#fly your colors

[vebokki]

wait! i get it, you're a luo binghe super fan huh

[crystalflygeo]

Ok but imagine dragon!Zhongli fills you up with eggs and by the time they hatch you end up with a bunch of tiny baby dragons squirming around like worms. What'd you do then??

WHAT'D I DO?? TAKE CARE OF MY CHILDREN OF COURSE???

"Worms", the audacity they are dragons and they are my precious babies omg

But fr tho imagine like a dozen of tiny baby noodles with a bit of fur and tiny stubby horns just curling up on your lap or around you as you sleep, draped around your shoulder, on top of your head (and Zhongli's) that is so cute pls too adorable. 💕

I'd imagine they'd be still too weak/young to fly let alone shapeshift so they're housebound, zhongli and you have to take turns watching them and going out to do stuff. Also since they're dragons/reptiles they wouldn't need milk?? rather probably just smol pieces of meat or like soft food aaaaaaaaaaaa too cute imagine feeding them with a spoon carefully.

Until they start teething that it, then they become lil menaces, biting everything on sight including each other when play fighting and/or their father (lmao) Zhongli would make small crystals they can bite into instead of destroying everything 💕

Speaking of their father imagine Zhongli feeling the urge to take dragon form just so he can curl around them and soothe them in a way they'd be more instinctually comfortable with (PAPA DRAGON ZL INSTINCTS RUNNING WILD IMAGINE HIM LICK-BATHING THEM SVCGAHBAK 🥺💕💕💕) tho they 1000% recognize you as mama and like to burrow in your hair or under your shirt (babies noooo) and just be close to/on top of you at all times

JUST A BUNCH OF TINY NOODLE BABY DRAGONS I WOULD WEEP I WOULD CRY like I did these???? I made them with my husband?? my babies??

smth like this is you will AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[mrtequilasunset]

He's a king dust demon with an ice pick smile

[themissingmango]

[moeblob]

son boy raccoon trash can man suffering in a dnd au as a cleric bc his warlock will not stop committing murders and he has to keep coming up with reasons murder is valid to convince the gm its fine and under control

[shaanks]

-whispers- lean in real close I'm gonna tell you a secret. I don't want or need my fantasy media to be realistic. I live in reality where the realistic is. I've got realism at home. I want my fantasy fiction to be both fantasy and fictional. If I go there for a brief reprieve from the relentless march of agony and misery that the world is, and then shovel all of that into the story, do you know what it is now? And what service it is no longer providing? Wild how that works.

[computerboyboobs]

👉👈 for the drawing requests, perhaps gabriel's first day as an angel?? i think there's something there you could definitely encapsulate with your art and ideas!

its his first day existing be nice to him </3

[kindheartedgummybears]

I SAW AN OPPORTUNITY AND I TOOK IT

BRUH WHY IS THE QUALITY SO SHIT IT LOOKED SO GOOD WHEN I WAS ACTUALLY MAKING IT💀🙏

anyways @ssssatoru and @screamwhore wanted an @ so😍😍

[zhivchik]

[jeeaark]

Your rendering is just as good as your silly comic sketches holy crap. Goals

Thank you! Have a pretty portrait of Rook

[dailykugisaki]

Day 279 | id in alt

It bit him in the ass I'll say that much lmao (left to right)

[scatterpatter]

Feeling normal again

[zepuffer]

zing ! went the strings of my heart

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

At this moment of reminiscense, Dorian and Elizabeth's eyes met, and their smiles mirrored one another as Elizabeth commented off-handedly:

"I think I'm beginning to understand that feeling."

Walking behind the two younger couples, unable to resist cooing over her sleeping granddaughter just as her mother was, June caught little snatches of the conversation, with certain remarks just happening to make her ears prick up a little more, though she never let her face show what she was thinking and feeling, to say nothing of refusing to give voice to these thoughts. As she had told Lon earlier in the month, she had her theories, but at the end of the day, whatever was on Dorian and Elizabeth Gracey's mind was theirs to announce, and she certainly wasn't going to impede upon that.

At the very least, when the party had made it back to the attic, and Randall and Emily quietly took the twins to their room for a nap, she took Elizabeth aside for a moment, venturing to say, choosing her words carefully, "Well, if you do ever feel sick again, if any nausea or soreness pops up again...please, don't hesitate to come to me. I'd like to help in any way I can."

Elizabeth studied June's face for a moment, remaining calm upon this suggestion being put to her-the matriarch's face was just as calm as her own, and there was a gentle sincerity in the way she smiled at her, to say nothing of something of a mischievous twinkle to her eye, a sort of subtle, knowing look that reminded Elizabeth of her own mother, and the looks she would give her one and only daughter when she knew something was afoot.

But even with that look, the mistress of Gracey Manor knew Mrs. June Pace was a woman she could trust, and so she flashed her an appreciative smile, saying, "If anything comes up, I'll be sure to look to you first. Thank you, June."

"Think nothing of it, Elizabeth."

[themissingmango]

[queenlucythevaliant]

🪆would love one featuring Russian thoughts on God! ✝️

SO. I could have sworn that I've posted "Avvakum in Pustozyorsk" on this blog before, but I can't seem to find it so here it is.

(For context, this is written in the voice of a 17th century Russian Orthodox priest and religious dissident (an "Old Believer"). Avvakum was sent to the military outpost of Pustozyorsk where he was imprisoned four fourteen years, then eventually burned at the stake. It uses this historical voice to reflect on the religious persecution of the Soviet era. Also, it's fairly long, so I've highlighted my favorite stanzas.)

Avvakum in Pustozyorsk The walls of my church are the ribs round my heart; it seems life and I are soon bound to part. My cross now rises, traced with two fingers. In Pustozyorsk it blazes; its blaze will linger. I’m glorified everywhere, vilified, branded; I have already become the stuff of legend: I was, people say, full of anger and spite; I suffered, I died for the ancient rite. But this popular verdict is ugly nonsense; I hear and reject the implied censure. A rite is nothing – neither wrong nor right; a rite is a trifle in God’s sight. But they attacked our faith and the ways of the past, in all we’d learned as children, and taken to heart. In their holy garments, in their grand hats, with a cold crucifix in their cold hands, in thrall to a terror clutching their souls, they drag us to jails and herd us to scaffolds. We don’t debate doctrine, of books and their age; we don’t debate virtues of fetters and chains. Our dispute is of freedom, and the right to breathe – about our Lord’s will to bind as he please. The healers of souls chastised our bodies; while they schemed and plotted, we ran to the forests. Despite their decrees, we hurled our words out of the lion’s mouth and into the world. We called for vengeance against their sins along with the Lord; we sang poems and hymns. The words of the Lord were claps of thunder. The Church endures; it will never go under. And I, unyielding, reading the Psalter, was brought to the gates of the Andronikov Monastery. I was young; I endured every pain: hunger, beatings, interrogations. A winged angel shut the eyes of the guard, brought me cabbage soup and a hunk of bread. I crossed the threshold – and I walked free. Embracing my exile, I walked to the East. I held services by the Amur River, where I barely survived the winds and blizzards. They branded my cheeks with brands of frost; by a mountain stream they tore out my nostrils. But the path to the Lord goes from jail to jail; the path to the Lord never changes. And all too few, since Jesus’s days, have proved able to bear God’s all-seeing gaze. Nastasia, Nastasia, do not despair; true joy often wears a garment of tears. Whatever temptations may beat in your heart, whatever torments may rip you apart, walk on in peace through a thousand troubles and fear not the snake that bites at your ankles – though not from Eden has this snake crawled; it is an envoy of evil from Satan’s world. Here, birdsong is unknown; here one learns patience and the wisdom of stone. I have seen no colour except lingonberry in fourteen years spent as a prisoner. But this is not madness, nor a waking dream; it is my soul’s fortress, its will and freedom. And now they are leading me far away and in fetters; my yoke is easy, my burden grows lighter. My track is swept clean dusted with silver; I’m climbing to heaven on wings of fire. Through cold and hunger, through grief and fear, towards God, like a dove, I rise from the pyre. O far-away Russia – I give you my vow to return from the sky, forgiving my foes. May I be reviled, and burned at the stake; may my ashes be cast on the mountain wind. There is no fate sweeter, no better end, than to knock, as ash, at the human heart.

--Varlam Shalamov