#so it doesn't just sit in my drafts

[futuristicson]

I will leave my mark.

[miabrown007]

the summer after finishing university in New York, Marinette gets invited to a camping trip with Alya and Nino and his best friend. which, honestly, is for the best. at least she has more time than the four years she's already had to figure out how to reach out to her one-time superhero partner, with whom she fell out of touch after the reveal.

only, it's Adrien Agreste waiting for them on the meeting point, beaming so hard at her that it's blatantly obvious they know each other well. in her panic, what is Marinette supposed to tell Alya and Nino to protect their identites, if not that they used to date?

(fake exes AU x there was only one tent)

[overchromatic]

Zomiku takes a selfie

[fairyroses]

— SMALLVILLE, “Reaper” (1.17) & “Tempest” (2.01) 

[suddencolds]

~

[byanyan]

want to be here....... want to write & interact & shove byan at everyone........ but sitting down to put words together... actually typing things out... is not what my brain wants to do

[lunacias]

but I swear, when I'm ready I'll fly us out of here

[luxrayz64]

I think sonic has to be aro like come on. COME ON. sonic never sticks around in one place. not even for tails, and tails is his little brother. his pride and joy. and he still runs off to explore the world. sonic is the wind. he's freedom incarnate. the wind blows past everyone the same, and stops for no one. no one will ever be more important to sonic than freedom and adventure. and no one will want to live that kind of life with him. even if they did, he'd rather take his own path! his path is for him to carve. to go where he pleases without having to stop and ask.

and this doesn't mean that he doesn't care about his friends. of course he does. he'll always come back, always be there when he's needed. his compassion is free to give to everyone who needs it. but he's adrift in the wind, always on the run. always more to see more to explore wherever the wind takes him.

this hedgehog is so fucking aromantic it genuinely genuinely blows my mind that people can see him as anything but. I do not understand it. I cannot understand it. he's aro.

[oculusxcaro]

What Does Your Blood Taste Like?

Strawberry Milkshake

Your blood tastes like a strawberry milkshake, the sweet blend of ice cream, milk, and strawberries. Prominent flavours: sugar, fruit, and a pleasant cold.

Tagged byStolen from: @question-marked (♡) and... somebody else, I don't remember. Tagging: Whoever would like to do it?

[icewindandboringhorror]

a boye whom'st loves to attack paper balls

[corpus-chorus]

so i finally went through my drafts

[hiding-under-the-willow]

I need you all to know that I have been struggling to write a singular chapter of Inheritance for the last like month and I am just now actually making progress 💀

[vastiitas]

Runaway Turned Thief, His First Horse, and its Consequences.

Cole's first horse after the razing of his hometown is a dark bay no-spot appaloosa mare. She's built for long distance riding, and bursts of extreme speed for outrunning trouble. While she can go quite aways, there is definitely a lack of stamina in maintaining a sprint in comparison to a fully committed race horse.

He steals her from two drug mulers who had been camping out in the wilderness. This is where he ends up with most of his supplies that he keeps with him 'til Deadlock, including a second revolver to go with his first, a analog hunting rifle that he uses extensively for hunting and self-sustenance, and dressing knives. (Before then, he had a bed roll that was on its way out, carried in a ragged pack, a multi-tool, a foldable knife, and a water bladder; one extra set of clothes. Having a horse allowed him to pack greater inventory, travel further, and carry more quality of life items such as a wire set to cook over fires, rope, etc. Etc. In the case of meeting @/quick-drawn, she also allowed him to pack game to bring back home.)

He is on the verge of becoming 12, having left the orphanages some months prior (having been inducted into the system at 11 and spending time being tossed around for about 6-8 months). The whole debacle is a bit of a shit show with him waiting for the dark of night, pressed flat to the ground on his stomach amidst the cover of large rock and sage bush rooting between the crevices. He is, at this point, learning to be a little more clever with his thefts, scoping out the individuals, the layout of the camp (but fails at this time to consider escape plans, terrain.)

Sky turns indigo, then a void of black fractured by the salt-scatter of stars. Fire's died out to embers and the men retire to their tents. Cole scrapes himself up to his feet, scurries down the path tied between hasty and careful and rifles through their supplies like a shambling animal that's wandered someplace it don't belong. He ransacks ammunitions, the aforementioned firearms, some cans of food and a flask engorged with gin, amongst an assortment of other things; gathers and piles them up in the saddle bags on the Appaloosa.

Men start rousing as he's on the tail end of packing - the one stirring with a need to take a piss - and the little heist becomes a smash-and-grab operation where he's cutting the reins with a knife and blasting down the mountainside as they start yelling and searching for their firearms.

Later on, when it's deemably safe and he's lost them, he rummages through her saddle bags and finds papers reading Honeysuckle and his face scrunches up sour. Amber-brown eyes dart up from crinkled black print to the dark pits of the horse's. "Y'don't seem like a Honeysuckle."

He doesn't know why, but the name Maria falls off his tongue much easier. Fits her features more, he thinks. (It is, absolutely, a lapse back into his religious roots. Finding the name like a prayer, which he utters in both thanks and apology. Most of all, the significance just falls down to lyrics of Plastic Jesus: Goin' 90 I ain't scary, 'cos I got the Virgin Mary assurin' me I won't go to hell.)

She's a playful mare, likes to 'sneak up' on him while he's turned away despite the very obvious noise of her shoes hitting the ground. Likes to nuzzle her head into his neck, or knock into his back, set his hat off-kilter. Loves hoofing at creek/river/brook water - though that's a learned habit when he decided to splash at her on a non-eventful, idyllic day at a lakeside shore. Steady girl - he'll call her lady, sometimes. There are days where he'll share a beer with her, too.

He is somewhere in the throes of 13 when he unfortunately re-crosses paths with his victims. It's serendipity on their end, an accidental run-in out in the wilderness near an ol' gutted hunting lodge. The owners recognize Honeysuckle and they sneak up on him like he'd done with them, except instead of running off with a horse and materials, they put a gun to him and have him flag up his hands. They don't know what to do with him (there's an additional man to the original duo) and they murmur amongst themselves in Spanish after beating him to the ground and tying him up; they converse like this thinking the boy can't understand.

There's not a lot going for them to toss him towards a lawman; not a lot of pretty coin for a petty thief, not in these days where the economy and infrastructure's been starved out to a post-war drought. One of them suggests killing him out back. There's nothing really stopping them, and they could re-collect their stolen goods and continue on their way. They'd lost money because of the kid's stunt, lost out on 50% of what they could mule with only 1 horse instead of two.

Third man finally says, Sell him. Some place beyond the border where English is just a rumored language spoken only on tv sets. Labor camps need more hands. Sold men are cheaper than the free ones. He gets his reckoning, we make-up our money and then some.

In English, they tell him that in ancient times the law would have his hands severed from the wrists for theft and they knot up the binds on his hands aggressively tight to prove the point.

And then they'd travelled South, days piling into days. The ribbed rope would gnaw the skin raw, chafing towards bone like it's trying to eat him alive, and the entire thing leaves his wrists risking sepsis and scars; bloody, mangled.

they're stopped by in some post-war abandoned location along the way to rest that's filled with rusty tools and broken beer bottles. Some sort of logging warehouse. Cole finds a shitty piece of glass on a countertop and palms it; clenches his hands around it even when it threatens to nip cuts and draw blood. The men get ready for bed. Cole starts sawing at rope fibers. One of the men check up on him while he's just about free - the binds snapping loose as he realizes something isn't quite right.

Cole doesn't know where the guns are; his hands are in too much pain to aim straight anyway. First man goes down with Cole tackling him right into exposed pipes, gritty sawblades. Commotion brings the other two out: one tries to grab him from behind, while the other moves to sling a punch to the gut. Cole kicks wildly, butts his head into the nose of the man who's got hands on him. He's dropped to the floor. His knees ache from impact but it's his wrists that are screaming and he chokes out a strangled noise of pain, blearily grabbing at a slaughtered beer bottle that he's landed right next to.

Man in front of him's had enough, is going for his gun when Cole launches up into him with the bottle in hand. The serated glass punctures cheek flesh, into an eye socket. Man screams. Cole reels the glass back and keeps jamming it back down - and his face is soaked by the gore of it. The screams stop coming, and there's a thick hand that gloves around his shoulder. By some blind, desperate instinct, his other hand has found the handle of the dead man's gun when he is swung around with a fist cracking into his jaw. The glass bottle crashes into the floor. A gunshot spears the air. A third body cripples to the floor, blood guttering from the stomach. He spits on them, staggering to his feet: hablo español, hijo de puta - ir a la mierda.

He shambles out from the building, doused in blood, brain matter, and tries to put on a brave face, but he starts breaking down and ends up mumbling in a sort of low-key hysterics to maria "im sorry, im sorry, im sorry" -- doesn't know what he's apologizing for, that he stole her, that he killed her previous owners, that he's alive. Between the adrenaline and everything crashing in all at once, it's the first time he's reduced to tears since the times before the war.

Exhausted, he falls asleep outside. Leaves the men as is and weakly cuts their horses free (too tired by it all, he doesn't think to search their pockets for money, to rifle through saddle bags before releasing their mounts.) It's a mistake, because the news will later search for the horse owners, talk about a bloody horror scene found in the stomach of a logging complex. But, until then, the next few days are of travel, trying to find a main road while his wrists are pounding hellfire.

He ends up stumbling into a gas station in the middle of bumfuck nowhere looking like road kill. The attendant is startled right out of his seat as Cole walks up to him and shoves forward a fistful of ruddy-colored bills.

His voice rattles like pennies in a rusted gutter; tinny, scraping. He croaks, "I got some money for a band-aid and some rubbin' alcohol."

Man thinks this kid's been in a motor vehicle collision, says, "Kid you're going to need a lot more than just a band-aid" as he unlatches the medical kit from the wall. He seats Cole down on a plastic foldable chair, patches him up free-of-charge to the best of his ability the way a gas station attendant can offer. Man adds in a pair of gloves to make sure the gauze don't shift around too much. Man asks questions.

Where's your parents? What happened?

Cole says war got them. That he got into an accident.

Man tries to have Cole clean up in the bathroom, says there's snacks waiting outside while he phones for the police. Cole washes up, peels off his clothes for the last set he's got, and pockets the medical supplies the man had been using. He walks off, leaving the bathroom -- just does not come back inside -- and hitches back onto Maria and starts to ride off before anyone can come.

He leaves a few crumpled dollar bills on the sink.

[viktortittiforov]

my god why do so many tumblr posts have to be worded so fucking self-righteously like bro i agree with you but i'm not going to interact w your post bcs honestly you sound like a condescending douchebag

[ninjadudettekira]

Hey so I think everyone needs a reminder on how to interact with people:

It's fine to "spam like" a person if you're just going through their stuff during the day you find said creator. If they're a popular tumblr user I doubt they'll notice if you spam their notifications after the fact cause they probably have them off anyway.

However, I am not a big tumblr user, I keep my notifications on and check here when I see them so I tend to notice the same person spamming me. This is about those of us that check notifications cause we be small and want to see the interactions.

If you're going through someones posts and you're constantly on their notifications for 11 days straight because you keep unliking and reliking their content, that's fucking creepy.

I don't mind the spam likes if it's literally just one maybe two days of someone seeing my content and liking it. (Especially the Ben 10 or Young Justice posts).

But like 11 days? That's too fucking much for me to see you in my notifications when I haven't posted much, if anything, during that time frame. Especially when it's been stuff that was already liked prior. I don't have enough Ben 10 posts that you haven't seen in one or two goddamn days. You don't need 11 days to stifle through all my Ben 10 content.

Like constantly spamming my notifications won't get me to answer your long ass ask faster, in fact it made me put it off even longer. Originally it was cause it was so long I needed to answer on my laptop so I could read it as I responded. But I also kept getting busy and forgetting to respond. So I'll take responsibility for not answering it, doesn't mean it's okay to spam like my shit for almost 2 weeks because I didn't answer you.

In fact said person even chatted me about it the other day and I explained why it took so long. (Although they apologized for it being long over asking why it took so long.) Then they proceeded to spam like content they already liked again.

Spamming won't get a creator to notice you, they'll just straight up fucking block you.

[bitterlyromantic]

reading old fics i wrote in 2021 and really seeing that this one i was trying to write was SO Hannigram-Without-It-Being-Hannigram . ...... . serial killer who is an artist meets a cannibal who also owns dogs . victims are bad people. they have mutual friends and eventually when they get together the serial killer has nightmares of eating his partner.