#and my bookshelf

[youngpettyqueen]

I meant to just start the process of cleaning my room and then I blinked and 2 hours had gone by and my room was entirely cleaned

[deadstarsrisingsblog]

My sister, busting into my 🎆Depression Cave🎆 to cook and deep clean my place with no warning:

Me, in the dark and lit only by my phone:

[clonerightsagenda]

I was rambling on the issue of museums and human remains and how certain populations are more likely to have their bodies put on display to be gawked at and then went "well I guess the Pompeii casts were of Europeans. there are bones in there right?" and Googled it to make sure, at which point I confirmed that yes there are bones in there, but more interestingly DNA testing revealed that a cast of an adult holding a child everyone assumed was a mother and child were, in fact, a man and a kid entirely unrelated to him. Honestly that's more moving to me. Maybe they were connected in a way other than blood, but maybe a stranger saw a child when the world was ending and thought the one thing he could do was hold them.

[thesulkycroissant]

Recently I was talking about this panel of Bruce moping around in Dick's room at the Manor -

- and people in the reblogs mentioned that this was after the earthquake that destroyed the Manor and therefore Bruce would have to restore Dick's room, which reminded me after some time of this panel from an earlier issue of this run -

Something so endearing to me about the idea of Dick saying, "This isn't the Wayne Manor I grew up in!" and Bruce then painstakingly recreating his room for him.

[sheepgirl3]

About to rearrange and sort my bookshelves! What are your favorite ways to sort your bookshelves?

[amusingghost]

just some feral (mer)kids

unapologetically inspired from @swordsmans's fic the sea makes bones of bodies because i read it (again) and my GOD man it makes me feel so many things

[mojevalka]

i feel so sick today. :( i haven't been doing anything the whole day and i still feel so exhausted. can't believe i'm going to school again on monday. i just want to go home.

[bleaksqueak]

A little shelf detail crop because little details are fun~

[mittland]

bruce springsteen by lynn goldsmith, 1977

[clumsypuppy]

@heropartnerweek 2025 day 1 - home

[toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account]

"But what will you do without new shows to watch during the strike?" babygirl I have at least fifteen half-watched shows and at least fifty shows I Meant To Watch But Didn't under my belt. I have Chronic Put Something On My List And Never Watch It Syndrome. any one of my queues on any one of those streaming services is full of forgotten dreams

[webdiggerxxx]

꧁★꧂

[pangur-and-grim]

Grim went off her food today. vomited up breakfast, and then refused to touch anything further. I thought the vomit was Pangur’s at first, so I spent the whole day babying her and hand feeding, until dinner when it became clear Grim was the one with nausea.

I’ve been doing my best to keep Grim from the kitten food, because the high fat content can give adult cats pancreatitis, but there’s been a couple times where I’ve put the food somewhere I thought was inaccessible only to find Grim up there accessing it. I didn’t think she’d stolen more than a couple mouthfuls, but her symptoms today seem very pancreatitis-y.

I’m so angry at myself for not having done a better job keeping the kitten food out of reach. I took her to an emergency vet (my regular one was closed) and they’ve decided to keep her overnight. the bloodwork tomorrow should show whether it’s pancreatitis.

[eon-tries-writing]

guysssss, i really wanna read y'all's books because i have gotten so invested in some of these characters so ummm,,, please write so i can read

ty

[causeimanartist]

Post League meeting thoughts

[sixxels]

sketch me ~ s.geto

you glance up at suguru. he’s shirtless, only in those loose plaid pajama pants he always wore when you two were alone after art classes, cooped up in his dorm. his hair’s down, messy from how many times he’s run a hand through it.

he looks like something pulled out of a dream, like if you blinked too long he might disappear. your pencil keeps moving anyway. sketching the slope of his collarbone, the way his body folds so easily into the shape of the night. each and every tattoo and piercing drawn with precision.

“sit still,” you mutter, and go back to sketching, shading in the edges of his jaw.

he hums, deep and content, lets his head fall to the side as he watches you. “you always draw me better than i look.”

“you flatter me.”

“you love it.”

…

“you ever think we’ll get out of here?” he asks quietly, suddenly.

“college?”

“yeah. or maybe just… this phase. being stuck between shit. too young to have it figured out, too old to not care.”

‘being stuck here in love with you?’ he thought.

you glance at him. he looks tired in the way only people who think too much can be. the weed’s made his voice softer, but not sleepy. there’s always something awake in him. some part that doesn’t know how to rest. some part that’s always thinking of you.

“i think i’ll miss it,” you say.

he looks at you now. properly.

“the classes?”

“the being stuck with you,” you say, and it slips out too fast.

his eyes darken. not in a scary way. in a quiet way. a heavy way. the silence stretches between you, thick and intimate, too full of things neither of you is ready to say.

you reach for your sketchbook, close it gently.

“done?”

“yeah.”

“can i see?”

you hesitate. then hand it over.

he studies it, eyes moving slow over every line, every detail. he doesn’t speak at first. just keeps looking, fingers brushing the edge of the page like he’s afraid to smudge it.

“you see me too well,” he says.

“someone has to.”

he sets the sketchbook down, reaches over and taps ash into the tray beside the bed. the joint’s almost out. he takes one last drag and stubs it out. then he leans back, arms resting behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

“i’m gonna sketch you now,” he says.

“i’m not high enough for that.”

“good. you’ll hold still better.”

you roll your eyes but settle in, shifting to sit at the edge of his bed, knees tucked under you, arms wrapped around your legs. the music shifts, ‘ivy’ bleeding into the haze, sweet and sharp.

he watches you for a moment. not drawing yet. just looking.

“what?”

“nothing,” he says. “just figuring out how to do this without making it obvious.”

“obvious?”

“that i’m in love with this view.”

your chest tightens. he doesn’t look at you when he says it. just finally picks up the pencil and starts sketching.

you don’t answer. can’t. because he says things like that all the time. careless, weightless, probably high. and you let him. because you’re scared of what might happen if you ask whether he means it.

you sit still, let him draw. his pencil scratches soft against the page. frank ocean keeps playing. the lights keep flickering. and the space between you stays filled with everything you won’t say.

not yet.

~ sixxels