#and ya know what? fuck yeah for that

[lotusishere]

I like how Sophie reacts to abusive parents. She hears about the fucked up shit they do and she’s like “wtf fuck those bitches” and keeps the same energy when she sees them. Even if she doesn’t know them at all or does. She doesn’t give af. She keeps the same energy and doesn’t let that shit slide if she hears or sees it.

[calamarispiderart]

you really are pathetic.

[nenoname]

with ford being aware of tbob from his travels, i'm surprised there hasn't been an au of pre weirdmaggedon!bill getting his hands on the book of bill (along with all the time paradox stuff that comes from a dead bill telling his past self exactly what to do)

and the first thing tbob!bill would likely make his past self do is murder stan

[optimisticrunawaygalaxy]

Excuse the bad quality but hOLY shit

[rederiss]

Hello I’m back again to say something possibly cursed

Would the people allow me to say s1 Dean Jeremy Knox?

(Like early early s1)

… Is this my ao3 pfp???

This is pretty curse and gave me a good chuckle but I fear that Dean’s bisexual ass is too straight for Jeremy Knox… but lowkey kinda fuck with this so APPROVED!

[razmerry]

this is a genuinely vulnerable, touching, and emotionally powerful moment of seeking out connection from jason to dick until you remember that being "all back to normal" refers to when jason got digested by an alien, trapped in a goo egg, and then turned into a tentacle monster that ate people

[chidoroki]

June 14th, 2025 - Chapter 181's 5th Anniversary

(celebrating with one Emma + one quote from almost every chapter)

[fidgetspringer]

I REALLY wish tumblr was clearer on what is and what isn't considered too scandalous for the site.

Like right now the only way to know if your art is gonna get taken down or not is to post it and hope. And then if it does get flagged you can only hope it won't take your whole blog down with it.

[not-brionnnne]

hey has anyone ever considered doing shinjiro smut for after the fade to black but he lays you across his lap, like has anyone ever considered the canon praise kink with him more—shinjiro who scolds you, calls you trouble and tells you to stay close to him like a "good girl", shinjiro who acts tough, pretends to be fed up with you pushing him around (he loves it, but that doesn't mean you're not gonna hear about it), ignoring what he wants, so two can play that game, and you think, god, he's not holding back anymore, he's going to kiss me, finally, we're going to— but no, he settles on his bed and pats his lap and tells you that you need to "take responsibility" for teasing him like that, messing with his feelings — "be a good girl." remember, you started this.

[variksel]

its fucking terrifying when a random man feels entitled to your attention even in public

[telesodalite]

Thinking about KrokFire...

Thinking about them sparring in the cargohold, because it's a long trip, and cabin fever is setting in, and Misfire is gonna pop a gasket if he doesn't do something about it soon, since flying in open space gets real boring real fast, and it's making everyone a little nervous, but Krok has time to kill, and maybe, quietly, he's also two steps away from doing something stupid just to feel alive again after cruising around pointlessly, mindlessly, endlessly, for so so long... (It's barely been a month)

And sure, Misfire is a terrible sparring partner. He has no technique, no concept of proper balance, or an inkling of how to use the weight of his own frame. He rushes headfirst like he's more bull than fighter jet, he talks too much, he spits, he bites, and he can't stand losing. But, in a roundabout way, it almost makes him the perfect partner in Krok's eyes.

Crankcase won't spar, "can't" he claims flatly, gesturing at the gaping hole in his helm, but Krok can respect his want for distance. That occasional flash of fear and frozen unease in Crankcase's visor in close combat doesn't go over his head. He knows that look. He gets it. He won't push.

Fulcrum... well, a streetlight might be a tougher fight, or at least it would stay up longer and complain less. So much for a once respectable officer of the empire. What was Deathsaurus' command thinking promoting anyone without any actual combat training? It would almost be pathetic if Fulcrum didn't find a way to put the vitriol of thrown fists into his words instead. Now there was some swears Krok hadn't heard in a couple millennia, it would be inspiring if it wasn't his own spark Fulcrum had been damning to the pits and back through a bloody nose.

Spinister? Now Spinister was a good fighter, a better fighter, Krok wasn't so prideful to deny that truth. He'd tasted the dust of the cargohold floor enough to know it was a definitive fact. But Spinister held back, he was careful, he matched Krok's pace, his movements, he held himself defensively, any attack was quick, simple, and merely restraining. It was less a fight, and more a waiting game until Krok finally gave up, and that... well, that did sting a bit.

But Misfire? Misfire was a different beast all together. Sure Krok could dance circles around the flier all day, but it wasn't totally effortless work, he had to stay sharp, Misfire was so predictably unpredictable, he kept him thinking, moving, on his toes, and maybe it felt good to sidestep another stupid headfirst charge, easily grabbing and swinging Misfire around by his arm, so unbalanced all Krok had to do was let him go, and the weight of his own frame would send him careening into the crates stacked around them.

Most days, Misfire would give up by then, pull himself off the pile of overturned cargo with no small amount of burning shame and frustration, as he avoided Krok's optics and stormed off into the bowels of the ship before Krok could say something to ease the sting of losing again and again. Misfire didn't want his apologies though, and even as a pang of guilt ate at him over it, Krok knew he'd be back eventually.

But today, too pent-up and bored to quit now, Misfire pushed himself back onto his feet and charged back in again, and again, and again.

And Krok moved with him again, and again, and again. It was almost repetitive, but lively enough that he could feel the energon pumping through his head, a thrumming beat in his audials that reminds him of deafening battlefields and roaring stadiums, and oh, he'd missed this feeling, the adrenaline, the movement, more so than he thought he did.

Maybe it's the overconfidence that gets him then, or the memories pulling him out of the present, but Misfire's fist suddenly comes slamming down into his mask, and for a moment everything becomes a blur, until he finds himself on the floor, clutching at the shattered metal falling from his face in disbelief.

Faintly he can feel the twinge of broken mesh, of pain pinching dully across scarred flickering sensors, and maybe it's the adrenaline that pulls a suprised and breathy laugh out of him as he stares down at the pieces in his hand.

Maybe it's also the disbelief, the sudden shock at being struck hard enough to break his mask, by Misfire of all mechs. Or maybe he's cracked his helm, finally snapping something important deep in his processor, some vital function that kept him sane all these years.

Either way, an old familiar buzz of heady energy fills his chest, loosening his joints and straightening his struts as he stands back up, brushing off the broken remains of his mask as he stares back at Misfire, barefaced and bleeding and amused as the flier's optics go bright and wide.

And all Misfire can do for a moment is stand there, wide-eyed and breathless, his own adrenaline filled frame and hammering processor still trying to make sense of the broken plating of his knuckles and the energon trickling down Krok's scarred lips.

But connections are made, and it's a panicked realization at first, a cold dread, a 'ohhhhh fuck oh primus I fucked up I'm dead I'm so fucking dead-!' sort of feeling, as Krok's marred face breaks into an energon stained grin. But then there's another feeling, growing somewhere underneath the panic, a sudden curl of heat in his chest, a flush of pride, conviction, a sort of frenzied joy at the sight of broken mesh and fresh energon, and another rush of hot anticipation as Krok began to move again, circling, waiting, an unspoken question in the air as he rolls his shoulders back and flexes his hands.

And Misfire answers eagerly, suprising himself almost as he charges foward again, wanting more of that feeling, wanting to win again.

It's not really sparring past this point, and somewhere in the back of their minds they both know that. Every strike, every kick, every punch, it's all thoughtless instinct, each clash of plating, and bite of denta, and scrape of fingertips, is part of a mad dash for victory in the gladiator pit of scrap and debris they've built around themselves.

Of course, it can't last forever. They're no real gladiators, no phase-sixers, no primes, and movements get sluggish, vents rattle and wheeze as coolant pumps reach their limits, and building condensation slides powerless punches right off of scuffed metal and mesh.

Even like this though, worn out and bleeding from more scrapes than he had half a mind to count, Krok is still better, and Misfire is still predictable, and it's no great feat to sweep his legs out from beneath him, landing him flat on the floor, wings spread out and chestplate heaving.

Overworked joints sharply protest as he goes to pin the flier down bodily, and finally Krok faces the fact he has to consider how to end this, so he might let his own beaten frame finally still for a moment to breathe.

But as Krok catches one flailing arm in his grip, scoffing at the desperation, still goading Misfire on even as he tries to end this, a hand stubbornly catches his throat, but stops before it can truly squeeze.

And once more they're not really moving, just staring, watching, but it's less wired and tense now, rather, its shaky, a little unfocused, as exhaustion filters out in heaving puffs of hot air between their frames.

Someone's plating is rattling, Krok isn't sure if it's his own or Misfire's, but the cost of adrenaline is painfully noticeable now. His grip loosens on Misfire's arms, and the idea of total victory is less sweet as his cables begin to ache throughout his inner-framework.

But Misfire's hand slides up to catch his jaw before he can lean back and relent to a truce, and he's pulling him closer, and Krok starts to push him off, call it quits before either of them breaks something past repair, but a flash of energon on Misfire lips catches his eye, and that hadn't been there a moment ago?

Before he can even begin to ask what that was supposed to mean, Misfire is pulling him down again, angling his helm upwards to feverishly meet his lips half-way.

Although the mesh of Misfire's face was throughly bruised and scuffed, Krok had frustratingly failed to return the favor of a busted lip. So, it had to be his own, smeared across Misfire's face at some point in the scuffle, it shouldn't have been interesting in the slightest, but Krok's processor was hazy, slow, and his optics trailed Misfire's glossa as he licked his lips and made an odd curious sound.

And maybe it was a stupid move to make so impulsively, one he'd regret making probably, but still too caught up in the waning heated high of the fight, Misfire figured he could worry about losing such a hard-earned battle later. Right now, this seemed far better than actually winning, and the taste of Krok's energon felt like a victory and reward nonetheless.

Bracing himself as Misfire wriggled his other hand free to splay out over his thigh, holding him desperately against his frame as he tried pulling him even closer, Krok considered the heat dispersion warnings flickering distractingly in his peripheral, and the very noticeable strain on his back and legs, even his arms.

It's not a great position to be in right now, after all they've done already. He'll regret it, he knows he will, his body will make sure of it, if Spinister doesn't first.

But then Misfire's glossa is sliding against the jagged edges of his teeth, and he's making hoarse little pathetic noises into Krok's mouth that stoke some sort of ego at having the flier so desperate beneath him, and Misfire's hands are warm and heavy over aching plating and seams, and really, on second thought, after weeks of boredom, why the hell not?

They've got nowhere to be.

[forgetful-river]

You're allowed to ascend but only if God wants you to, and God can be a bit of an authoritarian bastard

[dailyhtfboards]

Imma be honest

Blogs like this are beloved to me because htf has been my comfort series since I was a teenager in middle school

Like even when I go in and out of watching the show a lot even just watching an episode or two can cheer me up

Awww thank ya anon! I’m flattered folks like this silli blog so much <333 I mean I kinda just like made it on a whim since I had a lotta screen-shots of the boards and it’d be like something interesting to try runnin. Still kinda amazed I’ve almost reached day 100 without missing any even if I’ve been a lil late a few times but shhh

[spookythesillyfella]

—–- "Green" -–—

"Do you remember when we used to chase each other during springtime – when the fields had just come back to life?

When I would grab you by the wrist and drag you along through the tall grass?

When you'd trip on a pebble and fall – and I'd cry, over and over babbling apologies?

Your clothes were stained with green – your shirt and your pants – and, while your laughter assured me that you were okay, you had mud splashed on your face.

---

We'd sit beneath the sun, on the grass that had been gently stroked by its rays,

We'd pluck delicate flowers, who's color sparkled like your eyes in the aster's light.

You offered me a bouquet of Forget-me-nots; the thought of you always lifted my spirits,

I didn't know what to give you – I only judged by color – but I handed you a Chrysanthemum flower; never tell how uninspired I was to a single soul...

---

When the moon would rise and the sky would darken, we'd lay down on a bedding made of leaves,

We'd look at the stars, and they would look at us; with your finger, you would trace the Big Dipper, and you taught me how to navigate with the North Star,

When a shooting star would fly across the brilliant blue, you'd urge me to make a wish; "As impossible as it may seem, it'll come true, I swear!"

And I, even though I never told you, always did what I was told...

---

I wished that, for the rest of our lives, it would all stay the same.

To stay together, amongst flowers, under the stars...

---

And I'm once again crying, begging for forgiveness,

Mud splashed on your face, clothes stained with green,

So is the shovel used for the burial,

Rest peacefully, under the stars, amongst the flowers, in the field..."

[bottomvalerius]

was already spiraling because the average (liberal) American can’t afford an ounce of empathy or reflect at all about who this shit will DIRECTLY impact, and THIS. this is what’s going to set me off today.

EXPLORE. WHAT COMMUNITY TUMBLR??????

[n0bluev]

@fushiglow hmm….wonder who i’d draw this for all of a sudden and why… 🤔🤔