divi divi

what do now????
follow spree.
Reblog or like if you post AC I’m diving neck deep into the fandom.

anonymous asked:

No puedo parar de imaginarme la cara de Capricornio en el cap de "si no fuera ilegal ya estarias muerto", y el trio de fuego estuvo divis divis~(?)

Oh mi querido Capri, tiene mala suerte y en esta historia le toco ser hermano del raro XD
Esa cara, se la imaginara mucho! XDDDS

@divi-ingmyownway who doesn’t think we can make her cry, here’s an idea I’ve been toying with for a bit. (Sorry, but I just had to throw my hat into the ring, sad headcanons are the reason I stay on this site)

Tim Drake never wanted Damian to die, not really anyway. But he’ll admit there were many times when he thought of how much better things were before the little demon showed up. He was Robin, the boy wonder and sort of son to the Batman. He had an older brother who was caring and attentive and a grandfather figure who always was there when he was struggling. And it seemed when Damian came into the picture, he’d lost all of those things. So, yes, while he never wished for Damian’s death, there had been certain bitter nights when he’d wanted nothing more than to get the kid out of his life.

So here he was, he got his wish. Damian was dead and buried in a little plot behind Wayne Manor. Tim had been sitting here for hours, just staring at the lifeless stone that marked the final resting place of the little brother he hadn’t wanted. The funeral had been… rough, seeing Dick upset was one thing but Bruce hadn’t even been able to finish his eulogy before walking off. Not run off, walked off with his back straight and his face blank. He hasn’t come out of the cave since. Tim had avoided coming to visit when anyone else was here, it was too heartbreaking to watch their open grief over the sad little grave. Not with all the terrible thoughts running around in his head.

Tim played anxiously with the roses in his hands, ruining the perfect blooms but that’s what he was good at, right? Ruining things. He’d never gotten along with Damian, the two of them fought constantly. But Dami had been ten years old, he’d been raised under harsh and abusive circumstances. Tim was sixteen, practically an adult, he should have tried better to get along with the newest member of the family. Dick had proved it was possible, giving Damian the love he oftentimes didn’t deserve. The love Tim had so jealously coveted.

He ducks his head so he’s no longer looking at the grave because the shame he feels is too great. No, he hadn’t wished for Damian’s death but through his refusal to try and make it work, Damian went to his grave not knowing he was loved by the brother who often told him that he hated him. Tim didn’t quite realize it either, didn’t understand why he couldn’t stop shaking after hearing the news or why in the day’s following, everything seemed grimmer and bleaker and slower. Without Damian, the Manor no longer seemed like home. He feels the beginnings of (another) panic attack coming and he forces himself to calm down.

His fingers uncurl around the roses placidly and the twisted, mangled roses fall onto the fresh mound of dirt. He stares lifelessly at them for a few moments more before slowly staggering to his feet. He greedily hoards the sharp ache in his legs from sitting for so long. He deserves it, he deserves to feel this guilt and this pain because he’d been a lousy brother. Worse, he’d been so caught up in what he had lost and all of his problems that maybe, just maybe, his selfishness had led to Damian’s death. Would Damian had been so eager to sacrifice himself to the Heretic had he been more assured that he had a place at the Manor? Tim will never know but he does know that the question will haunt him for the rest of his life.

He turns to leave, shuffling away sadly and awkwardly. Another night of silent conversations told in varying shades of grief, of strained smiles in front of others but hushed sobs behind closed doors. Of course the worst part will be Dick's enveloping hugs or Bruce’s absentminded, but caring, shoulder pats. Because now that Damian was gone, Tim was back to being the youngest again, he center of love and support. Only now he didn’t want it, not when the cost was so dreadfully high. He never asked for Damian’s death, never once, not even in the midst of their most heated fights. But as he glances, one last time over his shoulder at the cold grave, he can’t help thinking that it doesn’t matter. His attitude towards Damian while he was alive said things that were so much worse.

He hopes Bruce doesn't take in any more kids after this. Tim had already proven that he wasn’t much of a big brother. He shuts the door and leaves Damian to his final rest.

Kitten season is upon us.

While I wait anxiously for our foster team to bring me a little pair of squeaky fluffy jellybeans, and because @geekandmisandry was being inundated with obtuseness, I present… yet more photos of foster kittens from years past. And with stories.

Acacia (my very first!) discovering her hind foot for the first time… and promptly kicking herself in the face.

Divi-divi, part of my 3rd or 4th pair. One of the most loving little kittens. His sister, Saffron, couldn’t have cared less but Div would *launch* himself at you because he needed to be snuggled right now.

Juniper, from 2012, the prettiest lilac point you ever did meet. And completely silent.

Sedge, Juni’s brother, and the kitten that stole Juni’s meow. You could hear little Sedgewick, at 2 weeks old, from my parking spot on the street. He would do running commentary 24/7. His favorite thing was to sit on the toe of your shoe and scream “MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” at you until you picked him up.

Parsnip, my kitten that I eternally regret giving up for adoption. He had tons of health problems early on (and a fair bit of brain damage) because his first foster mom had no mentor for what she was doing, and while she tried really hard she kinda… did just about everything wrong. Snippet was so people-friendly that he would not eat if he could see people. He wanted love more than food.

And his friend, Rosemary. Unrelated, but singleton kittens are NOT a good idea. Singletons tend to be bitey little shits and veterinary staff dread them. True story. Parsnip, however, possibly because of the brain damage from the iatrogenic hydrocephalus, didn’t understand the idea of biting to play so instead just got beaten up a lot by this lovely little holy terror.

Then I started working at a shelter and went from 2 kittens a year to… well… I fostered 17 last year.

So then we had Turnip, Jicama, Potato and Yam (anyone noting my totes obvious naming theme yet?) This litter was… unique looking. Potato was the only ‘typical kitten. The rest all had the vets and staff making O_o faces back at them. Yam got called an alien.

A Potato.

And a Jicama.

A Turnip.

And a slightly older Yam with her weird tiger-marked face.

So Lady Shiva’s actual origin never actually gets discussed and most people just assume that she’s Chinese and hell the DC writers probably think that too but I disagree. She has to be from an area that has been influenced by Hinduism because of her picking the name Lady Shiva is rooted in the fact that Lord Shiva is Hindu god of destruction.

So basically I’m claiming Lady Shiva as Nepalese or Assamese making Cass half Nepalese or Assamese because frankly Lady Shiva being called that makes more sense that way.

Pleased // Ivy + Derek

Ivy’s day had, so far, been comprised of one surprise after another. First, she had woken up to find Derek not only gone from bed, but from the suite. She’d fallen asleep with him beside her and he’d surprisingly behaved like a gentleman all night, holding her and not trying anything more than that (a surprise in and of itself). Then he’d ordered her favorite breakfast of raspberry and chocolate chip waffles – that was Surprise Number Two – which dampened some of the disappointment she felt from his early departure.

The next surprise was when her agent had called that morning to schedule a last-minute photo shoot before her final concert. She was shocked and confused, until she put the pieces together. After she’d made such a big deal over having her picture taken, Derek had arranged for a photographer her knew to come and take photos of her on stage at the Cafe Carlyle. As thoughtful as it was, she didn’t dwell on his motivations because she knew they weren’t selfless.

Derek wanted…well, he wanted what he always wanted, and Ivy was fine with that. It’s the thought that counts, she repeated to herself as she replied to his very confident, smug texts. And it really is a sweet gesture. 

But she needed to go back to the apartment to get some things for the shoot, and, so, Ivy didn’t resist too much when Derek offered to drive her. She decided he’d earned a reward for his good behavior. There wasn’t much time – she had to get back, dress, and get her hair and makeup done before the shoot – but there would be just enough for a little “rewarding.”

Ivy smiled at the uniformed doorman as she stepped out of the hotel. She stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, squinting out into the street. When she didn’t spot Derek’s sleek, black sports car, she moved out of the way of pedestrian traffic to watch for him.