First Post (test)

im sorry that the only thing i could think of when gill rested his head on chips shoulder while he was reading the newspaper was a domestic life. but. what do you want me to do

New fun date idea! What if we went to therapy and rehab together?

Wolf Regressor Baku Stimboard

No Gifs Belong To Me!!

Requests Are Open!

this is part 1 [part 2] Happy TMAnniversary haha the song is  A Complete List of Fears Ages 5-28 (Aprox) by The Yellow Dress I really love this podcast so so much. I just finished it like a month ago and it still lives in my brain so i just had to do a little tribute

tiny robin dick grayson compilation

Guys can we-

Can we please-

Can we plEASE-

Talk about how stunningly beautiful Damian looks?

Jesus God, Gleb Melnikov drew him beautifully.

The skin tone, the eyes, the goddamn lighting

He- I-I- just...

People. Just look at this beautiful boy.

posting my silly fnc collection (because tumblr needs to know that I am an annoyance too)(and I just love them way too much)

az gothic

The sunsets sure are beautiful, they say. And they are. A celebration of the sun’s disappearance for the day; The sun rises are a sickly yellow-green, and only a warning of what is coming.

There are no clouds. The last time you’ve seen clouds feels like forever ago. You’re starting to wonder if they were even really there. The sky looks white anyway.

The sun is reflected in the sunglasses of strangers. They never come off; You can’t tell if they’re looking at you when they talk to you, or if they have eyes at all.

When did you get that tan? You’ve been inside as long as you can be, hiding from the bone-dry heat. Deep down you know it’s still going to find you. You close the curtains and turn the air conditioner up. Your tan gets darker.

It’s the middle of summer, and the sun has set. You look out your window. A large spider is splayed across the glass. You grimace and look away. When you look back there are more, pressed between the glass and the screen. One of them is something you’ve never seen before. You’re not sure it’s a spider. You close your curtains.

There’s a tarantula in your sink. You don’t know how it got there. “It’s illegal to kill them” you’ve heard someone say. You grapple with what to do for an hour. The tarantula never moves.

There’s a tiny snake in the kitchen. You can swear you’ve seen the same snake in your classroom, many years ago. You sweep it into some tubberware and put it back outside.

There’s a cricket somewhere. Only one. You can never find where it is, but you know it’s in your house. You know it’s watching you; It grows quiet when you move.

The Superstition Mountains have claimed someone else.

You only dare sit outside in the dare with friends. Together, in the light, on the porch, the roof, a trampoline. Anything that doesn’t touch the ground. The coyotes howl, and someone jokingly howls back. They stop when the coyotes sound closer, the next time.

The coyotes are miles away. One laughs, and the sound comes from right outside of your window. You tell yourself it’s in the distance, that sound carries. The laughter continues.

“It’s haunted, you know,” someone tells you. You’re not surprised. “It’s haunted, you know,” and this time it’s your voice. They’re not surprised.

There’s a Circle K on the corner. And the next corner. There’s two, across the street, facing one another. It doesn’t matter which one you go into. They’re the same one, after all.

The dust clings to everything. To the windows. To the cars. To the cacti. To your soul.

You pass by someone’s yard. There is grass, a bright emerald green. It is the only one like it on the street, still wet from the sprinkler. The heat makes it stand out more than it already did. You fight the urge to lay in it, for the umpteenth time. As you force yourself to walk away, you know that one day you will give into your urge. The heat will make you.

Tempe can say otherwise all it wants. It’s part of Phoenix. Mesa is part of Phoenix. Glendale is part of Phoenix. The entire Valley is Phoenix, no matter how loudly it is said otherwise. Only Tucson and Flagstaff are not part of Phoenix– They’re far enough to escape it. You are not.

Southwest Gothic II

jackalopes are funny, but el chupacabra isn’t. and when the coyote howls you wonder if you should be relieved. Something bigger didn’t eat them.

route 66 is still the old post-card of American Nostalgia, except for when you’re driving past and it’s dark and you watch dust devils spin past you on the side of the road as you approach a lone gas station with a flickering street lamp. this place was forgotten long ago, and it’s not pleased to see you.

on that note, route 666 would make even the most staunch atheist uneasy.

you bought a tacky glass paperweight with a scorpion inside, but today you swear it moved

teddy bear cacti.

the ghosts have “types” of course. you know them by heart: miner, native, nun, cowboy, and scorned woman/prostitute.

but nothing can prepare you for the last kind of ghost or spirit – it isn’t a person, it has no one name, but it belongs there and it slides into the bodies of scorpions and under the scales of rattlesnakes, warning you off. Some might call it death itself – the desert’s most powerful ghost, the hallucinations of heatstroke, the dryness in your mouth, the hot, baked air that tempts you to your knees, to rest your head, or to wander off the hiking trail past petroglyphs and towards the glimmer in the distance where other bleached bones lay. death belongs to us, she is ours. and you are hers. take water with you. 

offerings for santa muerta. dia de los muertos – where the whole family goes to clean the graves and ask, not jokingly, did you hear them, mija? (You do. There are always voices on the wind).

the leylines are probably all hooey from snowbirds, but the different tribes all have their own stories about their land and the reservations, and if you’re related, you’ve heard them, and you know. The desert is big and it is alive. you might not “open your chakras” in sedona, but you will listen to your elders. it is in your best interest not to wake anything up you shouldn’t. 

rivers with no water, forests of stone, blood red rocks, sandstorms which overtake you, and the sweet smell of creosote after a rain bringing short relief from anything that might be hungry and waiting.

the ghost towns are empty, except when they aren’t and you need to run.

FyoLai

Based off from the painting Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan

Instead of the father killing his son out of wrath, Nikolai kills Fyodor out of his desire for freedom and later on regrets it. I have nothing else to say here except that I love FyoLai angst <3