#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”

[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.”

[tariah23]

oooooo white people in my replies really saying ‘I can excuse racism but I draw the line at homophobia’

Not surprised since this is the site that only talks about racism and thinks it’s a big deal when they see it demonstrated in the cartoons and comics they like *coughs* dungeonmeshi *coughs* (for example at least. I haven’t seen THIS many white ppl talk as in depth about racism on here as much as these fandom nerds, man. I stg. Like “Ohhhh, so you all DO acknowledge that racism is real? Just not in real life even if you could feel it slapping you in the face at high speed. Gotcha.” It’s crazy.

Tumblr is like, 90% white and is extremely centered around them. That’s why you barely see stuff that’s important to black and brown people ever trending here or being talked about. It has to be something incredibly huge to the point where even white people can’t ignore it like they usually do, to talk about it here.

They only talked about George Floyd here because the topic of his death became world news. Even people in other countries were talking about it. Before him, it was probably Ferguson and Trayvon Martin… most of them are still trying their best to ignore the genocides because it’s a “touchy subject.” What do you expect from white people who live in their own bubbles of comfort and refuse to pop it with a needle??? They find comfort in their privilege and faux ignorance (they love playing stupid to avoid conversations about important things outside of fandoms like, are these mfs born with half a brain dedicated to fandom or what.) That’s literally all these mfs make a big deal out of, especially on this annoying ass platform. The ao3 mfs will go to war for the site that allows racist ff and cp like it’s no big deal. I wonder how many people here even donated to the site while actively scrolling past dono posts from folks who really do need help. They act like they’re doing a civil service by defending this site that makes over the amount of it’s intended dono goal in minutes.

Then you already know as soon as you even bring up racism in the stuff they like, they start ganging up and harassing black bloggers especially, calling them TERFs and the whole nine. Anything to make that person look bad for being concerned about the racism that they have such an intense aversion to. God, it’s absolutely exhausting knowing that these people would have no problem choosing a cartoon character over your entire existence if they COULD. Isn’t that fucking sad, man?

[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

[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 🪐🌈

[ivys-head-is-spinning]

good people of tumblr I have a question. out of disney’s sensational six (which is the like main Mickey and friends characters) who’s your favourite???

let me know in the tags who you picked and I’d love to hear why :D

[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.

[bohemian-nights]

Unpopular Opinion: Every time a black female character (especially if this black female character is dark skinned) enters into a relationship with the popular fan-favorite white male character usually one of three things happen a. the black female character is now headcanoned as a lesbian (never bisexual or queer or anything that would leave the character with the possibility of still entering into a relationship with a man) b. white male character is now shipped with other popular fan-favorite white male character/other white female character (the popular fan-favorite white male character is usually headcanoned to be bisexual and when he is, shipped with a woman that woman is always white) or c. black female character (and sometimes their actresses) is now being talked about as if they are the devil himself.

Wanting characters to explore their sexuality is fine but I always find it odd how this always happens when one member of the relationship is a black/blackish woman. *forgot to mention the suddenly polyamorous relationship the three (black female, white male and white male/woman) characters are now without a doubt in*

Anon you spoke nothing, but facts right here 🙌🏽

(The only thing I’d add is that they don’t just do this when the woman in question is with a white man, see Namor and Shuri and the backlash some shippers got for shipping them).

You aren’t the only one who has been noticing this trend.

I say trend loosely because really just a new stereotype to add to the bunch😒

It would be one thing if it was a want for actual representation, but every time now like clockwork. as soon as they see a Black woman who looks like she’s going to have a romantic arc with said popular fandom man, boom she must be gay😑

Hell, it’s getting so bad that these shows/movies are automatically just writing their Black women characters in that way.

If people can’t see how this can be harmful/dangerous, that’s cool, but anytime you want to paint all of a group a certain way and won’t show them in any other setting, that’s how you end up birthing new stereotypes.

This isn’t creating diversity. It’s limiting it(once again).

It’s so all or nothing with our media representation. Black women don’t want to be shown as one thing(which seems to go right over most people’s heads).

We just want the same opportunities as everybody else and not to be put into one or two narrow boxes of acceptable characterization that doesn’t threaten the status quo(aka you can't have Black women looking desirable especially not when there is an available white woman right there next to her).

[linkles-art-blog]

Hey out there, FNAF fandom! I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for months now, but I wanted to finally introduce ya’ll to my designs for the Afton family (based heavily in many of the FNAF official arts, but with a few unique twists, and in my own style, plus my OC on the second from the right, whom I’ll talk about another time.)

I also made a version without my OC, for ya’ll canon-only Afton family lovers:

I really wanted Michael to have a sort of “I really don’t wanna be here, I don’t feel like I fit in, but I also don’t have a choice” look on his face…

I could talk a lot more about this painting, but I’ll probably get into it later, instead. lol

Anyway! Hope y’all enjoy. 💕 I have a fair number more FNAF arts to show y’all, but we’ll get to them in time!

Do not repost this artwork anywhere without my explicit permission or claim it as your own. See F.A.Q.s for details.

Songs I listened to while drawing this:

I honestly don’t remember, but probably a lot of stuff from my FNAF songs playlist and also listening to/watching this incredible FNAF lore video for the umpteenth time. 🥺💕

[therossgarden]

Me reblogging, liking, commenting, posting and following everything Steve/Bucky/Stucky related like a maniac because I love Stucky to death and I also love having moots I can freak out over the dumbest takes with because it brings me so much joy and comfort that it hurts

[animalsandskyyy]

so like what does it mean when the girl you’ve been talking to met up with her ex boyfriend last night and didn’t interact with you after that until almost noon the next day and just said “i’m so sorry I got all busy” when she’s just been at home but like still valid, but when you ask how the night went she hasn’t responded even tho she read the message 3 hours ago?

asking for a friend😭

[knicknuckle]

Are you in your 20s? Do you like hxh??

omg hiii can we be mutuals 🥺🫶

[feralpigeons]

*through gritted teeth* I will not let myself exist in an echo chamber

[saturngalore]

bro i just found out that harrie creator is a black lady im cryinggggg WHYYYYYY….the whole time i thought it was some white guy omg

[sharkflan]

i reached another follows “milestone” and like, i know a lot of people who used to follow me are inactive and bots are a problem as well, but i just want to let y’all know how much i appreciate the people who do follow me. i see you and i see the likes and comments and it means the world to me 🥹❤️

i’ve been on tumblr since i was 16 and i’m nearly 30 now. you guys rock and i love you 🫶💕