprawling, damned city he claimed as his kingdom.

And here you stood, at the pinnacle of the eighth, and stared him in the eye without cringing away because now you knew the truth. Now you knew that what he whispered in the dark was a lie and what you saw with your eyes wasn't always true, and though he may be a god and a king amongst beings that you could never hope to rival, a god can only hold as much power as you give him. A god can only claim dominion over a beast that bowed to his dogma. 

You see now that you are no beast. You are no believer in any lie he utters to the darkness.

"Take it back," he says again, the note of his voice changing. He pleads, his brow furrowing and his shoulders curling in as if waiting for the final blow. "Take it back now, before it's too late."

"I can't," you tell him, and you watch him fall to his knees, and you know that it's wrong and your heart pounds in your chest and it

like the ground does at the impact of his knees, crumbling into the pieces it was in when you first took his hand, alone on the side of the road with only one thing to call your own. And what was that thing, the little warmth you'd held to your chest in the dark and the cold? What had you traded away for the comfort of the house that crumbled around you now? Why had you destroyed him to get it back, where was it now, why did it not appear within his hands at this, the hour of his reckoning?

"Please," he spits into the cold ground, the dirt and the leaves and the curl of ivy that grows up the walls around you, old and ancient and not yet sprouted from its roots all at the same time. His hands curl in the dirt like he can reach down and pull the earth to him, like he can stop the wane of his power if he just tries to hold on a little bit tighter. "I know what you want, and I don't have it. I can't lose-"

Broken, fragile thing. Small god of limited earth, crouched at your feet like he might worship you instead. You'd thought him all-powerful once, and then you'd thought him severe and his servants and beasts and playthings petty, and then you'd thought him

because he'd smiled at you in the garden that bloomed from his own hands when you expressed your desire for a flower to tuck in the braid of your dark hair, and his hand had been soft in yours, and when he looked out across his kingdom and the clamouring faces of the people he'd brought to live there, he'd looked at them the same way that he'd looked at you.

Beneath your foot, the ground cracks, fracturing outwards like a spiderweb. It's your heart, you realise morosely, sinking from your chest and into the depths of the earth, disappearing with whatever he'd taken from you; and it was a wretched thing and it had betrayed you a hundred times over, but you still mourn at the loss of it and all the dreams it had carried with it. It blooms in your flowers in the corners of the room, embeds itself into the land and sings along with the song of his power, a thing you can hear but cannot touch, a beast once born that now does not belong to you.

"I'm sorry," he says, his breath like mist in the cold air, and even without your heart, you can't bear to see him so cold.

Your hands reach for him without permission, your body kneeling in the dirt before you can stand your feet firm upon the earth and refuse to move. He flinches away, but your fingers are soft upon his chin and the curve of his jaw, gentle when they brush the soft dip of his neck. "I only wanted to know what it was," you tell him with a voice that cannot hold itself steady. "I thought if you loved me, you would give it back." It's the only voice you have - you are not like him, or like Felix, speaking with many tongues. You don't have any power of your own.

"It's because I love you that I can't give it back." His voice is hoarse, every word a knife that he swallows without ever once flinching. "It's because I love you that I couldn't tell you what it was."

"But didn't I deserve to know?" you question. "Doesn't my life belong to me?"

Finally, his eyes rise, looking up at you with a fire that belies the cold of his skin. "Of course it does," he gasps, and his hand reaches up, dirt-stained fingers dragging at your cheek. "That's why I gave it to you, and I never asked for anything else."

"But you wouldn't give back what you took in the first place."

The sudden violence of his voice crumbles the walls and fractures the sky, the clouds blooming te dark colours of a bruise. The absence of his hand on your cheek stings in the cold; his face turns away, screwed up in regret and a pain he won't allow you to feel. You lurch forward before he can disappear, drawing him into your arms; stiff shoulders, spine of beaten steel, slow beat of a heart you once held in your hands. 

He'd stood so tall and unmoving in the morning light, when you'd first walked down this path, and now in the dark of the setting sun and the ending of the earth, his weight slumps into your grasp, his resolve melting into the warmth of your body. "I didn't want you to suffer again," he says to the soft cotton of your shirt and the curve of your collarbone, his breath a whisper against your skin. "I couldn't watch that, when you asked me to make sure it would never happen again."

Surprise comes in the pause of your breath and the still of your arms, the jump of a heart you're not sure you still possess. "I asked you to make me forget?" you question the world behind his back, and into your neck, he sighs.

"You couldn't forget," he murmurs. "She was dead before I found you, and when I took her from your arms - you couldn't forget. There was nothing I could do to fix what had been broken. And then you begged me to let you forget, so I remembered her for you." He pauses, his throat hitching like he's swallowing something down. A sob maybe, or the tears he will never let fall. "I can't give her back though. She's not here anymore."

You push him upright, your hands on his shoulders, his neck, his face. Brushing away the hair that falls in his eyes, wiping at the blood that drips from the cut on his cheek. "Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, because the answer is incomprehensible. "Why did you let me go this far?"

"Because I was scared," he admits, and his teeth clench and his spine stiffens against the urge to hide away from you again. "Because I'm a wretched, evil, stupid thing who thinks they can-"

His words die in your throat; vile, wretched things that you store away to spit out later, into the ground where they belong. He is none of that; he is soft, and hesitant, until your fingers find the sharp curve of his hip and the lines of his back, dragging him closer and his lips open like there is nothing in the world to devour but you and

[greasydumbfuck]

watched the 2004 punisher movie yesterday with pixie and honestly i had fun 👍 some stuff was good some stuff was eh some completely irrelevant stuff made me mildly annoyed. but most of all it was funny and they had frank hang around with his tits out for multiple scenes so i mean how could i not have a great time tbh

[christiangeistdorfer]

BRUCE MCLAREN sitting beside the track after retiring from the 1964 UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX

[allnerdythings]

So long my luckless Romance my back is turned on you I Should have known you bring me heartache.

Almost lovers always do

[bromcommie]

(alt title) bucky: i think im in love dum dum: that whole ass dyke would eat you alive, barnes bucky, dreamily: and i love her for that. solidarity, sister

Rating: T Word count: 2,574 Tags: Captain America: The First Avenger, World War II, Humour (somehow, despite the previous tag), Howling Commandos, A Very Fictional Marlene Dietrich, Historically Questionable Depictions of Military Tents Excerpt:

"I dunno – something a bit boyish about her, Buck," Dugan muses. Bucky gawks, lowering the shaving brush, and he really can’t decide what’s more ridiculous: the disproportionately outraged expression Bucky’s sporting or the lather still covering half of his face, seemingly forgotten and melting down his neck with alarming rapidity. “Boyish? Get outta here.” Oh, Steve thinks with a familiar level of exasperated fondness, here we go.

*leaving this at tumblr's doorstep like it's my beloved first born child I just don't know how to deal with* how the fuck do y'all post these all the time when it's so stressful.

Anyway! First time posting on AO3, so here's a ficlet about the Howlies and Marlene Dietrich because I kept banging my head against a wall trying to figure out the timeline of the much, much larger fic this is supposed to be a part of, lol.

[vivalamusaine]

To me, this is poetry

[un-pearable]

george lucas handed an overwritten mess in and then the fandom + otherwise involved creators in the extended universe and other supplemental media have spent the last decades ritualistically dissecting it and reworking it’s constituent parts into some of the most fascinating worldbuilding you can get. and the average person has no knowledge of this and just watched disney completely fumble it within an hour and a half of their first title crawl in The Force Awakens and proceed to completely fall apart within the next 3 hours . and that’s just what star wars is to them

[julesnichols]

My great uncle randomly found my mom's recipe for turkey gravy and emailed it to me??

[nonsensegnomes]

just wanna chime in with, god you GOTTA watch the dirties, it’s genuinely insane how good it is - a truly AIRTIGHT found footage film

do NOT even worry about it my friend i am sooooo far ahead of you on this front – i had the archive.org file up on my laptop when you sent this ask, and now 2 days later i've watched it twice... and STILL i cannot get that cliff scene fight out of my head! movie that makes you go what in all this is real we are!!!

[lovelylovelyartist]

I saw a video of a painting of Mary being restored, recently. I'm not, nor have I ever been a religious person, but it got me thinking- Why have I never seen Mother Mary grieve like a mother after the Crucifixion?

I've seen plenty of art of Mary holding Jesus after he'd been taken off the cross. But in those, The Virgin Mary feels so, idk, detached. She looks sad, but she's also accepted it. She is serene in her grief, heavenly and beautiful.

To me, Mother Mary is that. She's a Mother.

She held her baby. Raised him with a husband that loved them. Kissed his wounds and wrapped him in hugs when Christ- he was human, so he had to be a child- had a fall. She taught him about his Father, and the future God had prepared for him.

Did she know? She knew she would be pregnant with God's child, the angel told her she would bear the savior to humanity, but did she know how he would die? Did she know that he would be flogged viciously, his beard pulled out, made to wear a crown of thorns, then forced to carry his execution method over nearly a half a mile? Did her heart not break, hearing her son cry out his dying words, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

And even if she did know, would that have made it hurt any less?

IDK, I'm no religious scholar, I'm not even christian/catholic/whatever. I'm thinking of the Jesus documented in history, and the people in his life. but even if I was religious, I'd feel sad, maybe even a little angry for Mary. That she's not allowed grief, that in art she's not allowed to be anything other than the beautiful, serene, loving Virgin Mary.

(zoom for better quality, tumblr is a dumpster fire. I'm pretty happy with this, i tried using digital acrylics in Rebelle instead of watercolors like I usually do. added with the canvas texture, it makes for a cool look)