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lesbian laureate

@tsukidrama / tsukidrama.tumblr.com

25 | she/her | aruanis DO NOT follow
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i cannot conceive of a universe without you in it

"One for the Emperor, first of us all; One for his Lyctors, who answered the call; One for his Saints, who were chosen of old; One for his Hands, and the swords that they hold."

call me tsuki. lesbian. annie leonhardt ♡ carrd | rules | tags | FAQ

"Two is for discipline, heedless of trial Three for the gleam of a jewel or a smile Four for fidelity, facing ahead"

aot | snk masterlist - complete collection

the road not taken masterlist - annie x reader, “the cottagecore fic”  + extended universe

"Five for tradition and debts to the dead Six for the truth over solace in lies Seven for beauty that blossoms and dies"

recent works ☠︎︎ :

⤷ please be… alive (final)
⤷ otbp - desperation [nsfw]
⤷ the road not taken chapter 9

"Eight for salvation no matter the cost Nine for the Tomb, and for all that was lost"

made by: @marsbutterfly w/ love

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ironinkpen

can't believe there are still people out here in the year 2023 that genuinely think aang should have killed ozai

"even avatar yangchen said—" that's not the POINT, the point is that aang is the LAST airbender the LAST air nomad the LAST person following these teachings, the point is that if he breaks his vows the air nomads will truly die out with him, forever. the point is that the monks taught him all life is sacred and even if ozai is a piece of shit who everyone agrees deserves to die, aang refuses let ozai force him to give up the last thing he has of his people, their lessons, refuses to let ozai wipe the last air nomad from the earth and finish what his horrible family started. the point is that aang beats ozai because his spirit is unbendable, the point is that he takes the man whose ancestors set his on fire and robs him of the ability to hurt anyone ever again, the point is that the Fire Lord ends the fight kneeling before the Last Air Nomad and THAT is the ending aang deserved

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here’s to a liberated palestine and an end to the occupation in 2024، إن شاء الله

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petricorah

me, halfway through listening through a song: hmm this might have otp potential

*restarts song but this time listening with Blorbo Intent

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reblogged

while i'm thinking about intimacy and violence and the ways they intersect there's something so compelling to me about allowing someone to hurt you. seeing someone consumed by their rage and pain so completely that it's burning them up from the inside out and saying you need to set this loose before it destroys you. you need to let it out. so give it to me. i can take it. take it out on me. i'm giving you permission. i want you to hit me as hard as you can, for as long as it takes for you need to. the way it blurs the lines between who is the victim and who is the perpetrator. who is in control and who is bowing to whose power and authority. who is truly dependent on whom.

especially when it's also an act of self-flagellation on both sides - when the person taking the beating is doing so out of a sense of blame - whether relevant to the situation or stemming from a more pathological source - and desire for punishment, and likewise the person delivering it lets their self-control slip and allows themselves to express their violence on someone they might consider a friend, or at the very least undeserving of this kind of brutal treatment, in order to drive their internalized guilt and self-loathing deeper and help it to establish stronger roots. to place themselves entirely in someone else's hands, like a sacrifice being led to slaughter - but who is holding the knife?

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cerleansky

The legacies people leave behind in you.

My handwriting is the same style as the teacher’s who I had when I was nine. I’m now twenty one and he’s been dead eight years but my i’s still curve the same way as his.

I watched the last season of a TV show recently but I started it with my friend in high school. We haven’t spoken in four years.

I make lentil soup through the recipe my gran gave me.

I curl my hair the way my best friend showed me.

I learned to love books because my father loved them first.

How terrifying, how excruciatingly painful to acknowledge this. That I am a jigsaw puzzle of everyone I have briefly known and loved. I carry them on with me even if I don’t know it. How beautiful.

absolutely obsessed with these tags

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