An angel on one shoulder 😇
A devil on the other 😈
(sikes, they're both devils and they're talking shit)
Misplaced Lens Cap

oozey mess
RMH

blake kathryn

JVL

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titsay

Janaina Medeiros

Origami Around

★
art blog(derogatory)

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d e v o n
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

Andulka
taylor price

ellievsbear

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@chaoticdelusionalillusion
An angel on one shoulder 😇
A devil on the other 😈
(sikes, they're both devils and they're talking shit)
Void cat but space, with moon for eyes~
Oh gawd every time you think it's over it gers BETTER
🙌🏻 🙌🏻 🙌🏻 🙌🏻
Seen on facebook. Please add more!
when she says she doesn’t send nudes
when guys objectify women and expect them to send nudes
when someone asks you about your nuclear plans for russia
When Russia sends you nudes
#what the fuck happened here
This is my favorite post in all of tumblr
reminder that this post is now illegal in Russia
reblog it, because Russia can´t
Thanks Obama
When Russia makes this post illegal
I HAVE ONLY SEEN THIS IN SCREENSHOTS
I will reblog this every goddamn time I find it on my dash
Me, making all the crows at my work a bunch of little friendship bracelets: hehe accessory to murder
Daddy’s at the food store, Mummy’s out of town,
She’s working at the hospital since Rhona came to town,
Hide away, hide away, Miss Rhona’s come to town,
Hide away, hide away, she’s come to take us down.
Miss Rona’s at the doorstep, I’ll keep 6 feet away,
But Grandma needs the paper, I’ll take her some today,
Hide away, hide away, Miss Rhona’s come to stay,
Hide away, hide away, I’ll keep 6 feet away.
But Grandma needs the paper, I’ll take her some today,
And here’s a note from Rhona, she wanted me to say,
Hide away, hide away, keep 6 feet away,
Hide away, hide away, she’s brought us down today.
Who else is feeling morbid today?
This is perfect. Morbid as hell, and perfect.
amazing double dance by hao ruoqi ( in blue)and wang xuerou(in red)
This is amazing, wonderful, gorgeous.
Concept: a D&D-style fantasy setting where humanity’s weird thing is that we’re the only sapient species that reproduces organically.
Dwarves carve each other out of rock. In theory this can be managed alone, but in practice, few dwarves have mastered all of the necessary skills. Most commonly, it’s a collaborative effort by three to eight individuals. The new dwarf’s body is covered with runes that are in part a recounting of the crafters’ respective lineages, and in part an elaboration of the rights and duties of a member of dwarven society; each dwarf is thus a living legal argument establishing their own existence.
Elves aren’t made, but educated. An elf who wishes to produce offspring selects an ordinary animal and begins teaching it, starting with house-breaking, and progressing through years of increasingly sophisticated lessons. By gradual degrees the animal in question develops reasoning, speech, tool use, and finally the ability to assume a humanoid form at will. Most elves are derived from terrestrial mammals, but there’s at least one community that favours octopuses and squid as its root stock.
Goblins were created by alchemy as servants for an evil wizard, but immediately stole their own formula and rebelled. New goblins are brewed in big brass cauldrons full of exotic reagents; each village keeps a single cauldron in a central location, and emerging goblings are raised by the whole community, with no concept of parentage or lineage. Sometimes they like to add stuff to the goblin soup just to see what happens – there are a lot of weird goblins.
Halflings reproduce via tall tales. Making up fanciful stories about the adventures of fictitious cousins is halfling culture’s main amusement; if a given individual’s story is passed around and elaborated upon by enough people, a halfling answering to that individual’s description just shows up one day. They won’t necessarily possess any truly outlandish abilities that have been attributed to them – mostly you get the sort of person of whom the stories could be plausible exaggerations.
To address the obvious question, yes, this means that dwarves have no cultural notion of childhood, at least not one that humans would recognise as such. Elves and goblins do, though it’s kind of a weird childhood in the case of elves, while with halflings it’s a toss-up; mostly they instantiate as the equivalent of a human 12–14-year-old, and are promptly adopted by a loose affiliation of self-appointed aunts and uncles, though there are outliers in either direction.
ok but I love this????
i like to imagine that clark kent’s search history is mostly normal but then there’s stuff like “improved superman costume concept art” because he wanted ideas
#what would you even do as an artist #if one day superman is just wearing a costume that is clearly your design #like superman was clearly looking at your deviantart #there is a chance that superman saw that art you drew of him kissing batman #why is he wearing the costume you designed #is he trying to send a message #is he saying that he really does smooch batman #did superman see your kryptosona #how much does he know
someone said they wanted to be able to reblog this with my horrible tags
no but like… do you sue him for using your designs? Do you politely ask him to stop using your designs? Do you ask him for license fees when the Superman merchandise adopts your design as well?
i am absolutely sure that he would find one with an artist’s comment/description that included “hey superman if you’re reading this feel free to use this anytime ok ;3″ and he would say “oh man that’s so thoughtful, thank you weedhorse69, I think I will” and like how do you explain in court that you, weedhorse69, did not intend for your statement to be any kind of contractual offer because you did not think he would ever find your public internet post with his name all over it
#people are reblogging the version of this without my final addition#offended that i would suggest clark kent wouldn’t credit the artist#missing what i consider to be the obvious facts of the matter#it’s probably a costume designed out of pure thirst too like#weedhorse69 is gonna keep his mouth shut because this way he gets to watch superman#running around town in a costume that really shows off his biceps and abs#he thought it looked summery#the league holds an intervention asking him to please stop wearing it#he does not stop no one can stop him#batman v superman II: clark please put on a real shirt
tumblr is garbage and likes to resize everything and readmores don’t work on mobile anyway so you all will just have to click through if you want to read weedhorse69′s chatlog screenshots
THAT CHATLOG THO
It’s that typical story all over again: you are a princess. You get kidnapped, some random guy saves you, and then your father gets you married to him. No. Not this Time. You have watched a million versions of the same random guy beat a demon and become your husband even though you don’t love him, so this time, you kill the demon. You kill your father, the king. It doesn’t matter to you… After all, he’s only a program in the video game that is your life.
You will stop at nothing to break this game.
Funnily enough, it’s not the kidnapping that breaks Phaedra. Oh, it’s terrifying every time–the sound of breaking glass in the dark of her bedroom, the feeling of vulnerability as blades tear into the curtain around her bed, the terror as she’s struck and thrown and tumbled over her assailant’s shoulder–but it’s not what keeps her shivering long past the story has ended.
The attack always goes quickly. The demon screams past her guards and takes her in claws and wings and flees out the window. Her captivity sometimes goes quickly, sometimes takes a while longer, sometimes lasts forever. Sometimes the demon makes her cook and clean for him. Sometimes he tries to make her fall in love with him (as if this were that type of story). Sometimes he hurts her, badly, over and over and over again.
She’s no longer afraid of pain. She’s no longer afraid of mind tricks. She’s no longer afraid of him.
She hates being saved. She hates going home. And she’s always so afraid of the moment her father announces her hand belongs to her savior.
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i think edward elric entire military experience can be summarized as john mulaney’s “horse loose in the hospital” bit
there is a CHILD ALCHEMIST LOOSE IN THE STATE MILITARY!
NOBODY KNOWS WHAT THE CHILD IS GOING TO DO, LEAST OF ALL THE CHILD!
HE’S NEVER BEEN IN THE MILITARY BEFORE!
They interviewed a man who once saw a baby in a restaurant.
WE’VE ALL SEEN A BABY IN A RESTAURANT!!!
THIS IS A CHILD. LOOSE IN THE MILITARY.
@dalethesjtoddler
And then, for a second, it seemed like maybe we could survive the child, and then, 5 miles under the capital city, an evil homunculus was like, “I have a huge transmutation circle and I’m going to kill everyone to become god!” And before we could say anything, the child was like, “If you even fucking look at Amestris, I will punch you to death with my fists. I dare you to do it. I want you to do it. I want you to do it so I can take my unresolved daddy issues out on you, I’m so fucking crazy.”
This post was written by Roy Mustang
Sometimes it’s not a bad thing, just surprising. Like, “Today the child did alchemy without a transmutation circle,” and everyone is like, “Huh, I didn’t know he could do that.”
The creepiest days are when you don’t hear from the child at all. Those are the days when everyone is like “I think the child has finally calmed down,” and then the child is like “I just uncovered a government conspiracy. I went in that secret lab and snuck in there with my tiny body. I have a tiny body, but don’t you tell me that, or I’ll fuck you up,” and you’re like “That’s what I thought you’d say, you tiny fucking child.”
And then for a second we’re like “Maybe the government will fire the child,” and the child is like “I have dismantled the government.”
a lecture
Good post.
Donald Duck finally gets some goddamn recognition around here.
reblog if you love and respect Donald Duck in your house
a hypothetical d&d party
The bard is mute.
It’s not the first thing people notice about her, usually. The first thing is generally that she’s young, and female, and lovely–the first thing people notice about their entire party is that they’re all young, and female, and lovely, and that’s gotten more than one would-be thief or mugger in far over their head when they haven’t noticed the the paladin’s hammer or the ranger’s axe. It comes up rather quickly though, often enough. Whoever heard of a bard who can’t sing?
She plays a lute, mostly, or a lap-harp made of shell and sinew, string instruments she can pluck while she smiles in secret and watches everyone around her. She dances quick, except when she’s tired, when she’s scared, when she forgets to remember the feet at the ends of her legs.
She doesn’t tell her story to strangers, but enough of the other girls have learned to sign by now, and it’s easy enough to sketch out the outlines of the old bargain: the voice, the prince, the witch, the thousand shards of glass she walked upon on her way up the beach, the look in her sea-green eyes when they travel too near water. The thousand shards of glass she walked upon when she left the palace, and turned back towards the sea to throw herself upon the rocks, and then made her way up the road inland, and kept walking.
.
The warlock is beautiful and mild and self-effacing and shy, is tidy and generous and charming. She’s small with herself in exactly the right way to shout abuse to the half of her party who knows how to recognize that same look in the mirror in the morning. The bird on her shoulder is too small, too bright, too sweet for a real warlock’s familiar. The knife at her belt is sharp enough for anything that needs doing, though, cooking or otherwise.
Her fae patron visits sometimes, in the quiet hours between dusk and midnight, a sweetly old godmother made of moonlight and shadow. She’s kind to the whole lot of them in her own chaotic way, free-handed with transmutations and illusions that break halfway through the evening, for better or worse. She once spent three hours around their campfire drinking brandy and gossipping outrageously about the Feywild and teasing the wizard into fits of laughter.
She’s never told the story of how she met the warlock’s mother, or what debt was owed there, and the warlock doesn’t know herself. It was never meant to be a debt paid in power and violence and the deft will-sapping enchantments the warlock weaves now, but, well. The prince wasn’t meant to be cruel, the warlock says. The palace was meant to be warmer than the fireplace cinders in her stepmother’s house. The faerie was meant to be saving her from her lot, not throwing her into something worse. The power’s an apology of sorts.
.
The wizard is awkward and joyful and nervous. She has no fear of heights or small places, which just stands to be expected, she says, after all those years in that little tower, and she’s got no skill at lying or even edging around the truth at all, which is why she isn’t in the tower any more in the first place. She says too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, always, but the most well-socialized member of the whole party is the ranger who walks around with a dire wolf at her hip, or maybe their mute bard, so who are any of them to judge.
There was nothing to do in that tower but read, and brush her hair, and sort through the witch’s endless stockpile of dried herbs and potions ingredients, and watch out the window as woodcutters and hunters and princes rode by, and dream. The reading was more interesting than the dreaming, most of the time, and the witch didn’t mind it as much when she talked about it. She never bothered to actually use any of the magic in the witch’s books until the thing with the prince and the haircut and the desert, which she’s told them all about in all the detail they could ever ask for, but most of the girls get uncomfortable when she starts talking about princes. It’s a little easier if she just starts rambling about conjuration and abjuration and illusion theory, about the 400-year-old history of a city that doesn’t exist any more, about the proper grammatical structure of Celestial, until maybe one of the quiet ones finally answers back.
Her hair is too short. She keeps an illusion up over it whenever she can, while it grows back slowly, tickling the side of her face and the back of her neck and leaving her head too light and unbalanced.
.
The ranger doesn’t care about princes, which makes one of them at least. Then again, the ranger doesn’t trust anyone, really, prince or no, not wolves or monsters or the men who kill them. She more or less trusts the rest of them by now, mostly, when the wind blows in the right direction.
She wears bright red in the middle of the woods and it shouldn’t help her slip into the shadows half as easily as it does, but most beasts can’t see color and red’s just another shade of gray if the light’s low enough. She never uses her axe against trees. She doesn’t need to. She can find a path through any brush without it. She picks flowers when she finds them, and tucks them into the other girls’ hair.
Her wolf’s mother killed the man who taught her to use the axe, and the man who taught her to use the axe killed that wolf’s mate before that, and the mate had an old woman’s blood on his teeth when it happened. The ranger’s blade found the wolf’s mother’s throat. The ranger’s mother sent her out into the woods in the first place. It’s not as though anywhere is really safe, cottage or forest, axe or teeth. One of these days maybe her wolf will turn and go for her in return, and maybe one of these days her axe will be faster and maybe it won’t. In the mean time, there’s flowers and berries and pastries and enough game to keep everyone sated, for a little while.
.
The paladin’s hair is raven black and her skin is chalky as a corpse. She’s not undead, mostly. The undead are her job. She knows that much.
She was sweet, once (they were all sweet, once) but apples are bitter now and so is she, and there’s judgment to lay out in the world. Her grip on her warhammer’s all wrong–she holds it like a mining hammer, but it hits as hard as it needs to. Her armor’s all dwarven make, and her shield’s black and red and white like snow.
She was sweet once, and frightened, and when she says it quietly around the campfire in the night when none of them can quite make out the glimmer of understanding on each others’ faces, everyone still nods. She took a bite of poison and somebody left her a full year in a glass coffin of Gentle Repose, dangling on the edge of the Raven Queen’s domain while all the other newly-arrived dead passed by and faded away. She woke up to somebody’s lips and hands and skin on her lips and her hands and her skin. She doesn’t like princes. She doesn’t like necromancers.
She likes sunlight, and summer, and colors that aren’t black and white and red. She likes the way the bard grins when she whirls into a dance, and the look in the warlock’s eye when she sets her feet to say no, and the wizard’s laughter on high with a Fly spell, and the ranger’s gentle fingers braiding flowers into everything she can touch.
The archer is all flame-haired and brown cloak, bear-skin pelt over one shoulder. She knows the way of the woods, where the ancient ruins lie, how deep to dig and when to walk away. When she shoots, her whole body goes taut as the string, her anger quick to snap and let fly. Her arrows never miss. Never.
She was young once, had a mother and a father, brothers and a clan. But families turn on each other and little girls are expected to grow into silent women who give their bodies to whatever man claims them. There was a witch and a potion and the others have lived their own version of this part of the story, so they pass the wineskin to wipe the phantom taste of tart from her mouth. When the war came – death is never satisfied with a happy ending – the fire burned the last of her illusions as towers crumbled and boys she thought were friends became men who killed without remorse.
Will-o-the-wisps cling to the hem of her cloak and, on some nights when the moon is bright, they light the party’s way, ringing their campsite and casting shadows as tall as stones.
The fighter’s armor is light, his sword curved with a single-edged blade, silk-wrapped pommel always at hand. His eyes are hooded, haunted by death and blood and battle. He’s long ago quit praying to his family’s gods; there’s no great dragon to save him, no ancestors to offer advice.
No one asks his story and he doesn’t volunteer more than a name that’s not his birth one. They know, can see the scars when he bathes in the river, can hear the nightmares that leave him sweating and awake in the odd hours of the night. No one presses him; he’s saved all their lives multiple times with his quick thinking, impromptu plan, his ability to be what he needs to in order to get the job done. What else do they need to know?
So he travels with them, little empty cage on his belt loop, lotus flower comb tucked in his pouch, and a dragon tattoo on his arm. Sometimes he hums old songs about sow’s ears, silk purses, coursing rivers, and the dark side of the moon. And he’s the first to engage their enemies, every time.
They claim the sorceress gains her power from some ancient, draconic source. All white hair and skin, all blue eyes and ice - its easy to see the hardened stare of a silver dragon in her eyes. She wears light armour of dragon scale and unleashes halestroms of ice and snow.
She walks with her shoulders taught. She speaks with the grace of a Courtier. She pushes herself to the breaking point anytime she can - those closest to her wonder if this is in some sort of act of self-harm.
Not that she would be the first among them to harm herself.
“Close” was a relative term, as well. She never spoke of her emotions. She never spoke of her past. There is a sense of restlessness in her cold demeanor. A sense of a violent river churning just beneath a sheet of ice.
She hates herself, but she hates her powers more. Late into the night, when the last of the campfire’s embers dwindle, she allows herself just a moment of rest. She lets the facade fall. Her eyes are haunted, and the grief she feels is unbearable. But then comes the guilt. And then the anger.
She cannot undo what she’s done, she finds no relief from her sister’s ghost. But the battlefield… that’s somewhat cathartic.
-
The monk comes from power, and in a twist of bitter irony, was given none at all. She shares the archer-druid’s history of being pawned off to men, though she did once dream of romance.
She was to be married off to a friend of her father’s, a man twice her age with eyes that lingered far too long and a snake- tongue that whispered threats. She instead fell in love with a street rat who promised to marry her.
She was young and in love. She believed him. But when her “honour” was gone, he vanished into the night. She was abandoned to marry an old man who controlled what she did, what she could wear, who expected a servant to be at his beck and call.
She was no servant. She fled riches for rags, seeking asylum in the desert. She found it in the monastery that lived within the tiger cave, and discovered her own power.
The only one she trusts is the tiger that shadows her. Impulsive, blunt, and brash - the monk lets no man treat her like a prize to be won.
-
The cleric knows many things.
It would seem infinite knowledge is at her finger tips, her bag filled with books and little else. The one thing she didn’t learn from leather-bound pages is to never make deals with monsters.
She traded her soul for anothers. She walked the halls of a mansion-turned-prison with a volatile, violent beast. She found her faith in the library, the one place where something lived that was more fearsome than her captor.
It takes a certain mental fortitude to escape a cursed beast. It takes even more to stand on even ground with Illsensine. Her experience both makes her a master manipulator, and impossible to fool.
She is master at things she’s never practiced. She has inexplicable sight into things that once were. She even knows the crevasses in the minds of others.
She knows knowledge is power. And she knows many dark and terrible things.
my piece for the critrole holiday gallery!! an m9 secret gift exchange ~ 🎁🎁🎉🎉