#My phone HATES IT

[mildarka]

Felt like making a reverted AU

[bloodybellycomb]

[panspy]

i only use tumblr on my phone and i swear ever since those fucking tumblr lives and all the ads and whatever else extra nonsense they added its just become SO. FREAKING. SLOW.

[petricorah]

when your uncle realizes your feelings for your best friend before you do (from @bisexuallsokka) happy prince and the fool day! [ids in alt]

[b1ttersweet-dreams]

[ I WILL BE IN LOVE FOREVER CAUSE IM GONNA DIE TONIGHT ]

close up + alt ver under the cut

look guys v2 is okay yay

[thatswhatsushesaid]

“um, you are actually supposed to hate this character with your whole chest, the text is EXTREMELY clear that he is terrible and you should not like him”

well i like him anyway. what are you going to do about it, tell my mom?

[skydaemon]

kabru as a psych student who KNOWS about ethics guidelines and KNOWS he's not qualified to make diagnostic statements and therefore spends every moment with laios grinding his teeth to dust because HOW DOES THIS MAN THINK HE'S NEUROTYPICAL!??!?!?

[peachebo]

Happy birthday, Cassie

[turtletoria]

i love you weird girls . if anyone is mean to you destroy them

[luffyadolover]

@acid-ixx here it is :))

(excluding first three drawings)

first drawing:

dick's excuse would always be "sorry, baby bird! but i promised to spar with damian today. ah, but you can watch from the sidelines!" or he would be too busy saving bludhaven to even acknowledge your presence.

second drawing:

you can't deny the bitterness and the clenching of your teeth whenever you stumble upon a room and see your father and your younger brother watching a movie together.

third drawing:

it was your teachers who would be the one having to walk you up the stage whenever you achieved an award. alfred would be too busy sometimes to attend your school ceremonies because he had to assist bruce with missions.

fourth drawing:

it's ironic, really, for a child to prep and plan for their own celebration just to hope that a single member of their family to even walk by the kitchen and join them in on their already lonesome celebration.

too bad everybody only goes to the kitchen when alfred cooks for them. who would want to taste sadness in a sloppily made birthday cake, right? nobody, not even you would have the appetite to eat your cake with the knowledge that it was you who had to put all the effort to bake it because you didn't want alfred to feel obligated to.

fifth drawing:

your family celebrates holidays together as a whole, but you never once attended after that one time where everybody had forgotten to get you a gift for christmas, save for alfred who gave you a bracelet (one that you cherished deeply).

sixth drawing:

the older sibling who he used to threaten with his sword, who he called vile names — a bastard child, he told you one day.

seventh drawing:

you weren't one of his friends, like kon who he would spend weekly video game challenges with; and you probably don't exist as his sibling in his own little world filled with coffee and computers.

eighth drawing:

casual talks are unavoidable, though, when at the dead of the night he would be caught sneaking in to eat some leftovers and you were conveniently awake at the same time as him. he'll recommend you some classic literature he read or 'cafes/restaurants that criminals visit the least' lists, but before it would turn into a full conversation, jason would already be wearing his signature mask again, and with a pat on your head and a "talk to you soon, can't guarantee it'll be tomorrow again though, only here for alfred's meals of course," and he'll be gone. you shouldn't have let your hopes high, you wished you didn't because, duh! he wasn't there to talk to you, specifically. you were just there to bide his time! wiping tears away from your eyes

[proximacalamity]

tbob got me on that billdip mood again, have some doodles

[vivienvalentino]

STACEY DASH — Clueless, 1995 costume design: Mona May

[jeanmoreausautismstickers]

the most unfortunate thing about Neil josten is he likely just. fucking sits there on a plane.

no blanket, no pillow. he doesn't nap, he doesn't carry books because they don't fit in his little bad, he doesn't play on his phone or computer

he just sits and stares ominously at the back of the seat in front of him. the whole time.

[starry-bi-sky]

(Part of this post with older brother danyal al ghul)

...Okay, look. Sam knows she's staring. She knows very well that she is staring. And that if she doesn't stop staring it's gonna draw her unwanted attention, and that will only have to make her explain why she's staring. Which she doesn't want to do.

She's trying not to stare, which she thinks she should get brownie points for. She tries to look away, to find a spot on the wall to stare lifelessly at, maybe she can burn holes into some of these annoying socialites' heads. But eventually her eyes drift, and suddenly she's back to staring again.

Can you blame her though? Damian Wayne looks like a very close mini-me of her fucking best friend. Seriously, it's like looking into a mirror to the past. If that mirror to the past had green eyes rather than blue and a distinctive lack of a facial scar.

The first time she sees him when her parents drag her over to Bruce Wayne to butter up to him she has to do a doubletake. Then a triple take. Then a quadruple take, just for good measure that she was seeing what she was actually seeing. She was sure she looked like one of those stress toys that when squeezed had their eyes pop out comically like a Saturday morning cartoon, that's what she certainly felt like anyways.

Look, Danny's come a decent way from being that scowl-y, jerkish little ten year old she first met when he arrived like the wind to Amity Park five years ago (even if he was still occasionally scowl-y and jerkish), but one thing that's stayed the same is how reserved he is about his home life prior to being taken in by the Fentons.

He doesn't talk about it much, and Sam's come to know that he's very good at changing the subject when it gets brought up. Even after being friends for nearly four years, the only thing she and Tuck know for certain is that he has a little brother that he refers to as 'starlight', whom he cares a lot about but left on really bad terms with. And that he's never met his father, but wants to and knows who he is.

He's never told her or Tucker who he was though, and glancing at Bruce Wayne, Sam is realizing why. She can begrudgingly acknowledge all the good he's done for Gotham, but... well, if Danny told her that Bruce Wayne was his dad, she wouldn't have believed him at all.

But she's starting to see the resemblance, as subtle as it is.

And she sees the resemblance to Damian Wayne, her eyes dropping back down to him as he wears a very Danny-like scowl on his face, arms crossed behind his back as his eyes swept around the ballroom. He was five years younger than Danny, and god it was so, so weird.

His eyes turned on to her, and they locked gazes for a moment.

Involuntarily, Sam makes a startled noise and looks away. Fingers tap against her purse, black and purple and unfortunately a clutch that only held her phone and her wallet in it. She would have kept a knife on her, but her parents put their foot down and there was a security detail at the door. Only in Gotham.

Silently, she was hoping that the little Danny-me didn't say anything. Or at least, he hadn't noticed her staring. Which was a tall order if she ever heard one -- and unfortunately, her silent prayers went unanswered as her mother's eyes dropped down onto her.

"Did you say something, Samantha?" She asks in a sickeningly sweet voice, a sound that makes Sam's skin crawl. Her dad and Bruce Wayne's attention also turns onto her, and she glowers at her mom from the corner of her eye.

"I didn't say anything." Sam says, barely keeping her tone polite as she turned her head away. Her mother clucks her tongue, disapproving, but from her peripherals doesn't pester her more

Bruce Wayne, the bastard, takes that time to turn to Sam and grace her with his dime-a-dozen billboard smiles. "I've been talking with your parents this whole time, Miss Manson, you must be terribly bored. How is your schooling going?"

Sam eyes him up and down. On one hand, she immediately wants to be snarky. It's none of his business what her school life is like, she doesn't care for his fucking small talk.

On the other hand, this was Danny's whole father. Someone who she knows that Danny has wanted to meet for, what she's assuming, his whole life. He's never brought it up much, but she remembers that very quiet, solemn conversation she and Tucker had with him where he admits to having never met his dad. But god does he want to.

And... wait. Sam's eyes narrow, and she meets Bruce Wayne's eyes. Does this man even know Danny exists? She drops her gaze down to Damian, who was staring at her suspiciously, and then back up to Bruce, and she alternates between them.

Why was Damian living with Bruce, but not Danny? Why hasn't Bruce done anything to reach out to him - what was going on with Danny's biological family that Danny had to be separated from them, but not Damian? Danny's always been kinda mysterious, but now things weren't adding up.

Was Danny given up? Does Bruce just not want Danny, but wanted Damian? Why the fuck does Bruce Wayne know about Damian but not her best friend -- or does he know and just not care? He's fought for custody for his adoptive kids before, does he just not want to fight for his other biological son? Does he think Danny's not worth it?

She's never cared much about the Wayne family before, other than to hear about the advancements on WE's eco-friendly tech, but Sam thinks she's gonna have to look into why Damian Wayne was living with the Waynes.

Slowly, with a protective anger beginning to burn in her gut and crawl up her throat, a scowl slowly curls at the corner of her lip as she redirects her glare from her mother onto Bruce. "It's going fine," She says curtly, jutting her chin out defiantly. "Me and my friend Danny started a petition to fix the leaky faucets in the girls and boys' bathrooms in order to conserve more water for the rest of the city."

She eyes his face, waiting to see if anything like recognition flashes through it. And- and nothing. Sam breathes in slowly through her nose, trying to quell the red that's blurring the edge of her vision -- does he just, not know where Danny is?

Her parents however, make vaguely displeased expressions. "Our Samantha is... quite passionate about her pet projects." Her dad says, laughing low and nervously, "she's very vocal about silly things like that."

"Her friend Daniel is perhaps even worse than she is sometimes." Her mother adds on, fanning her face with her perfectly manicured hands with a sigh. "I swear, he's the one that keeps dragging her into these things."

Sam's anger turns on its head, and she whirls on her heel like a fire-breathing dragon. "It's Danyal." It rolls out like instinct. Danny's told them both that he hates the Americanized pronunciation of his name, but in a rare moment of restraint, puts up with it for reasons unknown to her. "And Danny doesn't make me do anything, it was my idea."

The name, Danyal, seems to ring some kind of bell in Brucie Wayne's head, because she sees him and Damian quietly perk up like two cats pricking up their ears. Her eyes flick onto him immediately, something dangerous rearing its head. So Bruce Wayne knows about Danny. And he's not reaching out to him. Is he? She's not sure.

She does know that she's gonna rip his throat out if she finds out that he's known about Danny this entire time and has been ignoring him while favoring his little brother. She'll hunt down Aragon herself and steal his dragon-shifting amulet and wreck house on Bruce Wayne if that's the case. Batman and his league of vigilantes be damned. Her parents don't notice her slowly turning head towards Bruce.

But Bruce does, and she makes direct eye contact with him. His smile doesn't falter, he just tilts his head like a curious puppy and looks at Sam's parents. She hopes Bruce can read minds, she hopes he can hear her threatening him.

"Danyal?" He asks, and Sam doesn't know if she hates the fact that he said it correctly or not. She just continues burning holes into him and hoping he might spontaneously combust.

Her mother waves her hand dismissively, tilting her nose up poshly into the air. "Our dear Samantha's little... foster friend from school," she says, not even bothering to hide her disdain, "a creepy little boy with the most garish scar on his face. He's a rude little thing, not good for polite company."

Scratch that, Sam mentally alternates between ripping into her parents and Bruce. She whirls on them. "Do not talk about Danny that way." She all but snarls, and they all but ignore her.

(She's tearing up the upholstery when she gets home. She's going to paint over the fine china. She's going to do something to make them pay for this.)

"Oh yes, he was taken in by that freaky Fenton family a few years ago." Her dad continues in lieu of her mom, and they both shake their heads disapprovingly. "It's just what our city needs, another menace."

"Danny is not a menace." Sam continues, raising her voice while her hands shake with rage. Her parents finally look at her, but she can already tell that they're going to scold her for raising her voice. She bulldozes over them and jabs her black-painted finger at them. "He's got a bigger heart than the both of you combined."

"Samantha, please." her mom says, exasperated. They both give her disapproving looks, Sam thinks about grabbing champagne off the tray of a nearby waiter and throwing it in their faces. "You defend that boy far too much. What do you actually know about him and his family?"

Sam sets her jaw, puffing herself up like a dragon protecting its hoard. She steps into her mom's space. "I know that he loves the stars; you can ask him anything about astronomy and he could give you an entire lecture on the formation, class types, and various gasses that stars are made up of. He can tell you how the Earth was formed, he can tell you about the visible light spectrum and about light curves, and a whole ton of other stuff that I don't really understand. But Danny loves talking about it."

Her face twists and scowls, "I know he cares a ton about the environment and about fixing light pollution, and preserving the forests and natural habitats of animals." She nearly jabs her finger into her mom's chest, "I know he loves dogs, and that there's one he feeds every day on the way to school that he calls Cujo, its a St. Bernard puppy and Danny carries him around whenever he sees him after school, and is in the middle of training him."

It's not a total lie, but it's not the whole truth either. Cujo doesn't need food, but Danny gives him it anyways. "I know he likes spicy food and loves movies but specifically only sci-fi and horror, and he hates most martial arts movies. His favorite superhero is the Martian Manhunter, but Batman comes in at a close second." For reasons to her that were pretty unknown, but it didn't matter.

"I know he loves wordplay and making puns, which I would have never expected from him when we first met, but it's so unbelievably Danny-like that I can't imagine him not making puns." And she smiles a little to herself, she remembers the first time Danny intentionally made a pun once and it got startled laughs out of both her and Tucker.

Her smile suddenly falters, and she swallows. Her lips purse up, wobbling, and she very quickly glances over to Damian Wayne, of whom is watching her with a vaguely bewildered expression alongside Bruce.

She turns her eyes back onto her parents. "And I know that he worries a lot, even if he has a shit way of showing it. I know he had a little brother that he hasn't seen since he was adopted by the Fentons, and he doesn't talk about him often but when he does he he calls him 'starlight'." From the corner of her eye, she sees Damian jerk.

"So- so, so what if he's not 'good for polite company'." Sam's voice, embarrassingly, cracks down the middle. But she's so angry over Danny's behalf that she doesn't really care. "Or that he can be mean, and critical, and stubborn. He's learning, and he's becoming kinder by the day. That's more than I can say about you."

(She remembers when Danny finally admitted to her and Tucker being his 'closest friends'. It was sometime before the portal incident, and it felt like a milestone because beforehand he only really referred to them as his companions or allies.)

(At the time, he'd looked unsure of himself. Skittish like a stray in the back of an alleyway, almost shy in his own way. It had come out stilted, slow, like an infant taking its first steps, and it would have been endearing if it hadn't been heartbreaking.)

Her parents rear back like she'd struck them, and her mother holds a hand against her chest in aghast. Sam doesn't care, she blinks the sting out of her eyes. "Samantha." Her mother starts.

Sam cuts her off, "I don't care what you have to say, you-- you pricks." she snaps, around her, there are gasps. Belatedly, she realizes she's grown an audience, but again she doesn't care. "Danny might be an asshole, but he cares. And I'd rather be around someone whose mean but cares, than someone whose nice but doesn't."

With that, she whirls on her foot and turns on Bruce Wayne, who has been silent the entire time with a surprised expression on his face. He starts to shake out of it when Sam turns to him, but she doesn't give him the chance to speak. "Enjoy your party." She snarls, and then stalks away.

[skzms]

thinking about pampering minho and kissing his ouchys and treating him like a princess until he feels better :((((((((

-gimmeurtmi

can i combine these two a lil because 😭 i wanna kiss him so badlyyyy

“I told you I’m fine.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Sure, now say it like you actually want me to believe it,” you scoffed.

Minho’s face drew into a scowl he swallowed his retort, just watched you rub the cream into his aching wrist. When you accidentally ever so slightly bent it in the wrong direction in the process, he hissed, but immediately straightened, trying to play it off. Dammit.

But to his surprise you didn’t gloat, didn’t give him a look that said ‘I told you so’. No, you just lifted his hand to your lips and pressed a feather-light kiss to his fingers, whispering gentlest, “sorry, baby.”

He watched you intently, how your soft lips grazed his skin, how your lashes cast gentle shadows over your cheeks, how gently you held his wrist. When you straightened up, he immediately looked away.

“You don’t have to do this, the cream smells like shit,” he murmured petulantly, his stare burning holes into his stupid achy wrist.

“I don’t care,” you said simply as you put his hand back into his own leg. Minho’s heart seized painfully in his chest when you suddenly got up and walked towards the door. Were you gonna leave? Surely not just like this, right. You’d say goodbye. You’d kiss him. He didn’t want you to leave.

None of those thoughts were formulated into a coherent thought, his mouth opening and closing stupidly as he watched you walk out. Then he heard the bathroom sink running and he breathed out a sigh of relief. His heart was still hammering in his chest. He was so not fine.

You realised something was wrong as soon as you got back to his room and closed the door behind you.

“Did you think I was just going to leave you?” you asked gently as you walked back over to him, carding your hand through his still wet hair. He grimaced. Did you also somehow learn to read his goddamn mind. Absentmindedly, he raised his head but he immediately knew he was fucked when he met your eyes, all big and soft and comforting. All the frustration bubbled over and a fat tear rolled down his cheek.

Your eyes widened and you brought your other hand to cup his cheeks and then he started crying properly.

“It hurt so bad during the performance when the bandage came off,” he mumbled, wincing when you pulled away from him.

“Shh, it’s okay, keep talking, I’ll just get the bed ready, okay?” you said with a soft kiss to the crown of his head. So he did, he kept talking as he watched you move around the room, drawing the blinds and turning off the big light and getting water from the mini fridge.

“It felt like someone was stabbing a knife into it and it made me so paranoid, like what if I was making it irreparably worse, you know. But that’s not even the worst part. I didn’t want anyone to know I was injured because I know how they get and …”

He squeezed his eyes shut. A quiet whisper of his name ripped him from his thoughts and he turned around to where you had slid into bed, patting the spot next to you. He obeyed wordlessly, crawling into the soft sheets and scooting closer into your warmth. He looked into your eyes for a second, but then threw his arm around your waist dipped his head down until it was resting in the crook of your neck. It was easier to talk like this, when he didn’t have the chance to see and overthink every one of your reactions.

“I just feel like I’ve constantly been … broken. Good for nothing,” he mumbled and his eyes started burning again. A silent tear rolled from his eyes and into the material of your shirt. One of your hands started soothingly rubbing up and down his back.

“Like, first, it was the whole thing at the VMAs, then that car accident, and now … this. And this one was all my fault as well …”

He trailed off, the hand that had been resting on your shirt slowly balling into a fist.

“And then everyone keeps telling me I seem cold – I just … I can’t do anything right,” his chest tightened and he tried to hold back a sob, but when he said the next words, his voice broke pathetically. “And my wrist really fucking hurts.”

You didn’t say anything, just brought your arms around him to cradle him into your chest and he … let go. Let go of all of the shitty feelings he had been bottling up for the last days in order to get through the performances. He still tried to hold back his sobs, but there was no holding back the tears.

After what felt like forever, his eyes finally dried up. His face felt hot and simultaneously dry and sticky from where he had been burying in the material of your shirt for so long. He wanted to pull back, to wipe the his eyes but … he probably looked like shit. A lot worse than you had ever seen him look. But his neck was aching and his cheek was wet and …

When he lifted his head he met your eyes and you were smiling at him softly, but not pityingly.

“Do you want me to get you some painkillers?” you asked gently and it took him a few seconds to process your question, the natural follow up to the last thing he said before his tears had started overflowing. This was an easy question, he could do this. He nodded. You smiled at him again and threw back the covers to leave. A primal kind of panic ripped through Minho and before he could control himself he had wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you against him with a whine. He buried his burning face in your shoulder, too embarrassed to look at you but too needy to let go.

Your whole chest shook as you chuckled.

“I just need to go to your dresser and get them, baby,” you whispered with a sweet kiss to his hair, “I’ll be back in two seconds.”

Minho pulled back only enough to pout up at you. Your eyes softened even further, something he hadn’t thought was possible. You caressed his cheek softly and he felt like if he was a cat, he would’ve started purring.

“You can count. Count to three and I’ll be back, yeah?” you chuckled and slowly extricated yourself from his arms. He leaned back and watched as you sat up, the material of your sleep shirt riding up to expose the soft skin of your waist. He shivered at the absence of your warmth.

He briefly considered just counting very fast, but he the thought of the kind of bickering that would lead to was enough to make his bones ache with tiredness.

So he counted. One. You got up and walked to the dresser. Two. You opened the top drawer and rooted around until you found the painkillers. Three. You skipped back the bed in a hurry and dove under the covers with a giggle.

“See?” you said breathlessly, triumphantly, eyes sparkling in the dim light as you gave him a giddy smile, and he couldn’t help the matching one pulling at his own lips. You held the medicine out to him.

“Take one and we can cuddle.”

He didn’t even nod, just took one of the pills and washed it down with water. When he turned back, you opened your arms for him and he slid back into your warm embrace, his head coming to rest on your chest. Usually he was the one cuddling you and he wondered if this is how you always felt. So safe and sheltered and … happy.

Your hand returned to his his head, tangling into his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. The other was rubbing up and down the arm he had slung over your waist.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about it,” you started and he stiffened slightly. Truth be told he didn’t know what he wanted, but the thought of the outside world made him bury himself deeper into the comforting warmth of your body.

“But I want to say: I think you’re being very hard on yourself, much harder than you would be on anyone else.”

You were probably right.

“Like, if Jisung or Jeongin were in your position, would you say they could never do anything right? Would you tell them it was their fault?”

Minho scoffed, his fingers slipping under the fabric of your shirt, finding the soft warmth of your skin. His eyes were growing heavy, exhaustion pulling at his bones.

“Of course not, these things just happen,” he mumbled and then sighed. Fuck, you were right.

You just hummed, but didn’t say anything else, dragging your fingertips through his hair and tangling your legs with his.

Minho listened to your heartbeat until it evened out and only then did he pull back enough to look into your eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered and you gave him another sweet smile, rubbing your nose against his gently. He tipped his chin forward and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you gently, reverently, gratefully.

“Always.”

Minho kissed your lips again before he tucked his head back into your neck.

His eyes fluttered shut and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

🔖 general taglist: follow and turn on notifications for my library account: @skzms-library 🔞 I monitor ages over there, just like I used to do with my taglist. I will block minors and ageless blogs, and you'll have to message me again to get unblocked. so just have your age in your bio before you follow!

[that-vampire-loser]

Andrew minyards closet is FULL. he’s the complete opposite of Neil, loves shopping, loves buying clothes (and buying neil clothes).

And what does neil do? Instead of wearing the clothes Andrew buys him, he just wears Andrew’s clothes