#they are killing themself

[rystiel]

he killed herself then she killed himself ❤️

[butchdykekondraki]

8k+ note butch lucifer

[countess-of-edessa]

the world is so fucked up and i can't help but think the damage is irreparable when i see people talking about how unusual and prudish it is to wait six to ten dates before having sex with someone. ten dates??? roughly like twenty five hours of interaction????? ten old timer burgers and mango iced teas from chilis equals sex?????? the possibility of pregnancy, STDs, emotional devastation, lifelong consequences, not to mention just straight up the possibility of getting murdered, with a STRANGER you have hung out with for maybe like two months???? and that's a LONG TIME???? and if you feel weird about that and don't want to do that that makes you NOT HETEROSEXUAL????? THATS AN ORIENTATION???? BECAUSE ITS SO OUTSIDE OF THE NORM OF HUMAN BEHAVIOR ????? i hate all of you i hate you i hate you i hate you every day i hate and I hate and I hate you

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 266

Back on my Danny & Ras frienemies/rivals/maybe-lovers-nobody-can-tell-their-signals-are-very-mixed train. 

See, Danny has gone through time a lot. Often. It comes with being Clockwork’s charge-son-thing and honestly he finds it fun. And several times he’s used this time travelling to get some training in. Enter Ras, stage left, also a teen at the time and also learning swordsmanship from the same person. 

And they… utterly despise each other. They would kill the other for an apple slice, if the other one would die! But also, only they can kill the other, as it is obviously their right! 

And well, they keep running into each other. It has been a hundred years, surely the other would die by now? But of course their rival would live through utter spite. Probably to spite them specifically. 

The amount of times they have ended up sparring- trying to kill each other or not- the moment they see the other is actually ridiculous. But time is also passing. And… Danny understands, not having another to talk about things people are forgetting, or have already forgotten. 

How they ended up actually talking without a murder attempt was a long story that included a demon, a dragon, a pair of fae, some bandits, and a lot of alcohol, but it happened. And then it happens again. And again, and now it’s just kind of normal to share a drink after their spars, talking about things that no longer exist, and things they miss. 

Sure Danny can go back in time again, but he knows better than to do it willy nilly. He’s matured, he’s been an adult for a hundred years now, he knows there’s consequences for messing with time, even with Clockwork’s blessings. 

The first time they got married was technically for an undercover assassination. Well, Ras was there to assassinate someone, Danny was there to grab an artifact that should Not be in the realm of the living. And they got divorced after, it was fine. 

They just, also got married again when they met a few years later, for another job. And… okay, so maybe they have gotten married over a dozen times now and only divorced like half of those times. Half of those were for the bit or while drunk! 

And even if technically they’re married or shared a bed, it’s not like they're exclusive! As Ras’ daughters’ existences attest to (adopted in one case or not). They don’t exactly have a label for their relationship, despite others asking for one or trying to put a name to it themselves. 

Now Danny knows Ras isn’t exactly a good dude, or at least on the side of ‘good’ as he’s a literal assassin. But he also knows that good? Bad? Rather relative. He had gotten labeled as a villain when he was just trying to help all that time ago after all, and really who was he to tell someone else how to live their life? 

Which brings him to now, where he’s run into his old frienemy-rival and his youngest daughter. Who has a braindead teenager and a small toddler. Which is fine, really- but also, Talia dear, why are you using a brain dead teenager to guard your three year old son? 

…

Okay, Talia dear, Ras (Derogatory), why are you using your brain dead son and grandson to guard your younger son and grandson? Do you not have the Pits, which you were soo proud about Ras? Yes, he will spar with you, but for Realms’ sake, heal, what’s his name? Ah yes, go heal Jason and he’ll actually stick around for a few years, deal? Good. 

[mushramoo]

mxes my beloved minimum wage pizzaplex worker

[budbuddnbuddy]

I don’t think that people realize how bad Solomon’s cooking is. I mean they do but I feel like it’s just on the surface level, like “Haha this mf can’t cook.”

It’s not that he can’t cook, he’s definitely cooking something, the nigga has the recipe right in his hand and is reading from the page, he’s using measurements and everything, no no it’s that he’s cooking something devious.

You will watch this man attempt to make lasagna by boiling the meat in Devildom sea water, using motor oil as the sauce, sprinkle grinded up Dragon scales as SEASONING, before layering it all up, ignoring the cries of pain and terror of the lost souls of the Devildom sea within the meat begging to be released, before sticking that shit in the microwave. Yes the microwave, because the oven blew itself up when he tried to stick the last bullshit he made into it.

It’s not even the fact that he’s using magic, he’s using dark ENERGY to make his meals. 😭

[starry-bi-sky]

Thinking about the CFAU and marveling at how much Danny and Jason care for one another. Does anybody else figure out that Danny is going to kill the Joker, or is that knowledge Jason exclusive? I can't see Danny being close enough to any other Batfam member to disclose his plans, but I wonder if he drops hints. They're a family of paranoid detectives. I'd be surprised if they don't figure out Danny has a PURPOSE for being in Gotham at some point. Whether Danny's able to disguise it as wanting to be closer to Jason or not is another burning question.

Its def Red Hood exclusive! You're right in that Danny isn't close enough to disclose his revenge plot to any of the batfam members -- hell, not even Sam and Tucker know his true motives for returning to Gotham, and they're his best friends right after Jason! And Red Hood knows only because Danny accidentally slipped up ;].

I do also think that the Waynes kinda think something might be up with Danny -- at least Dick and/or Bruce might since they're the only ones who actually know him beyond brief mentions of him. Tim knows about him due to his stalking, but doesn't really know him -- and Danny plans to keep a healthy, friendly distance from the family so he can carry out his plans.

It's not that he holds any dislike towards them -- quite the opposite. He appreciates what they do for Gotham and recognizes the hard work that goes into keeping their Rogues Gallery at bay (even if he is bitter about Joker, but there's an obvious reason for that) -- but, well. He knows they're the vigilantes, he doesn't want to risk them sniffing out his murder plot before he can even go through with it.

Luckily for him he can excuse any distance he puts between them as just being busy with life and trying to settle in, and they're not close enough to him anymore to find it suspicious. I do think they figure out he's back in Gotham for a reason, Danny's not going to exactly hide the fact that he's back to find some kind of closure -- but what that closure is?

I think the only person who might suspect something sinister going on would be Bruce, who saw the sinking rage in Danny's eyes at the funeral -- it was part of the reason he didn't tell him who killed Jason (beyond secret identity reasons). But that depends on whether or not Danny reveals some of his hand, and the fact that he was still holding onto that rage (somewhat unwillingly) all this time.

[autismcultureis]

autism culture is always have been both too immature and too mature for others your age at the same time

!!!

[vind3miat0r]

not-so-friendly fucking reminder. bigots are not welcome here.

[torchstelechos]

i love the ISAT aus where everyone else is looping but the loops are still dependent on Siffrin, so if something fucked up happens to Siffrin the whole ass party loops backwards. How long do you think it takes for them to realize it's Siffrin dependant and not just "if one of us dies or we reach the end we loop?" I bet it takes at least an act or 2, not because theyre dumb or anything but because Siffrin tends to worry over the others a LOT so it could appear more muddled then you would think

[chickenoptyrx]

Thinkin bout how similar they are

[razs-archetype]

You smell of dead flowers / I smell of the sewer i rot in

[were-changing-cake-vaults]

I wonder if Evbo feels guilt for every poor noob pro and master that died at his hand

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Frank! fantasy flavor!

rambles:

i really wanted to blend that monk-class inspiration w/ Frank's personal vibe... i like to think that i Succeeded!

i turned his tie into a sort of brooch since, yk. bowties aren't all that Fantastical. they miss the style. also i think they'd be more comfortable with something smaller since he's very active and needs a wide range of maneuverability

i bet Eddie or someone wheedled them into adding the leather shoulder pauldrons - leather to keep it a bit more flexy, and also. it just looks Cool!

figuring out what would replace his vest was tough. i didn't want them to be entirely unprotected, but i couldn't give him straight armor. though i will admit! a sort of tight-fitting crop top was Considered! but i landed on a gambeson vest as the best fit - comfortable, flexible, a Vest, while providing some level of protection! also, gambesons are quilted, which fits Frank's diamond-checkered vest!

ive already mentioned that one of my favorite outfit things is Flowy Pants Tucked Into Boots, so... that choice wasn't very character driven. except the boots are a tall ankle wrap - for that extra stability and strength! their shoes are pretty flexible and are only a few steps away from being slippers.

and the half-skirt - open skirt? - thing (still don't know what its called) is purely some self indulgence. i think Frank looks great in skirts!! also imagining him Throwing Down w/ the added flair of the skirt... damn. it'd probably help confuse enemies too - what're they gonna do next? who knows! the skirt is in the way and adding extra Movement!

i like to think that his knife is either in a sheath attached to the back of the belt, or they have it on their thigh (under the skirt) like Wally's bag. he probably never uses it... punching is the way to go for Frank methinks. it's probably reserved for cutting ropes and fruit

speaking of punching.... wrist wraps! inspired by boxing gauze! pads his knuckles, keeps his wrist compressed, its the best choice for physical combat. though the wrapped knuckles probably always have blood showing through anyway... or no yeah it's mostly other people's blood...

as for scars - Frank probably has quite the collection! i imagine that they've been picking fights since a young age, and in such a dangerous world he probably got hit a Lot until they learned how to hit back. and hit back Well. still, i wanted to give him a cool face scar with a very lame backstory - a book with a crisp, sharp spine corner fell off a high shelf and bonked them in the face at juuuust the right angle <3 he probably stays very fucking quiet about it which makes everyone think there's some intense traumatic backstory behind it. there isn't. Frank's just embarrassed.

closing note: i imagine that Frank has zero magic. literally none. cannot wield it for shit cannot utilize it. he's just like Howdy fr

[proth-blog]

[zarnzarn]

The temple is musty when Lamb steps in, dust mites suspended in the air. The door closes with a gentle thud and Lamb thanks their past self for having the idea to put a lock on it as they drive the bolt home. 

Everyone is asleep, but caution never hurts anyone.

Still, Lamb’s heart beats with something like fear as they approach the altar, with the cracked stained glass beyond colouring the whole place a welcoming red. 

Lamb hesitates a final time, before giving in and getting to their knees. 

“Thae One who Waits, praise be thy name.”

They haven't done this since Shamura’s ominous warning in Silk Cradle about leading themself to slaughter, betrayal making them numb. They suppose now, after the anger has faded, that it was silly to think power didn't come at a price, that dead things would be allowed to walk the earth forever. 

“Binsaar don in mora paelish death.”

Still, the movements and words come easy, having done this for a hundred and fifty years. 

“Hear my call, jein abkaar ji keish.”

They know it's stupid. Stupid to get on their knees and worship someone they destroyed themselves. They can feel the prayer hanging in the air, with no deity to travel to. Useless. 

“Hein skolaama boera jokha nayin.”

Narinder is still alive, anyways. He's in Lamb's tent right now, bandages on his arms and legs and neck, asleep. 

He caught Lamb across the muzzle with his claws today, after they foolishly thought he'd be receptive to having one more devotee help sponge him down after hearing him laugh at something the others said. The scratches sting, and Lamb knows they won't be closing for a long time.

“Dei bristan hilem koi pashun.” 

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that all these cowardly idiots got to touch their god, after hiding away for years like rats, only coming out now that Lamb had made it safe so they could. Acolytes of the Old One, they called themselves, coming to the cult to pay their respects to the god walking the same ground as them for the first time in a thousand years.

Lamb would have turned them away on day one if they'd known; but he'd glanced at Narinder when the group had first thrown themselves to his feet with joyful sobs and seen the surprise and the longing in his eyes. Had nearly cried themself at the bittersweet softness in his voice when he gently rebuked the group for coming after a god that had fallen and failed them after a thousand years of their undying loyalty. 

“Borig haiel, borig jeilla.” 

Lamb was Narinder's highest priest, his most loyal devotee, his strongest acolyte, his vessel. They should be the one replacing his veil and his robes, following him around and helping him recover with prayer and herbs and bandages alike, they should be the one travelling off to distant lands to collect the rare objects he covets in exchange for sacred knowledge, they should be the ones to bathe him at night and massage his scarred, furless limbs and sing him to sleep. 

“Borig twena tael omoro pe shaen haiel.”

But they couldn't. They couldn't because The One Who Waits refuses to do so much as meet their eyes, wouldn't touch anything the Lamb had cooked, would lash out with a snarl when he came too close, like today. And all Lamb could do in the face of the crowd looking at them expectantly was laugh it off, dance around the claws and coo nonsense until everyone laughed, pretending like they weren't dying inside at the unbridled hatred in the glare being sent their way. 

“Heeshal borek, heeshal nishaan.”

Their voice rises to the rafters, shaking. How shameful it was, for all those former vessels and loyal acolytes to look at them with disbelief and horror and pity, like Lamb was fucking stupid for not breaking their last promise to their sister, for not letting the god they loved kill them. 

And yet- 

“Hoore baikal shenagu-” 

When they looked at Narinder smiling or snarking at everyone except them- 

“Laenih westila shamfua-”

When all they got anymore from their god was curses and hatred, despite everything they had done in his name- 

“Poen poena haish kam-”

When they once had the full force of their god's attention, cradled in his palm and purred at and loved, and craved it like poppy and menticide now that it was gone; but it was gone because of them and all they'd ever have were memories and echoes of his love-

“Leora beeth, leora ha’iash-”

When all the riches and offerings and power in the world couldn't hold a candle to the dreams of Narinder smiling at them, laughing at their jokes, nuzzling them fondly, standing by their side, leaning in to reward all their years of hard work with his warm breath and soft lips- 

“Tvle non-”

Silence. 

They stop breathing, prostrated on the floor as they are, hands clasped in front of them. Their head is empty, no matter how much they wrack their mind for the next sentence. 

“What the fuck,” Lamb’s voice breaks on the whisper, feeling their hands start to tremble, vision blurring at the sides. “Tvle non- tvle non rere- fuck, how can I forget-” 

The crown slips from his skull in his panic and he turns to meet its eye, creased in grief like his own. 

“Crown,” They plead desperately. “Crown, what was the prayer?” 

The Red Crown remains silent. Lamb grabs it and shakes it, feeling hysteria burn in their veins the longer the words don't come to their tongue, the prayer they had just been saying slipping away like water. 

“What was the prayer?” They shriek, pulling at their wool as they screw their eyes shut, trying to remember. Now that they try, every ritual, every hymn and psalm, every last piece the cult had ever dedicated to their god- all of it has disappeared from memory, is disappearing like ribbons of sand through their hooves. 

The god you sing to is gone. The Crown whispers, tears of blood falling from its eye. Death is you now. 

“No, no, no, no,” Lamb chants, arms wrapped around themselves as they lean forward, tears slipping past his cheeks. “No, no, come back, come back!”

Lamb-

“My god,” Lamb moans, swaying back and forth. This is worse than any elimination, any injuries, any loss. Their chest is going to rip in half with the mourning, the horror. “My god, forgive me, please, please, my god, my lord, please, come back, come back.” 

There's no reply. The altar is cold, the glass still, the shadows unmoving. There's no deep voice curling around his ears seductively, no warmth to look forward to after the gore and bloodshed, no sulphur-drenched skeletal hand to curl up in on the worst nights, no bass purrs to soothe him to dreamless sleep. No offerings he can give for gold, no curses he can have whispered in his ears, no one to place his faith in to have his back and make sure everything will be alright. 

“COME BACK!” They scream to the temple rafters, wailing and bleating like they never have. In a moment of grief, of anger and fear, they manifest a knife and slice across their chest, spraying heartblood on the foot of the pew, on top of all the sacrificial blood dried in Narinder's name. “COME BACK, MY GOD, PLEASE!”

The Crown flies around them, saying something, distressed, but Lamb can't hear it over the sobs, over the healing of the cut, the sizzling of evaporating blood, the rejected offering, given too late. 

“My One,” The Lamb sobs into the temple floor. But their god lies in a hut on the other side of the grounds, weak and dying, because of them. Their god will never forgive them. Their god hates them. 

Lamb feels themself sink down, letting the mask drop, the facade they'd worn for eighty years come crashing down. The One who Waits hates them. 

“Tvle non rere desennte troma,” They whisper, closing their eyes, tears dripping to the ground. It's all they have left.