#from my desk

[boredomblazed]

Looking a little bleak today after a week of heat and sunshine!

[apnourry]

Okay to message?

dms are always open. mutual or not🥰 pls just be respectful and patient. I work 2 jobs and I'm in school full time and I take care of animals and and and and and. There's a lot going on but I do my best to get back to people!

[tenowls]

double sided standee design i spent forever on. im unwell

[randomfusilier]

I'M KIND OF A BIG DEAL

[anachronic-cobra]

Love that while online fandom in general is having a weird meltdown about the morality of enjoying anything darker than sanitized fluff in fiction, the Danny Phantom fandom is still sitting in the corner 16 years after the show ended with a blankie and cocoa and their 10,000th deep-fanon supertorture cannibalism vivisection psychological horror fic

[karda]

[ukiyoebirds]

The profound joy that comes from being listened to.

May need to click on the image for better quality.

[why-the-heck-not]

you can tell things are getting serious when the floor is ur main place of study

[emberglowfox]

forgot to ever post this. unfinished thing of my dorm room

[fluoresensitives]

Throughout history and in our modern society, women are supposed to be: thin, silent, chipper, happy, pale, dressed modestly but not too modestly, sexy but not too sexy, young, reserved, sane, able-bodied, fertile, mothering, selfless, humble, restrained, and, above all, white. She has to be a She, she has to be cis, she has to wear makeup and dresses, skirts; she cannot under any circumstances be described as smelly, loud, brash, dark, or crude. She cannot wrinkle, she cannot stink, she cannot cause a scene. A woman is always religious, a woman is always married or seeking to be married, a mother or hoping to be a mother. To stray from this path is to become weird. While I personally do not believe that any act that subverts the status quo makes one queer, I do think it makes you weird. There’s an honor to that, to stepping outside of the very thin, very pale line set by mainstream culture. To exist as one’s truest, boldest self, to exist as a human being with warts and farts and smells, to be unusual and to react with the madness, the anger that this world we live in inspires is brave. It is weird to be brave, and it is brave to be weird.

[dizzybizz]

FoM (fields of memes (pt1))

[keferon]

I was just wondering, if you’ve never showed them before, is there any chance we could see your collection of Transformers figures? As a collector myself, I love seeing which ones other people have, and I’m sure others would as well.

Oh yeah I have a bunch of them to show:D

(Although..I am quite bad at photography so lemme just throw together a bunch of older pics instead of making a new one)

I also have all Constructicons figures that can form Devastator but I can’t take a photo of them right now so you'll have to believe my word

[sualne]

table troubles (chapter 1 is out btw)

[ping-ski]

"why don't you put it riiiight here, doll?"

(silly extra under the cut <3 )

[atragedyin97acts]

OUTFIT SWAP!

[cruel-hiraeth]

It’s hard to focus when Zoro trains.

But you join him in the crow’s nest anyway, seeking solace in the comfort of his quiet company. You don’t often share words, but you do share space—share the same, balmy air to breathe, sea salt coating your tongues.

And that’s enough, you think. I could live a content life like this.

Your eyes drift, though.

From your book, your notepad, your camera—any distraction that you may have in front of you. Because, well, how could you not look?

He’s half nude, body carved from stone, a figure that would make even the gods jealous. From the expanse of his back to the heft of his pecs to the cut of his abs, he’s the picture of physical perfection, sweat trickling down his firm, tawny flesh in rivulets.

It’s hard to focus on one thing when Zoro trains.

But, more often than not, your gaze seem to hone in on his hands.

(Once, you pressed your palm to his, heel to heel, after sharing too much sake. Your skin was warm from both the alcohol and the proximity. His cheeks were flushed, too—a shade of pink that reminded you of the blooming sakura in Wano. His hand dwarfed yours, and made your fingers look puny like a child’s.)

Whether he’s holding dumbbells or—as he is now—his katana, you marvel at both the strength and dexterity of his calloused palms, the way they curl around the hilt with assuredness, never wavering, white-knuckled. Each of his digits must maintain their poise, suspending the blade in its grip, absolute control the difference between life and death.

His past missteps are obvious: gnarled scars cut across the expanse of his body, his hands no exception. As battle-worn as the rest of his flesh, his hands tell a story: of purpose; of betrayal; of bloodshed; of hope. They are implements of war; they have wrought injury and death, wrath and ruin.

But they are also shockingly gentle.

A door held open to let you pass through. A palm on your shoulder to let you know he’s there. An overfull cup of sake passed without a spill…

You lose yourself in thoughts of Zoro, Zoro, Zoro. So much so that you fail to notice the swordsman’s not-so-subtle glances in your direction. He stifles a chuckle at the dreamy expression on your face, and returns to his training.

He may not be able to decipher the longing behind your watch, but your attention is always welcome, as far as he’s concerned.