demonicvulcan:
my type of otp: slowly the insults become terms of endearment
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

Kaledo Art
sheepfilms
styofa doing anything
NASA
taylor price
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

JBB: An Artblog!
KIROKAZE
art blog(derogatory)
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Discoholic 🪩
$LAYYYTER
DEAR READER

Andulka

Product Placement

JVL
occasionally subtle
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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@moondustuniverse
demonicvulcan:
my type of otp: slowly the insults become terms of endearment
Barack and Michelle Obama on their wedding day, 1992
November 9, 1989
The fall of the Berlin Wall
It’s come to my attention that I have not yet made a post about Farmer’s Market Hot™.
Farmer’s Market Hot is a specific kind of aesthetic that is the result of me watching Orphan’s Black and trying to describe the hotness of Cal to others.
See my point?
Farmer’s Market Hot is a wholesome kind of hot. Rugged but approachable. It’s not the kind of hot where you immediately go, “Oh my god they’re so perfect, I want to take them home and photograph them/tear their clothes off.” That’s for later.
This is the kind of hot for people who would visit the farmer’s market to buy some organic cheeses on their way to pick up their kids from their Creativity Through Music class. It’s the look that says “I’m here to support our local beekeepers.” You see them and it makes you want to settle down. You want to do your taxes with them, raise dogs together.
It’s borderline hipster without the elitism and irony, borderline country without the sound of Tim McGraw. If they’re white, racist shit like dreads automatically disqualifies them.
Guys will most likely be stubbly, or bearded, but not to the point of lumberjack. Think Chris Evans in between Marvel movies.
Pictured: a man who wants to buy artisan bread from a stall and be polite to the merchants.
Imagine a woman with a sunflower tattoo, wearing a high-low dress and clunky dependable boots, holding a dog’s leash while she waits at the knife sharpening booth. Imagine a man wearing flannel and holding a baby while talking about ethical alternatives to quinoa.
Farmer’s Market Hot™.
Add this to your vocabulary.
It’s that time of the year again, so I felt the need to bring this back.
farmer’s market hot
the quality content i am here for
Pocket friend. [video]
This guy loves this job!
You might belong in Gryffindor, Where dwell the brave at heart, Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff, Where they are just and loyal, Those patient Hufflepuffs are true And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, if you’ve a ready mind, Where those of wit and learning, Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin You’ll make your real friends, Those cunning folks use any means To achieve their ends.
(Everything with this illustrations on Redbubble)
Just realized I’ve been waiting for this my entire life.
Winter has come
My summer paradise by Regina
Palanga, Lithuania
U.N.C.L.E.
We need to trust each other. We can’t fight a war amongst ourselves. We have so many enemies now.
Rewrite a classic fairy tale by telling it backwards. The end is now the beginning.
Once upon a time there was a princess who loved so deeply that her heart was worn constantly on her sleeve. She fell in love with a prince, and the next year, her father allowed them to be wed- he remembered his own wife every day, and wished his daughter to be as happy as he had been.
The day of the wedding came, and the girl walked down the aisle in a dress of gentle silver. The Prince took her hand and smiled, and leant in to kiss her.
For luck, he would later say. A kiss for luck, a smile for joy, a laugh for a happy ending. It was a saying his own family had had for years, but it was a saying that failed him.
For the second his lips touched hers, she fell to the floor with a sigh.
Not dead they healers told the prince. not dead but sleeping, not dead but unable to wake.
The prince- so ashamed, so in fear of his life and hers- stole her away from the castle that night, away from her father and her people, so they would never have to watch her waste away.
He hid her in a forest, in a casket of diamond and ice, and he waited. Waited, for he did not even know where to start. He did not even know if the hope for her waking had a point.
He was there for two days when they found him. Seven short folk, small men with beards and axes in their hands, and harsh smiles on their faces.
We can help you they said to him, the six cackling behind the speaker. But, prince, it will come at a price.
I would pay anything. He vowed. Only later, realising he should have asked what it would be.
The Seven disappeared and left him on his own. Alone, other than the silent not-dead princess at his side.
When they returned there was an eighth with them- an old frail woman with a basket in her hands.
We will wake her she said, pulling out an apple and throwing it in their air but you will never look at her, talk to her again, and she will work in the mines with my dwarves here.
He wanted to say no. But knowing she was alive, even out of reach, was better than sleep and near death.
so yes he said. Help her.
The old woman smiled and picked out a knife, cutting the apple into small parts. One, she handed to the prince, the other, she took over to the casket, and opening it, she placed it on the princess’ lips.
A gasp, a flash of her eyes opening, and the prince knew nothing more.
***
The princess woke in a place she did not know, surrounded by people she did not know. An old woman and short men- and her prince, asleep on the ground.
He is not dead the old woman said only sleeping. But around you, he will never wake. He saved you but cursed you both- and now your life is tied to my mines.
The princess tried to fight, to leave.
But the old woman had magic and she did not, and the dwarves were all she knew for many years. Sometimes as friends, sometimes as enemies, often arguing but always allies, they worked side by sides in the underground mines, looking for fairydust and rubies, magic and gold.
They taught her the songs of work and the songs of marches, and soon she forgot that she had even been a princess.
One evening she was walking back to their home alone, when she heard a noise to her left. She looked, expecting a rabbit, a bird, but out stepped a man with a bow in his hands.
You shouldn’t be out in the woods alone he said to her.
This is my home.
Trees are no home for anyone. She wondered if she should tell him of the many people hidden in the forest, each with no where else to go come with me.
Why?
Because I have a place you can go.
She should have said no- but what was there for her in the trees and the mine? So she took his hand and he led her out into the bright daylight, through winding roads intil they arrived at a castle she did not know.
where are we? she asked.
The Huntsman smiled my home, and the home of my queen.
He led her in through the doors, up to a room where a woman was sat on a throne. The woman stood as she saw the princess, staring at her in wide eyed shock.
You look just like her the queen whispered.
Once, the Huntsman said quietly, seeing the question in the princess’ eyes my queen had a child. A daughter who should have been your age. But she was stolen away by the man my queen loved.
You-
I’m not her the princess said- but she had never known her mother. Only her father and an empty throne at his side.
No. the queen said, her tone one of disbelief. But I am in need of an heir, and you in need of care. Stay here a while, and let us see.
Eagle - Lion - Serpent - Badger
I think everyone goes through it. It’s natural to feel uncomfortable in your own skin. What I don’t think is natural is the pressure to be perfect.
Classic animators doing reference poses for their own drawings. I’m in love with these images.
I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.
Virginia Woolf (via
theclassicsreader
)