francisarchibald:

slay-z:

cynique:

demonicdjkitty:


oh my

oh my god

holy fuck

Pocahotness

francisarchibald:

slay-z:

cynique:

demonicdjkitty:

image

oh my

oh my god

holy fuck

Pocahotness

(Source: liabatman)

Game of Thrones S03: My Understanding so Far

(Source: wantstobelieve)

WIP these were once Kairi shoes.

awesomepokemonartistry:

THIS IS SERIOUSLY SO PERFECT. Mononoke/XY Crossover.

awesomepokemonartistry:

THIS IS SERIOUSLY SO PERFECT. Mononoke/XY Crossover.

ctchrysler:

Random LoK (mainly Korra) doodles!

The ones marked “R” were referenced.  That firebender girl belongs to me; Korra, Mako, Bolin, Asami belongs to Bryan & Mike!

aileciel:

進撃の巨人 ミカサ・アッカーマン | TARI [pixiv]

aileciel:

進撃の巨人 ミカサ・アッカーマン | TARI [pixiv]

gottacatchallpokemon:

I’m so sad now…

(Source: safety-pinned-and-skid)

lemonorangelime:

Asami commission for eunoia—euvoia
Hope you like it :)
Commission me

lemonorangelime:

Asami commission for eunoia—euvoia

Hope you like it :)

Commission me

savage-deviljho:

That delicious protagonist

savage-deviljho:

That delicious protagonist

illustratosphere:

Beside the Wild One
by Raindropmemory

illustratosphere:

Beside the Wild One

by Raindropmemory

gingerhaze:

i saw Star Trek and I wish the whole movie had been about them being a super fashionable space biker gang with their space-leather jackets.

gingerhaze:

i saw Star Trek and I wish the whole movie had been about them being a super fashionable space biker gang with their space-leather jackets.

notbecauseofvictories:

kylejthompson:

Once upon a time, there were three siblings.

The eldest, a son, was a saint. The holy fire lit him from within, burned him to an ashen shell. He wandered across ice, through water, his twisted and scorched feet barely touching the ground, trailing steam. Where he walked, the world emptied of color, and his grey-eyed followers went on behind him.

The second child, a daughter, was a martyr. For God, she wound her legs with barbed wire and walked the earth, filled and vacated by the wind, eyes burned unseeing blue. Where she bled, the ground grew green and fertile. Her bones were picked apart by birds, and a cathedral built over them.

The youngest child was a writer. She wore Doc Martins and wandered around in an omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke. She liked vodka, words like quaintrelle and metanoia, Russian novels. At night, she stood on her balcony and screamed obscenities to a God she did not believe in.

(God came to her in the grey dawnlight, whispered, we do not buy our own innocence. She did not remember it, upon waking.)