#sending you love and peace

[duskholland]

i’m the jokey baby

[littlelightfish]

Kuro is always the one to die first. Mickbell is the one that has to go through the anguish of knowing he saw the only one he truly considers a family die. Look at his face when he realizes Kuro died/is going to die.

Mickbell doesn't cry here because he's afraid for his own safety or scared of what just happened. He cries because Kuro put himself into great danger and got killed.

I'll always wonder what would happen if Mick gets killed first.

[koiifsh]

i found a hatching brush finally yaaaaayyy also i turn 15 tomorrow

[napping-sapphic]

PLEASE tell me about all your problems so i have an excuse to try to kiss it all better for like six hours minimum

[nullians]

Growing Gracideas

[ryllen]

Look what came through the mail today! The letters & ( •̀ω•́ )σ 3 little gremlins from letterstoear.

Just wanna say i adore the flower stickers on the letters too much, they are that much worth mentioning.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Hi! Your Hollow Knight AU has really cheered me up so I wanted to do a little drawing for it! This got me to get my art tablet out after months of not feeling like it so thank you for the inspiration! I hope the colors look good on any monitor that's not mine sdfsdf

Bugs In the Jingshi wyd?

I am so genuinely awestruck at how well you translated this AU to the hollow knight style! Also obsessed with the height difference.

[sukirichi]

PLEASE STOP COPYING FICS ‼️

I am by no means gatekeeping concepts or tropes. We all know that it’s normal to see the same tropes or AUs be used differently, and that is not plagiarism. However, I recently found a fic that was oddly similar to my old (and discontinued) Gojo x Reader series, Reckless. The CEO! Gojo is nothing new, and neither is an accidental pregnancy trope. The only reason I am concerned is because this Gojo series I found has the exact same themes as Reckless that consists of: a playboy CEO Gojo with a very notorious reputation, a poor reader who is an employee and asset to the company (someone who works closely with Gojo), reader getting knocked up from a one night stand with Gojo, reader with a seemingly dead/absent mother yet still in contact with her father, Gojo with a very traditional family who does not like reader, and Gojo with an ex he struggles to let go of - which are all elements of Reckless.

The first chapter of that Gojo fic is also eerily similar to my first chapter with the same flow of: YN finding out she’s pregnant and her friend being there for her, Gojo saying he’ll take responsibility because ‘they both made the baby’, YN having to move in with Gojo to take care of the baby, and both of them coming to a mutual agreement that their ‘relationship’ will be purely for the baby’s benefit. The flow of events and specific details about the characters’ backgrounds are too similar to mine.

Again, I am not gatekeeping concepts, just as how I’ve had other writers ask me if they could write their own stories or takes based off of the NAOYA’S TROPHY WIFE COLLECTION or the BONTEN HUSBANDS EXCLUSIVE, and I’m fine with that. I’m even happy people are inspired by what I write. But being inspired is completely different from taking someone’s story and posting it as yours. Please trust your own creativity and skills in writing. You can write amazing stories and have people love them without having to steal from others.

It’s sad to say this is not the first time I, and other writers, have been plagiarized. It’s even more upsetting to know that a friend of mine who has also written a Gojo series (that I’m sure you all know and dearly love) experiences the same issues with the same person. The fact that this is happening to many writers out there is disheartening. We work hard and pour a lot of love in the stories we create. None of us are getting paid for this, and we simply want to share our passions with others. So please, let us be kinder with one another and show love and support the right way. If you love a fic, you give feedback and rb/comment + show support to the writer. You don’t steal their ideas and play it off as your own because you liked it.

[stanpinesdykewife]

hits you on the head with angst so specific it makes you uncomfortable

porch stan/reader (enby) pre/during/post-canon/unspecified hurt/comfort, 2793 words (ship if you squint, but not the focus)

Stan finds you on the back porch of the Mystery Shack hours after he told you to clock out and go home. You’re not on your phone, not nursing a soda… you’re not doing anything. You’re just sitting there on the steps, alone in the dark. He can only see the back of your head from the diamond shape in the door, but your stare extends far beyond the dim glow of the porchlight, ending only at the pitch black of the woods.

He hesitates for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Stan knows how important it is to be alone. Though he… tolerates you, maybe a little more than an employer should, he wouldn’t know the first thing about offering good company when you're like this. Mainly because he's never seen you like this.

That’s it, then, he decides, slowly lowering his hand from the knob. You wanna mope around on my porch? Go crazy. But count me out.

…

Stan doesn’t move. He watches the back of your head, the tense line of your shoulders, the way some strands of your hair twitch in the weak summer breeze. You inhale, slowly. Then take a deep breath out. Your head hangs a little lower.

Stan twists the doorknob and steps out onto the porch, and ignores the guilt when you jump about five feet in the air.

“Trespassing’s a crime, you know,” he says, once you whip around to blink at him with wide eyes. Stan crosses his arms. “Kidding. You wanna do… whatever this is, inside, or what?”

It takes another moment of stunned silence for you to register his words. The pause is long enough that Stan furrows his brows and wonders where your mind is. You jump again, shaking your head, and he realizes too late that you think he’s glaring at you.

“Oh, no, no, I was just—Sorry. I was just about to leave,” you say, planting your palms on the porch steps and starting to push yourself upwards. Stan uncrosses his arms and waves a hand in the air dismissively.

“Relax,” he says gruffly, and shuts the door behind him before crossing the distance to the porch sofa in two long strides. He lets himself fall onto it with a sigh, the old plush of the cushions sinking dramatically under his weight. You twist in your seat to look at him, surprised. Stan pats the cushion next to him. “Do an old man a favor, huh? Don't make me sit on the stairs.”

You stare at him for another second, searching his expression. Stan nearly breaks out in a sweat trying to act casual as you scan his face, his body language, the hand drawing away from the cushion to leave you room to sit down.

Then you push yourself up, and turn, and shuffle over to the couch to sit on the opposite end of the couch. You linger at the edge, like you might just change your mind. But after a moment, you sigh and scoot backwards so the backs of your knees hit the edge of the cushion.

Stan waits for a moment. Listens to the chirping and buzzing of the woods in all directions, the faint rustle of unseen creatures in the brush. A low whistle sounds from the left. He knows enough to ignore it, and it seems you do, too. The both of you are safe, here on the sofa, in the dim yellow light of the lantern hanging from the porch roof. But… your shoulders are up to your ears. Your mouth is set in a thin, straight line.

“... You okay?” Stan asks finally, the gravel in his voice painfully loud within the bubble of silence surrounding you. He tries not to stare, but he can’t stop himself from taking too many sideways glances at your profile. The downturn of your brow, the tension in your jaw. You take a short breath in. Then you nod, sighing softly.

“Just… thinking,” you say. Your “thinking” is too quiet at the beginning and end, more breath than letters. Stan waits for you to elaborate. When you don’t, he asks,

“Thinking of what?”

Another beat passes. Stan waits again, this time keeping his eyes forward. His hands fold in his lap. He’s trying to give you space.

“I’m, uh…” Stan almost looks at you when you start to speak, but the millisecond he straightens up, your bravado dies down and you trail off. So he relaxes again, best he can, and continues not to look at you. When you start again, you sound grateful. “I’m always… just… going through something.”

He gives you ample time to consider your words. You keep going, slowly, like the syllables are churning together in your mind, like your skull is one of those trucks that mixes cement. You find the syllables one-by-one and put them together with great effort, your voice low with concentration.

“Not like… something is always happening to me. Lately, it’s… nothing is happening to me. But I can’t turn it off. It’s like a radio that just drones on, and on, and on.” You rub your palms on your shorts, over your thighs. Stan can’t tell whether you’re trying to soothe yourself by wiping away your sweat, or imagining there’s a stain on your skin that won’t come out. Your hands pause at your knees and you keep talking. “Sometimes the volume is so low, I can ignore it. It’s just this… really faint humming in the background of everything else, this staticky sound sitting on the top of my head.

“Sometimes the volume is explosive, and I can’t drown it out. It’s too… But, you know, no matter how loud it gets, I can still… function. I might have to cover my ears and close my eyes and hold my breath, but I can do it. I can handle it on my own. But sometimes I’m reading a receipt and my eyes linger on a letter for too long,” your eyes are darting around several spots on the porch, finding grooves in the wood, splinters sticking out, “or my back is turned and I hear someone’s—a customer, a friend, anyone—I hear their footsteps behind me, and it falls in such a normal, nonspecific way and…”

Your knee starts to bounce, but you stop it after a few seconds. You lean forward, forearms on your knees now, your hands clasped together. You speak to the empty space between the decking boards. To the pitch blackness separating you from the cold, damp earth below, the negative space where coins and trash and confessions fall into, never to be seen or heard from again.

“I’m always younger than I am,” you say, your words sinking between the slats of wood. “It's always that night. I'm always in that house. Always in that room. And the ceiling is white. And the door is locked. But the TV is always on.”

Stan doesn’t entirely know what that means. He isn’t supposed to. Even then, there’s an aching familiarity in the gloom of your voice, the added weight to your breath, so he sits with it. He feels like he sinks further into the couch with the pressure forming in his chest, a boulder rolling up the inside of his sternum, to the base of his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He’s imagining a very different house, no doubt. A very different TV.

You sit statue-still on the other end of the couch. You watch your words drip down the edges of the decking boards, and you would almost hear them hit the dirt below if not for the everpresent hum of the forest. You’re surrounded by it. The trees and the brush are all alive, all moving, stalking you from all angles, watching you breathe, waiting for you to move so they can close in and crush you.

Really, you’re safe. Stan knows you’re safe. But he also knows the dread of feeling otherwise, the cold, skin-thin coat of fear creeping across every inch of your body and making your limbs rigid. He knows that sometimes, when the second-skin starts feeling a little too thick, it helps to have someone on the other side.

“Yeah, well. You and me both, kid.” It isn't as comforting as he hopes. He winces, but keeps his gaze forward when you turn your head to look at him. Stan takes a deep breath in and sighs it out, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his skull. He looks at you.

You look tired. About as tired as he feels on those sleepless nights alone, staring at that dark knot in the ceiling in his room.

It’s a perfect spiral, just there, formed naturally in the wood. Just one of many weird things in this town, he supposes. The only times Stan has ever been tempted to purchase a ladder have been those nights when his brain itched with the need to measure that spiral, to calculate its length, press his finger against the center point and feel the texture of the shape on his skin.

He’s never actually done it. Part of him blames his fear of heights. The rest of him knows it’s because it’s too easy to imagine two other perfect spirals next to it, a practiced triskelion first drawn in childhood notebooks and eventually perfected in the journal he has hidden in the basement. Those nights usually end in him closing his eyes and promising not to open them again until morning, even though the spiral is etched into the backs of his eyelids anyway, glowing fluorescent in the dark recesses of his mind. He would see that spiral so clearly, even if his cataracts clouded his whole sense of vision, even if he lost his vision entirely.

Stan takes in your expression for a moment longer. The exhaustion, paired with the lamp light, adds an unhealthy shadow to your face. Your eyes look a little unfocused, sunken in, and your skin is pale and your lips are chapped. It’s too cold out here, Stan thinks. He knows you wouldn’t accept his suit jacket, so he doesn’t offer. Instead, he tries to offer the smidge of sage, elderly wisdom he’s got. It isn’t much, but it’s more than nothing.

“I can’t tell you I know how to help,” he says, and your brow furrows and your lips purse tightly. Stan keeps his eyes on you, keeps his voice gentle. “What I can tell you is… you’re not alone.”

“What do I do when I feel alone?” you ask suddenly. “What do I do when I feel like I’m the only person in the world who feels this way? And then when I feel stupid and selfish for thinking that, when I know other people have gone through so much worse? What then?”

“You get over it,” Stan says softly. You flinch back like he’d screamed the words at you, and when Stan blinks, you’re leaning far away from him. You blink back at him with wide eyes. It’s the most emotion he’s seen on you all evening, and he tries not to feel like a monster for it. He raises his hands placatingly and explains, “You get over it. As in, you stop kicking yourself when you’re down, and you pick yourself up. You’re not alone and you know it. Even if you are, so what? If no one else is gonna care…”

Stan trails off. You… obviously don’t know what to say to that. Stan rubs the back of his neck, slumping into the couch. He’s bad at this. He’s not great at… emotional stuff. He never learned how to put feelings into words, and whatnot. He was never allowed to.

“You’re not alone,” he says again, struggling against the instinct to backpedal, to tell you everything’s gonna be alright and you just need some sleep. He forces the next words out of his mouth. “You’re not the only person who feels this way. That doesn’t make it a competition, it doesn’t mean you lose. People like us, we drew the short straw. Doesn’t mean we give a trophy to whoever got it worst. It just means we have a little extra work to do—some more than others—to feel a little more okay.”

Your shoulders are slowly, slowly, losing their tension. Your gaze drifts back to the floor of the porch. Stan tries one more time to get his point across.

“When it feels like the world’s out to get you… you can scream. You can break down on the bathroom floor. You can throw kicks and punches and beg for life to give you a break. You can stand in a park and shout for someone to come and rescue you until your throat’s raw and you lose your voice.” Stan’s next breath turns out a little shaky, but he clears his throat and squeezes his hands into fists. Then he flexes them out flat, brushing invisible dust off his knees.

“Eventually, though,” he continues, “you gotta realize the only person guaranteed to hang around you is you. You can feel lonely and dumb and you can cry all you want. Trust me, no one would blame you, but… you can also walk to the store and buy yourself some tissues. Steal a snack off the shelf while you’re there. And you can sit on the curb in the parking lot and tell yourself you deserve to feel better than this, whether or not anyone agrees. Whether or not you believe it.”

When Stan finally shuts up, the forest sounds a little quieter. An unknown species chirps in the distance. Branches of an evergreen tree rustle together. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness by now, and he can see the faint shapes of moths fluttering at the edge of the clearing. He knows they’re not, but a small part of his mind imagines the moths flitting around in a perfect spiral. Privately, he rubs his thumb and forefinger together, imagining the feel of wood grain at his fingertips.

You’re hunched in on yourself, and your lips are still pressed together in thought. You’re not leaning away anymore, but your body language isn’t exactly welcoming. Stan feels nervous sweat gathering in his pits and resists the urge to scratch at them. He thinks he fucked up.

Then you huff, a quiet sound, just a sharp exhale through your nose. You tilt your head to the side and look at him, and Stan’s chest seizes with anxiety and shame, and he’s already taking a breath in to defend himself because you’re laughing at him, but…

“Any tips on skipping the part where I cry?” you ask, a dry sense of humor shining through your flat tone. Stan swallows. Settles down. He chuckles a little, mostly because he’s glad you’re not scolding him for the clumsy mess that was meant to be advice.

“Not unless you wanna lose a staring contest with a high velocity fan every day,” he jokes. It’s not that funny, but you huff again, and the corner of your mouth upturns a little bit. Stan tries for another. “I got a burlap sack you can borrow. That way you can cry in private—in public!”

“What? That’s so dumb,” you laugh, for real this time, one of your hands coming up to cover your mouth. It takes Stan a second to realize he’s grinning at you, despite everything, just sitting there like an idiot and watching you chuckle at two half-jokes. Another joke bakes in his mind: two halves make a whole, or something like that. Luckily, he doesn’t get the chance to say it, because then you’re lowering your hand and leaning over to punch the side of his thigh. It’s light, he barely even feels it, but the gesture makes his whole body feel warm. You smile at him, still tired, still sad, but with a little less weight to the edges. “Hey. Thanks.”

Stan shuffles one foot out to kick yours. He ends up just nudging the side of your shoe with his own, but you don’t move it away. You’re both sitting there, your knuckles against Stan’s pants and his shoe against your shoe, and you’re both just smiling tiredly at each other. Stan wonders if you still feel alone. He hopes you don’t. He won’t ask.

“No problem,” he says instead, and you huff out a laugh that’s softer than the others. You press the back of your hand just a little harder to the outside of Stan’s leg, as if assuring yourself that he’s there, that he’s with you, at least in this moment.

The forest surrounding you is not silent, but it’s quiet.

[yappacadaver]

Crazy wild shit man

[scary-monsters]

extremely belated gift for my dear friend @phidont 🧡 i hope i did your diego justice, he’s such a cutie, your art will always be some of my favorite ever 😭 thank you for being my pal and for all your support and kindness and ofc for the dinopants conversations, i really do treasure you more than i can say 🙏🏻

[elvisqueso]

Pochontas (1995)

wiggins meta under the cut

here's the thing: ratcliffe is constantly being explained as a representation of the forces of greed and racism and colonialism/imperialism (arguably this can translate to capitalism as well), but what about wiggins? what is his role? he most obviously plays the role of the Fool, and provides a character for ratcliffe to have consistent dialogue with. but what does he represent?

i have a theory that wiggins is meant to represent the ethnic english, the culture of the english, and the willing servitude of the english to the evils of imperialism/greed/racism in exchange for a sense of superiority and security. wiggins is, paradoxically, both above and below the settlers in terms of status. he's a servant, but he serves the highest ranking man there. he's a yes-man, but he's also brutally truthful (spelling out for the audience ratcliffe's motivations and the immorality of the settler's presence and actions).

wiggins is also a caricature of the english to a T: he resembles many a self-styled stereotype of the typical englishman in english comedies. he's prim, a bit fussy, obsessed with gardening, a bit oblivious and silly and somewhat incessantly cheery. he's drawn, also, like an english caricature. his teeth and upturned nose in particular stand out to me.

the line "and he came so highly recommended" from each of these characters is so fascinating because of this because it highlights the mutual consent of these two allegorical characters to be involved with each other and subscribe to a master-servant dynamic, wherein ratcliffe has invested in wiggins to be useful and efficient, and wiggins has invested in ratcliffe to provide security both financially and socially. ratcliffe find's wiggins's personality (the cultural quirks of the english) trite and unnecessary. wiggins found ratcliffe's extremity to ultimately be outside of his own best interests once it could no longer protect him (ratcliffe being no longer able to provide the status and security once he was put in chains).

we can't be sure if wiggins has truly learned a lesson, however. he remains in America with some of the other settlers instead of returning to his homeland. we don't know what he intends to do there, or why he's made this choice. perhaps he's going to try turning over a new leaf and assimilate to a new society. perhaps he's going to try and influence his way into a similar position as before. in any case, we know wiggins's core motive is always going to be self-preservation. what that looks like without ratcliffe and the protections of aggressive imperialism, we simply don't know.

[skibasyndrome]

I hope everyone either has survived or is surviving their work/school/uni Christmas parties and is getting some peace and quiet soon 💜

[fazgoo-connoiseur-1987]

Posting crane bill from last nights collaborative furry drawing session Cus looking at him makes me feel at peace

[she-war-on-my-peace-til-i]

Okay but like what if I said that Andrei didn't love Natasha?

What if I said that he was just subconsciously so desperate to feel anything other than emptiness that he latched onto the first person who made him feel

happy

do you know what i'm saying?

when he found out that Natasha tried to elope with Anatole (or rather i should say Anatole tried to elope with Natasha) was he sad because he loved her? was he mourning the loss of someone he really truly cared about?

or was he dealing with the fact that for the first time in years he'd been happy. he'd allowed himself to feel. to let his guard down.

and he was immediately hurt again.

does that make sense? That's my "totally not supported by the text soapbox." i just don't think he really loved natasha.

[beanghostprincess]

Sorry I really didn’t mean I’m attacking you or your ship. I also don’t think it’s a red flag, most gay men I saw don’t really like shuggy either. I mean, probably the entire world prefers any other shanks ships? On almost every site, con or store there’s always tons of mishanks and Bennshanks and never shuggy. I get it’s also about dynamic and connection those two pairs have, like with the parallels to other ships the base for them is extremely strong. But the minimal shuggy does speak volumes. I genuinely wonder about this. Shuggy is unpopular and again while I do agree there’s strong connection between “rival ships” I don’t think that’s the only reason… and like…. Buggy is ugly, isn’t he? He doesn’t have cool style, doesn’t look cool, makes ugly faces all the time, also is a coward. I like him as comedy character and shanks brother though!

I understand where you're coming from when you say Shuggy is unpopular amongst some people (actually, before anyone says anything. It IS an extremely popular ship in Japan but I have seen A LOT of hatred towards it in this side of the fandom, so that's what I'm talking about when I say it's unpopular). I have talked about this before. And I have said a lot of times that the reason why is often because people only focus on looks and Buggy is not conventionally attractive for the fangirly twinkified sexualized gaze numerous sides of the fandom and the general audience seek. Like, I am not forcing people to ship them, but I have had people admitting the only reason they don't is because of the looks, and I personally believe that is a very (despite valid, of course) dull way of seeing ships. And respectfully, I don't care that other gay dudes or all the people in the world agree with you. It's not a red flag to not like Shuggy, what it is a red flag, though, is to come into people's inboxes to do what you're doing!

I know you don't mean to attack me or anybody who ships them but your tone does wonders showing otherwise. Your perception of shipping is just based on looks and the fact that you came here, to a blog that explicitly ships these characters and is fond of Buggy, talking shit about one of the characters' looks... Is just straight-up mean and not following the social etiquette this site should follow, which is "let people do whatever the fuck they want".

So with all due respect, what makes you think I won't find your questions offensive in any way? Because you keep talking bad about a character I like in my inbox for literally no reason. Do you expect me to admit that the ship is unpopular because Buggy is ugly and boring? Well, I do admit people view him as ugly and only a comedy relief, but I don't. Expecting others to find beautiful and interesting the same things you do is having a very close-minded vision that One Piece's plot itself is against.

By the way, you're showing that you clearly don't like Buggy in the slightest because you're only talking about the traits that you find negative about him. But of course, you like him as comedy relief. Of course, you like him as a character in Shanks' story and not as a character himself. Despite Buggy having lots of depth. Your perception of these characters seems, in my opinion, extremely empty and, as I said, only based on looks. And you're free of shipping whatever you want however you want! But please, please, don't do this anymore. This is just petty high school mean girl behavior. Even Regina George would word this in a more polite way.

So, as a little advice for you, let people ship whatever they want without questioning their favorite characters! I am sure you will live a more peaceful life!