#interact with me y’all!

[peocokruu]

The whatever-melon fruit that Kagome got from her world was damm good! All of sudden he couldn’t shake off the feeling of gratitude building on his chest, and to both of their surprises he said with not too many thought -

“Kagome… thank you for all you do”

[hardcore-evil-regal]

Watch me try to single handedly revive the OUAT fandom.

Where are my Regina stans at 👀

[childrenofcain-if]

D fighting that Cornell player for us 👁️🫦👁️ I need them to fight for us more, I need their knucles bloody and torn so I can kiss them better 💋

A scenario for this, dear Author?

you liked walking with D like this. their strides, usually slow and lazy, matched yours naturally, and their occasional teasing comments—softened by a warm laugh—made the cold bite of the evening feel less obvious. the faint scent of whiskey clung to them and they seemed to have a spring in their step.

“you good?” they asked, glancing at you.

“yeah,” you said, smiling. “that was pretty fun.”

they grinned, bumping their shoulder against yours. “see? i told you it’d be better than staying in.”

the black dog had been crowded, the drinks a little too watered down, but it didn’t matter. it wasn’t about the drinks. it was about the way D’s shoulder brushed against yours at the bar, how they’d leaned in close to hear you better over the music. it was the way their hand lingered either on your arms and back as you weaved through the throng of students.

the night was nearly perfect, which made what happened next feel like the universe had overcorrected.

it was a group of students—four of them, maybe a little older than you, their laughter laced with too much liquor and too little sense. they were from yale, too. you recognized a couple of faces in the dim light but didn’t know their names.

D ignored them, at least at first.

“aw, look at them,” one of them jeered, his voice dripping with something sour. “did someone finally put a leash on you, diaconu?”

you felt the tension coil in D immediately. their shoulders tightened, their hands clenched into fists. you grabbed their arm instinctively, trying to keep them moving.

“just ignore them,” you hissed warningly. “they’re drunk idiots.”

D didn’t respond, but they kept walking. for a moment, you thought that was the end of it.

but the next comment shattered that fragile hope.

“what’s the deal with you two, anyway?” another one of them slurred. “you screwing, or are they just too much of a loser to get anyone else?”

D stopped so abruptly you almost collided with them.

“D,” you said sharply, your voice low and urgent, “don’t. they’re not worth it.”

but they weren’t listening.

D spun on their heel, their eyes blazing as they closed the distance between them and the group. “what the fuck did you just say, shithead?”

the guy laughed, hiccupping a little as his friends egged him on. “i said—”

the punch landed squarely on his jaw before he could finish, the sickening crack reverberating in the stillness of the evening air like a goddamn firework.

the guy staggered back, clutching his jaw, his eyes wide with the slow shock of pain. it might’ve ended there, but his friends surged forward like a wave, all elbows and fury, and suddenly it wasn’t a single punch—it was a maelstrom of fists.

D didn’t hesitate. their movements were quick, precise, as if some dormant, feral instinct had taken over. they ducked a wild swing from the second guy, pivoting with a speed that left the drunk assailant off-balance. D’s fist collided with his ribs, and you could almost hear the breath being forced out of his lungs, a guttural wheeze that cut through the din.

but there were too many of them. four was too many, even for D, and you could see the tide turning. the third guy lunged, his arm catching D around the middle, dragging them lopsidedly. for a moment, D faltered, their body twisting under the weight of the sudden tackle, and then another pair of fists swung toward their face.

“no!” you shouted, the word ripped from your throat, but it didn’t do anything. it was swallowed by the scuffle, lost in the heavy breaths and the dull thud of fists meeting flesh.

you ran forward, panic hammering in your chest, and grabbed at the closest arm you could reach, desperate to pull them off D. but the guy was drunker than you, angrier than you, and he twisted with a surprising speed. his elbow shot out, and you barely registered the movement before it connected with your cheek.

pain exploded across your face—a sharp, electric jolt that made you fall back, clutching your cheek as the world tilted. you felt your eyes water while your vision started to swim, not so much from crying as it was from the sheer force of the blow.

something seemed to completely snap inside D when they saw you fall.

their face, already bruised and bloodied, twisted into something unrecognizable—pure, incandescent rage. it wasn’t the playful, teasing D you knew; it was something vengeful, a darker version of them you’d never seen before.

“i’ll fucking kill you all!” they roared, their voice a guttural snarl that echoed off the buildings.

they threw themself at the guy who’d hit you, their fists flying in a blur of movement. one punch landed squarely on his nose, and you saw blood spray, staining his white t-shirt red. the guy staggered, his hands flying to his face, but D didn’t stop.

the others tried to intervene, but D moved like a storm, wild and relentless. they ducked under a clumsy swing, landing a blow to the side of one guy’s head that sent him reeling. another lunged at them from behind, but D twisted sharply, their elbow connecting with their collarbone with enough force to make it crack.

blood and spit flew, the wet sounds of impact making you wince. one of the guys screamed, but it was cut short as D’s fist connected with his throat, and another’s head snapped back as they landed a brutal uppercut. a few teeth now glinted on the pavement, stark and white against the dark.

it wasn’t clean or choreographed; it was a tangle of bodies and fists and snarled curses. blood splattered onto the pavement, dark and slick, and you weren’t sure how much of it was D’s.

their knuckles were raw and split, but they didn’t seem to notice. or maybe they didn’t care. every time one of the guys landed a blow—a glancing punch to D’s side, a scrape across their cheek—they retaliated tenfold. their movements were driven by emotions beyond anger now, primal protectiveness bleeding over.

the fight seemed to last forever and no time at all. the guys were stumbling now, their earlier bravado drained, their movements sluggish and uncoordinated. one of them was already retreating, limping down the street with a hand pressed to his side.

and then the others followed, their faces pale and bruised, casting nervous glances over their shoulders as they fled. the last one hesitated, his face twisted in defiance, but a single step forward from D sent him scrambling after his friends.

silence fell, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the sound of D’s labored breathing. they were standing in the middle of the street, their chest heaving, blood dripping from their split lip onto the pavement.

you couldn’t move. couldn’t speak. all you could do was stare at them, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs.

they turned to you then, and the fury in their eyes softened, replaced by something you couldn’t quite name. concern. fear. relief.

“are you okay?” they asked, their voice rough and trembling.

you nodded, though your cheek throbbed and your heart was still racing. “i’m fine. but you—”

and all you could think, absurdly, was that they looked way worse than you.

“god, D,” you muttered, grabbing their arm. “we need to get you cleaned up.”

they tried to wave you off with a lopsided grin. “i’ll be alright, they’ll heal.”

“yeah no, you’re not letting the wounds stay like that on my watch,” you snapped, dragging them toward the nearest pharmacy.

***

D’s POV

D’s knuckles burned like hellfire, every movement of their fingers sending sharp needles of pain up their arm, but they didn’t care. it was all worth it.

they memory of that guy’s elbow slamming into your cheek replayed in their head like a film reel, grainy and ugly, until the anger swelled up again, hot and alive under their skin. they had never been the type to hold back—not when it came to you, and not when it came to anyone stupid enough to think they could hurt you.

but now, sitting on this damn bench outside a pharmacy, D was starting to regret not dodging more. their entire face felt like it had been dragged through gravel, and their lip was cracked so badly that blood kept pooling in the corner of their mouth no matter how many times they wiped it away.

you were fussing over them like a mother hen with an edge of impatience, snapping at them when they flinched or tried to shrug you off. it should have annoyed them—normally it would have—but it didn’t. it didn’t because it was you.

“stop squirming,” you said sharply, pressing a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol against the raw mess of their knuckles. the sting was immediate, searing, and D hissed through their teeth.

“jesus, you trying to finish me off?” they muttered, leaning back against the bench.

“stop being such a baby,” you shot back, not even looking up. “you can take a hundred punches, but alcohol’s too much for you?”

D pouted. “i told you it’ll heal fine on its own.”

that earned them a glare, one that should have been threatening but was softened by the way your brow furrowed in concentration. D didn’t say anything else, just watched you as you worked—watched the way your hands moved with gentleness, as well as a slight tremble of worry for them.

they liked your hands very much, they’d decided. fine-boned and nimble, like a pianist of some sort. they belonged upon ivory keys, not atop their calloused hands and knuckles.

“stay still,” you muttered, and D obeyed, for once. it wasn’t the alcohol or the bruises that had them quiet, though. it was you. it was the way you leaned in, so close that they could see the faintest flicker of concern in your eyes, even as you grumbled about scars and consequences.

“this’ll definitely leave a mark,” you said, mostly to yourself, as you began wrapping their knuckles in bandages.

“good,” D said, the word slipping out before they could think about it. you looked up, startled, and they added, “makes me look tougher, y’know?”

you rolled your eyes so hard they thought they might get stuck like that in the back of your head. “or stupider.”

“i’ll call them my battle scars,” they said smugly, even as you tugged the bandage tighter than necessary.

you huffed but didn’t reply, just kept working, your movements brisk but careful. and then you did something that completely shattered D’s composure: you kissed their knuckles.

it was barely a touch, just the softest brush of your lips against the bandages, but it felt like a seismic event. D froze, their entire body going still as their brain scrambled to make sense of what had just happened.

“what the hell was that for?” they asked, their voice quieter than they meant it to be.

you didn’t look at them. your cheeks felt hot, and you mumbled something about “speedy recovery” before returning to their other hand. D just stared at you, their heart doing something inconvenient and unexplainable in their chest.

the world felt small suddenly. just the two of you on this bench, the distant hum of cars, the faint glow of the pharmacy sign overhead. it was stupid. it was nothing.

no, it was everything.

when you finished wrapping their hands, you moved on to their face, dabbing at the split in their lip with a tenderness that made D feel like they might unravel. you didn’t say anything, and neither did they, but the silence between you wasn’t empty.

it was full of everything they couldn’t bring themself to say.

you frowned as you inspected the bruise forming on their cheek, your fingers hovering for a moment before pulling back. D watched you, their gaze tracing the lines of your face, the pair of your full lips, the starry depth of your eyes, the slight furrow in your brow.

“you’re quiet,” you said finally, breaking the spell.

D shrugged, and then winced because that hurt too. “thinking.”

“about what?”

“you.”

the word hung in the air, heavier than it had any right to be. you looked up, surprised, and D felt like they were standing on the edge of something, toes hanging over the precipice.

you opened your mouth to say something, but D beat you to it. they reached out, their hand brushing against the small bruise on your cheek. their fingers were clumsy and bandaged, but the touch was featherlight, barely there.

“it’s nothing,” you said quickly, trying to pull away, but D didn’t let you.

“it’s not nothing,” they said, their voice low and steady.

they grabbed a bandaid from the kit you’d brought, peeling it open with their teeth before gently pressing it against your cheek. you gave them a look that was half amusement, half exasperation, but you didn’t argue.

“that was unnecessary,” you mumbled.

D leaned in, their lips brushing against the bandaid. it was soft and quick, but enough to stop you mid-sentence.

when they pulled away, they had a small smile playing on their lips as they echoed your previous words. “for your speedy recovery, dragă.”

[triangular-dude]

I salute you, Opposite fans

[babyaiker]

Assortment of Kieran doodles I did over the past few months,,, (that’s why each doodle is slightly different in how I draw him)

Don’t get me wrong I love all the characters in rdr2, but I’ve gotten way to personally attached to that god damn o’driscoll boy

[km3tt0]

these three being siblings - I just love them very much 🙂‍↕️

thanks op for adopting every young bot you see (Ft. Baby Aurora)

[jewelthenerd]

Absolutely NOBODY asked for this but Papaya trio sketches because for some reason out of ALL the characters in Ninjago my brain could’ve picked to latch on to, it chose the three who have never canonically met

I’m sorry but I love them dearly

I also apologize for not allowing any character that I draw to NOT have at least one inhuman trait, as you can see Morro got the worst of it here

[theinkwaygame]

This action will have consequences

Part 2 is here! Continuation of this post

Sorry it took *checks notes* …several months for me to finish this. I was motivated to make a comic but alas, I did not know how 😔 But what’s important is that I made it!

[gatoburr0]

This might be a bit of a dark question about the fuzzy AU but.. was Acht alone when they died? I'm assuming timeline wise that side order didn't happen pre Grizz winning (unless it did) so did they spend their last few days(?) alone in the Deepsea Metro with no idea what was happening to them or did something less heart wrenching happen?

Man that is a massive plot hole I completely forgot about and did not see coming. Honestly I think I can make it so somehow Acht already met Callie before getting fuzzed up? Because if not it wouldn’t be so interesting (and most importantly there wouldn’t be enough angsssssst).

Also yeah this post is a bit sad so just sayin’.

Acht and Callie already knew each other and went out together constantly, but they got fuzzed up when they were far from each other. Acht couldn’t get out of wherever they were in, because they were just so weak, until it was too much to handle and they died, alone, nobody knew they were struggling with it.

Callie often gets flashbacks about the time they spent together, however her memory gets blurred by her instincts and she doesn’t seem to be affected by them that much anymore. But she does remember them vividly, being probably their first true love.

She sometimes stays up at night thinking about them.

And the saddest part is that she still thinks they’re doing okay somewhere around.

(Read tags)

[saturngalore]

the universe of saturngalore 🪐🌈

[stonedragonisnthere]

Punch out fandom would y’all be interested in my making an antagonistic oc

A rich celebrity character who pays for boxers to lose in the ring what I’m thinking

[peachdues]

tw: grief; some personal writing based on a rec by my therapist as I draw closer to the three year anniversary of my mom dying.

My hands are not my own; they are inherited, like the rest of me, but unlike my hair (the shade of my grandmother’s) or the hue of my eyes (a heterochromatic blend of my father’s and his father’s), my hands are wholly my mother’s.

It is a strange comfort to look down and see a part of a missing loved one. I can stand in front of a mirror for hours scrutinizing my own face and find no trace of my mother, but when I look at my hands, I am unable to see anything but her.

I was a precocious child, unable to sit still even for a moment. My restlessness persisted even at night. I was often unable to find tranquility even in sleep; prone to vivid and wild dreams that frightened me and usually startled me awake. My mother’s bedside was a frequent place of solace in the small hours after midnight. After the third or fourth time of me darting into my parents’ room on tiptoes and speaking in hushed whispers of monsters lurking in my closet, she would let me crawl in beside her until I calmed down enough to return to my own bed.

Yet, like most unruly children, rarely did her acquiescence actually soothe me. I likely owe my mother a long overdue apology for all the ways I tossed and turned and kicked while trying to settle down. But for all the sleep deprivation I inflicted, my mother’s solution was not to kick me out before I’d mellowed; instead, she gave me her hand.

She would hold it out for me to take and I, a cat transfixed by a feathery toy tangling before it, would grab it and trace the shape of her fingers. I bent them, pushed them together until she made the Vulcan salute, and turned her hand over in mine again and again. On and on I would play with her hand until I finally grew sleepy — an event she seemed to have a sixth sense for, given the struggle it took to get me there — and she would send me on my way back to my room, comforted.

Even beyond those restless nights, my mom would offer me her hand to hold in times of stress or even relaxation. If I sat beside her on the couch, my head on her shoulder, she instinctively held out her hand and without fail, I would take it. I once asked her if she minded it when I was a teenager; motherhood is marked by all the ways children demand and take, and I worried she quietly resented my entitlement to her space. I could see my question surprised her — and then she was quick to kiss the top of my head and assure me she found it just as comforting as I did. In fact, she wagered, the day I stopped reaching for her hand might just break her heart.

But I never stopped. I continued studying my mother’s hands in those quiet moments watching some silly reality show. I was fascinated by them; the rounded shape of the nail on her index finger contrasted with the u-curve of the others, but that asymmetry was the most comforting thing in the world.

They were there when I stumbled off my late night flight home from college; when I could stop being the invincible twenty year old staring down a world of limitless opportunity and regress back into her baby girl, who just wanted to cuddle up to her on the couch and have her pat my head as she always did.

And they were there even when she was not; still stroking over my hair thanks to my own manipulations, her nails painted a faint copper that I’d brought along with me to the ICU, back when we still had hope she’d be leaving sometime soon. I kept her hand smoothing over my head until the quiet beeping of her heart monitor slowed and her chest rose one final time. I only let them go when the nurses told me to bring my car around to pick up my dad so we could drive home, without her.

The last time I paid attention to her hands was when I arrived at the funeral home to help fix her makeup before her service. I did not recognize them, mottled and bruised as they were; they were too stiff, her fingers too oddly curled over her lifeless form. Of all the bitter realizations I had in the wake of my mother’s death, perhaps the most acerbic one of all was that I would never again hold my mother’s hand.

Even when I said my final goodbye to her on the day of her funeral, I did not touch her hands. I didn’t even look at them.

One of the many lessons I’ve been taught in navigating life after death is the transiency of human memory. There are details about my mother I swore I could never forget that I now find difficult to recall, even a measly three years later. I have a hard time remembering the sound of her voice, or the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. I find that I can’t decide whether her eyes were more of a chocolate-y brown or something closer to black.

But I have not yet forgotten her hands. How can I, when I see them every day?

The nails on my index fingers are round while the rest are u-shaped. The skin of my knuckles folds the same way hers did, and while I prefer acrylics compared to her choice of gel manicure, I know that when the false nails come off, my mother’s will be there.

Often, far too often for my own comfort, I catch myself wondering what they will look like ten, fifteen, even twenty years from now. I wonder whether the time will come when I look down and think, for the smallest fragment of a second, that I am seeing her again. But a more sobering part of me knows there’s a chance my hands will one day curl and swell with age in a way hers never did. And I wonder, if and when that day comes, whether I’ll still recognize my mother’s hands, or whether that memory too, will fade.

[mushroominaforest]

I’m trying to practice drawing stuff like side profiles (I suck balls at that lol) and character interactions / more complex poses and I’ve ended up with not one but TWO drawings of Eliana being mean to Cody lmao 😭

(Tw: by ‘being mean’ I mean being abusive lol)

The first one is sillier, (and a bit older) and the second one is a little more dramatic lol

Idk what I’m doing. I just like drawing my silly little guys. Sue me

Also can you tell that I do not have a colour pallet for them lol. I just pick random colours every time I draw my ocs

(Also I know the poses are a little scuffed this is practice okay be nice to me)

[undercover-grisha]

i fuckin love my mutuals, y’all are my crows fr

[anarchypumpkincowboy]

alright i’m gonna say it

the folks that’re advocating for still enjoying/interacting/giving money over (you watch the shows you give him money) are just as bad as the folks that’re still advocating for enjoying/interacting/giving money over with harry potter

and honestly like they’re probably the same group of people i’m sure there’s a large overlap but i have seen a few creators with dni harry potter fans in their bios that’re advocating for still participating with good omens/sandman/american gods content

and it’s like…. do y’all not see the hypocrisy?

[r0semultiverse]

I’m just gonna say it, the newer generations (yes even that one other trans/nonbinary person you think would never hurt you) are way too comfortable pedojacketing their former friends/partners. Just because someone hurt you or you didn’t like the way they acted around you, doesn’t mean they’re a pedo or some shit. I’m tired of seeing this happen to other younger trans folks and I’m tired from having gone through it myself with younger nonbinary folks. It’s always the younger folks too it feels like. You need some reason to try to “cancel” someone even though you have no evidence and no case whatsoever because you would rather be in control and be angry than face your own sadness and sit with your discomfort at a situation that doesn’t require any public outcry!