#I feel like I'm 8 years old

[bruceawaynefrfr]

WE ARE SO BACK

[can-of-slorgs]

Completed the Shenkuu Stamp collection some time ago, so it was only fair to draw my girl Mirsha

[kirby-the-gorb]

[sirenium]

'your identity is stupid to me, so it doesn't exist and isn't valid' is bigotry no matter whose mouth it comes out of. You are not immune to being a bigot if you, yourself are queer. watch yourself.

[bugmistake]

sometimes its so crazy to realize that there's actually a lot of things i like. that i thought i didn't like because i was a depressed teenager. i love being outside! i love swimming! i love talking to people! even strangers sometimes! i love getting dressed in fun outfits and doing makeup! i love reading and going to art museums! i just thought i was doomed forever to a life of complete and total apathy and void! and now look at me! still a little shaky but i'm doing it!!!!!

[icewindandboringhorror]

More misc. daily life pictures and such

[non-un-topo]

Kind of obsessed with this nickname actually

[iwonderwh0]

If there's one thing to thank anti hankcon discourse it's for the folks around their thirties gathering to tell the teens that they are, in fact, adult enough to decide for themselves who to fuck with and that they do, in fact, find older people attractive.

(And also collectively asking folks in their teens-to-early 20s to stop using the word p*dophilia when talking about literal 30+ years olds.)

Like really, throwing this words in relation to adults downplays its actual weight in its actual fucking meaning, and this is really scary. Age gap might be a controversial topic but not anywhere near it is a matter of comparable scale to what the word ped*philia stands for. Don't turn this word into a buzzword, I'm begging you.

[cacw]

her dad HATES her! local girl causes her sister's death with one weird trick

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

I hate when I get into these phases when once I process through one thing causing me anxiety there's another thing right behind it

[sage-nebula]

when I was getting my tattoo on Saturday my artist kept telling me like, "It's okay if you need to tap out, I won't be pissed or think less of you, we can come back to finish in another session," because honestly for this particular tattoo the pain was severe and about halfway through I started involuntarily cringing and squeezing the pillow I was laying on very hard and other such involuntary shows of how much pain I was in. (such as flinching hard when she had to wipe excess ink / blood / plasma away, because good god somehow the damp paper towel felt worse than the needle.)

but each time I refused. "the only way out is through," I said. nearer the end I said, "if you need to tap out though, I understand" because she had to put on a brace for her back because of the angle at which she had to be hunched over to finish the tattoo. but she didn't tap out either.

anyway I saw a meme with Shadow the Hedgehog that was like, "stop DMing me that 'are you ok' shit, obviously I'm not but we move" and my immediate thought was, "me @ my artist during my tattoo session on Saturday."

[ichorblossoms]

one of the fun things about being an art teacher is that you can use your ocs in your example projects and no one can stop you

[jmflowers]

prompt party returns (maybe? I'm trying)

shout out to my niece for hitting us with a gem like this for the inspiration... little minds are a trip

more of this universe (expanded) can be found on AO3 here or check out all the tumblr versions here

prompt #23: you found a way to stay next to me, in my blood and in my bones (Everywhere I Go by Wild Rivers)

May 2025

It starts with a gasp, sheets clinging to sweat-covered skin as she sputters awake in the dark of their bedroom. She crawls to the edge of the bed like she's drowning, swimming desperately for a shore just beyond her reach.

“Carina,” Maya calls in the distance, warm hands reaching out to soothe.

But her body remembers, the things that her mind shuts away. Her body shies away from the touch, curling into itself as she drops to the bedroom floor.

It always remembers.

~

            “Do you want to talk about it?” Maya asks over breakfast, cutting up pancakes for their toddler. He huffs impatiently as he watches her, little fingers grasping the edges of his highchair in anticipation.

Carina shrugs, placing his sippy cup of water in front of him as a distraction. “It was just a bad dream, Maya,” she placates.

“It’s a recurring bad dream,” her wife argues.

“Dream,” their son echoes, clapping his hands as the plate of pancakes finally arrives on his highchair tray.

They don’t mention the date on the calendar, that it’s always this week of the year. That it’s still grief, after all these years, making it hard to sleep.

~

            His picture is on the shelves in the living room, looking down over the space where their son plays with his toys in the stretching rays of afternoon light. Cars and dinosaurs and piles of books, enjoyed and discarded haphazardly across the carpet.

Carina sits beside him on the floor, watching as he navigates the placement of puzzle pieces, no longer needing assistance. For once, her mind doesn’t drift to how to challenge their son further. Instead, her eyes wander to a familiar frame.

To a familiar smile.

“Do you know who this is?” she asks, reaching for the picture.

Their son is smart – perhaps exceptionally so – and his growing vocabulary lends well to learning names. Amidst the numbers and letters and colours, he’s started identifying the people that he loves in the photos hung around their home.

He looks up when Carina places the frame in front of him, looking carefully at the curly hair and light eyes he shares with his namesake. “Yeah,” he murmurs, offering up his little palm, “Hold me hand.”

Instinctively, Carina reaches out to fill the request, ready to slip her fingers into his own. But their son pulls away.

“No,” their Andrea says, shaking his head, “He do.”

“Oh,” Carina breathes, swallowing around the lump forming in her throat. “He can’t, piccolino,” she whispers, looking down at the smiling image of her younger brother. She touches the cleft in his chin, feels the tears welling in her eyes.

“When me scared,” Andrea declares, crawling into her lap. He taps the photo, too, looking up at his mother expectantly. “He hold me hand.”  

~

            The dream is different that night. She doesn’t wake with a gasp, covered in sweat. She doesn’t hear her own screams or feel the blood.

Instead, she sees her brother.

Holding hands with her son.

[kasumingo]

"art is good if it condemns bad things" and y'all can even fucking tell apart glorification from condemnation the majority of the time if the characters don't break the fourth wall and hammer it into you

[violetstrations]

[ID: two digital paintings of Nijisanji-EN'S Ver Vermillion and Cer Cerulean. The first takes place inside a forest during the day. They are both noticeably young. Cer sits on the left side of a log as he adjusts Ver's long hair, who is sitting on the ground in front of Cer, holding his knees to his chest. The artist's watermark is to the left of them. The second takes place long after the first one. The sun is setting. Ver curls into himself on the right side of the log, with a knife by his left. On the other end of the log is his red necklace, glowing. Surrounding him are chopped-off locks of his hair. The artist's watermark is by the necklace. End ID]

bundle up darling, you've made this bed, now

sleep in it soundly if you can

[nowendil]

.