#tell me if i missed anything lol

[arthursfuckinghat]

I'm at that part of chapter three my friends, so let me be a reminder that Colm O'Driscoll's plan to lure in Dutch after taking Arthur failed because nobody came looking for him.

He would have died being held captive any longer, he barely escaped.

The gang did not come for Arthur.

[racetrackmybeloved]

spot deserved more.

will die mad about how criminally underused spot was in livesies. they set up his character so much just to give us... nothing. in act 1 they laid the groundwork for him to be this intimidating major character, his name was mentioned four times before he even appeared on screen.

"there was spot with all his cronies" - ensemble, carrying the banner

"spot conlon's turf!" - jack

"that spot conlon gets me a little jittery" - finch

"even spot conlon sent over a kid just to say 'next event you can count on brooklyn'" - david

and then they only gave him four lines.

"borough what gave me birth" - brooklyn's here

"newsies united!"

"let's see what pulitzer's got to say to you now"

"have a look out there mr pulitzer. in case you ain't figured it out, we got you surrounded"

brooklyn's here is a bop of an introduction song, but why is it all he gets? his entire presence in the musical is limited to:

show up

have a cool 'im the most powerful/respected person in this room' moment

push jack

shake hands with jack, slap a table, distribute the newsies banner

go to pulitzer with jack and davey, mostly just stand to the side

hug tommy boy (??)

sell papers again

that is it.

look, i'm not just saying this because of how much bigger his role was in 92sies, because obviously there are different constraints blah blah, but why bother setting up a character if all you're going to do with him is have him stand threateningly off to the side? for the majority of his screen time he's just standing there looking intimidating.

there are characters with even less (smalls, mike and ike come to mind), but none of them are set up as if they were going to be main characters. heck, none of their names are even ever mentioned! as opposed to spot’s, which is mentioned five times. (the aforementioned four, plus “let’s hear it for spot conlon and brooklyn!” from david).

also, they completely underused tommy bracco as a dancer. (yes i know that he was tommy boy in OBC but this is specific to the proshot, mostly bc that's all i've watched lol).

we know that tommy bracco is a damn good dancer, why wasn't he in the large group sections of the curtain call? aside from jack, davey, crutchie and les, he was the only newsie to not appear in the large group at the end. all of the other brooklyn newsies were there, just not him. (he did get a small group section with elmer, kid blink and sniper, but wasn't in the starting group dance either). also, for the end part of finale, he's standing off to the side with crutchie, les, kid blink and oscar. (ok that's probably just a spacing thing but. it still annoys me Let Him Dance). (also side note, oscar just ,, being there during finale is hilarious to me. and morris standing at the top for almost the entire song?? they look SO done)

but yeah. give me anything, give me how this (sorry tommy bracco) objectively tiny guy became the most feared newsboy in new york, tell me how he is as a leader, show me jack and davey going to talk to him, tell me what happened after the strike, GIVE ME SPOT CONLON

[puppyeared]

if escape rooms as team building exercises became popular im not sure if id be more excited or terrified

[natreads]

2020, 2021, 2022, 2023 🎄

[theloveinc]

barbarian!bakugo + buying apples. you’ll notice I didn’t put any work into this making it more … fantasy-like. And that’s bc… I still couldn’t figure out how😞

(warning: misogyny, you are described as a maiden / dress wearing, you have a pa, world building sucks, bakugo … doesn’t talk)

-

Being the only maiden on one of barbarian!Bakugo’s cross country journeys. I’m not sure yet how or why you’re there, but I’d say he’s traveling and one of his fellow clansmen took you as a prize, or maybe you just hitched a ride on their cart yourself.

But they stop in a small village one day, parking their horses at the edge of a town square of cobblestone and brick, merchant booths surrounding the small shops: of butchers and farmers and fishermen and traders, all rowdy and beaming as they show off their wares.

The men split up (the one with green hair in a leather vest declaring he needs a blacksmith, the lanky one with dark bangs in the direction of new snare wire), though the bulky blonde one (the one in thick furs and pelts who’s never really spoken to you) stays around, picking at the shiny, pink apples of a booth quite close to where the cart you sit on in boredom is parked.

“Five gold for a sack, sir” the man behind the creaky, wooden stand says. He’s stout, thin-haired and wrinkly, all his years in the sun selling fruit showing proudly on his tanned skin. He gestures to the wide array of fruits, each like a piece of candy he wants to show off.

Bakugo (you think his name his, or rather, that’s how he was introduced to you by the redhead with unnaturally sharp teeth, biggest of the group) glances up, frown thin and tense and blood red eyes narrowed. His shoulders shift, the muscles of his exposed stomach rippling as he breathes, the smooth skin of his forehead pinching as if he’s calculating a sale just as he would any other battle or raid.

The sign next to both the men clearly states that apples are two gold a sack. Pears are three, plums are one. “But I’ll give you a deal for four gold,” the man continues.

The blonde ponders, inspecting the apples diligently as if they could be poison, or a waste of a trade. His eyes narrow slightly, lips pursing, and you realize, in his reaching for coin, the intuition he so usually takes pride in (saving the men once from a brutal hound attack, and you, too, another time when a swamp dweller caught the hem of your trousers) is not there… and that they don’t use the same alphabet. Maybe he can’t even… read.

“For two gold,” you call.

Both parties look to you. One set of eyes in an suspicious glare, the other in a tart and angry bitterness. The merchant’s leathery face sinks into a melted frown, his fists clenching as your own hand shields your eyes from the bright sun and hides a protective squint.

“Didn’t your pa ever tell you not to meddle in grown men’s business?” he half-shouts back, the laugh in his voice now tangled with a snarl, downright and plain rude.

“The sign says two,” swinging off your seat, you smooth down your simple frock as you point to the wooden board stained with charcoal that’s hung up next to him. “One sack of apples for two gold.”

Bakugo’s eyebrows raise for the briefest of seconds, then fall in another glare as his hand drops from where he holds his coin (in small, canvas bag tied to his belt with thin, leather cord. It sags against his hip, his pants dipping and uncovering a v-line that descends further into a region you’ve only seen once; at a bathing river in the hills, the bare curve and marks of your own hips exposed—)

“Don’t know where you picked up letters, missy,” the merchant scoffs. “Reading is men’s work.”

You approach the barbarian’s side, his head (messy with hair) tilted towards you as he watches on in silence. From the pocket of your dress, you take out two gold of your own and flick them on the table before you.

“My pa taught me how.”

Then you take Bakugo’s hand (thick and rough and hard to hold) in one of yours and march right back to the horses and cart. Bag of sweet, pink apples in the other.

[bang-bang-gang]

here it is! this was written in one sitting of hyperfocus. feel free to point out typos or textual mistakes to me.

inspired by the promo on dynamite where our esteemed EVP matthew jackson ponders implementing a dress code for a more professional presentation. in this fic they implement the dress code and well, absolutely no one follows it!

[ox1-lovesick]

hi

[that-was-anticlimactic]

one of the worst feelings ever is wanting to write but your hands hurt too much or the words just don’t want to work so you just sit there staring at a half finished doc with tears in your eyes bc you want to write and you need to write but everything is telling you that you can’t

[willowser]

you feel like home (you're like a dream come true)—

bakugou x reader

wc: 3k+

tags: SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 359+, explicit language, angst, this is trash garbage but it's how i'm coping

Dynamight wins the For-All Selfless Service Award.

A wet, cement-like dread fills your belly at the sound of his name echoing across the atrium, thunderous and so powerful that, for a split-second, you fear it will shatter the glass ceiling.

It's like the awakening of an old God, one that wanted to be left well enough alone; summoning him is a swarm of night-black clouds, filled with ample rain to drown all those that dared disturb his slumber. Not a breath is spared as you all wait for the downfall.

Beside you, Masaru shifts, turning in his chair to peer out over the sea of well-dressed tables and shining Heroes, as if he's lost his own. It's not until Red Riot shuffles sheepishly across the lit stage, waving shyly as he accepts the golden FA Best Jeanist is cradling gently in his hands.

There's a hint of hesitation before the retired Pro relinquishes it, a small exchange that's lost to the low blooming chatter across the ballroom. Kirishima beams a signature smile as he takes it and has to lean down into the mic, like the gentle giant he is.

Almost in unison, the room heaves a collective sigh; disaster avoided.

"I know Dynamight is so honored to receive this…honor,"

It's been a long time since you've seen him.

"So on his behalf, I want to thank everyone that has supported him all these years—"

Been a long time since anyone has.

Bakugou's been out-stationed for a half-decade, maybe more, but you can still remember the tension lining his face in the flat light of the train station. In public, with his parents and friends and their ready goodbyes.

All he'd given you was an insincere glare, half a hug, and a gritted demand to call him later, once he'd arrived at his new agency. It seemed a silly request; he's always been terrible about voicing how he feels, maybe a little smoother on the phone and out of sight, but just as stilted and unsure as ever.

On the high definition screens above the stage, photos of him shuffle, too reminiscent of a memorial to settle your upset. Stills from recorded footage of his takedowns and captures, of his rescues. The same ID picture on his Hero profile, from when he was 22, and his graduation photo. A smile haunts your face; he's never been one for cameras.

Masaru settles back into his seat, straightens his tie and shrugs at the team, who are all watching him with crest-fallen faces. You try to stay neutral, avoiding all their gazes as you fiddle with an eloquently folded napkin on the table.

Like a child, some giddy part of you hoped to see him take the stage, accept the award in all his glory. Unashamed and confident as ever, not so disheartened by his loss, because that's always been Bakugou.

But a small part of you is relieved; he's not a stage monkey and it wouldn't be Bakugou either, to give a rehearsed speech of false thanks. Blowing it off, a fuck you to what remains of the Comission—that's more like it. You want to believe it means some things haven't changed.

The show plays on without another hitch, something that bothers you, and when your coworker leans in to whisper a harmless "I wonder where he's at", you are up and abandoning the table, set on a mission of unknown expectation. The wants in your body are all coalescing into one another—to find him, to never see him again, to come clean about how you feel, whatever that may be—becoming a resounding overlap of voices that set you to autopilot.

You heard his voice last nearly six months ago, when Masaru called his number on speakerphone so the team could sing him a happy birthday. It was met with ill-tempered complaint, irritated at his father blowin' up my phone for nothin', but Masaru was smiley as ever, unaffected.

How jealous you were; if only the tone of his voice could mean so little to you.

It's something you remembered often in the middle of the night, when you would turn to the empty space of your bed and recall how pliable he was, whenever he worked up the courage to stay with you. Bakugou would let you kiss his cheeks or poke at his stomach or hold his hand—little affections he was too resistant to in the daytime. He would always claim to be half-asleep and unaware, but you'll never forget the red gleam of his eyes as he watched you through his long, dark lashes.

When you come into the open lobby of the hotel, you find it astonishing to see his solid figure at the bar-top, suit jacket haphazardly draped over the chair he's in; it's rare that he drinks, only on few occasions with Masaru and the requisite glass of champagne at events such as these—though he doesn't attend many. After everything that's happened, all that's been said in his wake, to see him now is—

Not Godly. Just a man.

You sit to his left, without a word. Maybe if you were a better person, you could say that it was for his benefit, that you're offering the space for him to reveal himself at his own choice—and while those things aren't untrue, the matter of the fact is that you don't think you're ready to see it just yet.

There's only a half-empty glass of water in front of him, and he's drawing lazy, mindless doodles into the frost with his left hand. His right arm is still entirely bandaged, wrapped up in a sling he's keeping close to his chest.

If he recognizes you at all when you sit down, he acknowledges nothing, minutely raising a shoulder as if to curl further into himself. The bartender takes your request for a glass of water, too, and at the sound of your timid voice, Bakugou stills completely.

For a long time, you've thought about this moment. What you would say upon seeing him again. There's a script somewhere in the ridges of your mind that's been perfected, one you've poured over and over again on sleepless nights, when you felt alone and angry and hated him.

The last full conversation the two of you had was set up similarly; chock-full of tension, trying to hide from the obvious as it made space between you. How unfair it felt, to be mad over something that hadn't gotten the chance to blossom just yet.

No point in tryin'. Gonna be gone for, shit, I don't know. Should just find someone else.

You felt ashamed for loving him so badly. For wanting him more than anything and being unwilling to voice it.

All you care to say now is, "It's so good to see you again."

It directs him to you immediately, though when you dare to look up, he turns, ducking his chin on his right side. The very notion of it makes you sick; not the wreckage itself, but what it's done to him, how it must make him feel if he can't even look at you.

To be so afraid of it initially wells a guilt the size of his tight fist in your chest. How selfish. How vain.

Bakugou tries to speak, but has to clear his throat once. "You—got some weird thing with my dad, or what?"

You let out a sudden spark of laughter, bewildered at the question. You make a face, considering, and take a sip of water. "I mean, he is pretty handsome."

"You're disgusting."

A balloon of relief airs in your lungs as you laugh again; some things never change. From the corner of his eye, the sound draws his attention again, gaze jumping from your face to your dress and back to the safety of his glass.

"No," you tell him, "I'm on his team designing costumes, and stuff."

A wave of embarrassment washes over you that he didn't even know about your career. With as much time as your work squad spends with the Bakugou family, you would think that you would have been mentioned, at least once.

In fact, you're certain it must have been brought up; Masaru cares too much. Buys you special edition mugs on your birthday and brings coffee for everyone on those early mornings, is the last to leave some days. On the news that morning, when they'd broadcasted the battle—Dynamight's Downfall?—you were the first person he'd looked at before rushing off to find his wife.

Either Bakugou never wanted to hear about it, you, or he's just scrounging for conversation.

Silence settles as you ponder. When you come back to the here and now, you take in what you can of him; the smooth plane that he allows you of his face, the few faint scars that have appeared in the time since you last were together; his hair is a little shorter now, albeit just as ashen and wild, not tamed in the slightest; the top two open buttons of his shirt, and the tie that barely hangs around his neck. You're surprised he even put it on.

It dawns on you how much he must have changed over the years, even before all this. How much you've missed. Traitorous tears sting the backs of your eyes and you have to sniff to keep a handle on your composure, and not a second of it goes unnoticed by Bakugou; you become aware of the anxious jerk of his leg as he bounces it, how he shifts and curls and clears his throat.

Begrudgingly, he murmurs, "'m not takin' that damn award."

You hum with assent, leaning forward to cross your arms on the bar, prop your chin in your palm. "I don't blame you, it's like," you shake your head, thinking, "'Thank you for your service. Sorry you almost died.'"

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he takes a drink of water. "For fucking real."

You'd said it carelessly as a joke to ease the tension, settle the nerves bubbling in your stomach, but now that the words are out, the mention has you feeling ill again.

It's all anyone has been talking about for days: Bakugou’s damage, how much he must have suffered, how he'll never be the same again. To hear it, and then to speak of the calamity to the man himself—it adds weight, that slow-drying cement.

Selfishly, you think of him before, when you were both young and standing at the precipice of something neither of you knew how to handle. If you'd known what you know now, you wouldn't have let him walk away. You wouldn't have agreed quietly, broke your own heart because you were afraid.

Another wave of emotions swallows you, and no matter how fast you blink or how far back you tilt your head, the tears rise and fall.

If you speak any louder than a whisper, you'll crack. "I was with your dad that day, we all were, because he always leaves the news on, you know? Keeps it—keeps it muted in the workshop, and when he—when the volume went up and we all looked and—" you frown, hard and dissolving, and hate how it must make you look. "And all I could think about was all the things I never said to you that I—"

In a flash, Bakugou shoves away from the bar, grabbing his jacket as he rounds the chair and mutters, "I can't listen to this right now."

You have to slap a hand over your mouth to hold back the sob that threatens to ruin you, but the fissures run deep, echo down to your bones.

Some things never change; he's always had one foot out the door with you, ready to run at the first sign of that all-encompassing feeling he didn't know how to escape. On the rare nights he allowed himself to spend with you—even then he wore a deep frown, tucked his face into the crook of your neck as if he wanted to stay buried there. Held you tightly, enough to leave little reminders long after he was gone.

The first time he'd kissed you, he shouldn't have and you both knew that. After graduation, waning in the shadow of his looming departure. The shitty studio apartment you rented, that cost more than it was worth; Kirishima and Bakugou agreed to help move what few things you had at the dorms, what was left over at your parent's house. It wasn't much, but the process went much smoother with the two of them.

You'd spent most of the summer together, by chance, and all of your efforts went into diverting the feelings that threatened to grow under your surface. Most everyone that you knew was quick to issue a warning: Bakugou wasn't interested. In all the time they'd known him in school, very little of his attention went to girls and dating, and setting your sights on him was a doomed task.

At that point, you'd refused to acknowledge that's what you'd done; Bakugou made sure everyone got home safely and not just you; he got lunch with Kiri and Mina just as often as you two did; he didn't look at you in the dark any special way, so close on the couch as a movie danced on the TV screen.

It must have been an accident—that's what you tried to tell yourself for a long time.

After the boxes were moved in and Kirishima was gone, he stood in your tiny kitchen and claimed to hate it. Opened the cabinets and poked at your oven and tested the temperature of your freezer, looked through the narrow window that offered a view of—nothing: the back of a small pharmacy.

You asked him what was wrong and his face twisted up, like he was going to be sick or cry and then he grabbed you. Hands trembling against your face and tangling in your hair, lips clumsy and harsh, furious like always. Like it was his last chance.

Half a decade later, more than, and you still swell at the thought of him.

You wipe a hand under your eyes gingerly, wary of your airbrushed makeup, before sliding off the chair. The rest of the team has probably conjured up all manner of conspiracies as to where you are, and perhaps you should tell Masaru of his son's state.

When you turn to retreat, however, Bakugou is standing there. Not ten feet from you, like he meant to run before thinking better of it. Fully open. Bare.

Human.

The right half of his face is still tender, shiny and raw, and his eye is ringed in red. It's jarring; Bakugou has always been a pretty boy, despite his animosity towards the label, and the tabloids stay littered with mentions of him and his dangerously good looks.

There's been nothing but speculation about how he's come out and you'd been admittedly nervous, because you were afraid to find that you were more vain than you'd ever known, unable to look upon what remains of the boy you knew.

But to see it so blatant; the untouched side of his face in comparison to what's been war-torn.

All you can think is—

"I'm so glad you're still here."

You don't miss the shine that waters his left eye or how hard he swallows, averting his gaze even further. When you step up to him, he doesn't resist you, only lets out a breath you feel as you run your hands across the marble of his chest.

Despite everything, you waver with a watery laugh that captures him again, because you mean it. All the years and anger and hope and terror and silence and waiting—it holds no candle to him, here and alive and looking at you as he did in your kitchen that day.

Carefully as you can, you wind yourself up in him, around his sling and neck and pressed as close as you can be, and it's not until you nose against his throat that he wraps his arm around you. Tight, like it might be his last chance.

"You," he murmurs, and you can feel how hard he's clenching his jaw from the way it digs into your cheek. "And the shit you didn't say?" Bakugou breathes in sharply, unaware of how deep his fingers dig into the skin your dress exposes. "All I could think about is what I did say, how fuckin' stupid—"

I'm leavin', so don't—I can't—just, don't expect anything from me.

All the long nights and dropped calls and heartbreak and distance—it holds no candle to him, here and alive and looking down at you through his dark, wet lashes.

You slip up onto your toes and kiss him as you've wanted to for years, as you were too afraid to; fingers gentle against his cheek, thumbing the edge of his jaw, passing all that you've kept from him through slow and purposeful lips.

It takes him off guard, which you expected, but only a moment passes before he's gripping you with intent, melding into you as his trembling hand goes to your neck. You can't help the smile you curl into, one he feels, and Bakugou huffs, annoyed, before slanting his head, parting your lips with his own as he dissolves.

It's foreign now, to what it was years ago. Unhurried, no longer afraid, giving instead of taking all that he could hold in both hands. Half a decade later, maybe more, and you swell at the promise of him, the thud of his still-beating heart as it echoes in your chest.

And then there's a loud roar of applause from down in the award show room and you freeze, suddenly put back into place as the sound of glasses clinking and heels on the tile and murmured conversation surrounds you.

"Sorry," you gasp, trying—and failing—to pull away as his hold tightens. Insistent, like it will never slacken again. "We're in public."

"Don't care," Bakugou rasps, gently butting his forehead against your own as he sighs, great and lax and slow. Just before he goes to kiss you again, he says, "'m just glad I'm still here."

[itscooltoskate]

Lionel Messi 🤝 Timo Boll

Wonder child

Lefty

Can effortlessly switch hands/feet and still make incredible shots

Stayed in one club for nearly all his career

Is/was the mvp of said club

Loved by everyone

A true players’ player

Has won pretty much every trophy there is

Has been no 1 with 36 +-1 years old

True sportsmanship

Humble

Introverted

Can't separate him from his respective mate/coffee

Really cares about and takes time for his fans

Just a guy™ with some massive talent and a hobby

No drama, unproblematic king

Married to childhood sweetheart

Been a pro athlete for way longer than normal people

Getting retirement questions in interviews and answering them with “I’ll play for as along as I enjoy it and haven’t thought of that yet”

Most importantly: adorable af

I rest my case.

[dottores]

ahhhh the sudden awareness of where you stand with people my beloathed </3

[whatimdoing-here]

Went through a box of stuff from when I was younger when I was at my parent's house because my mom (who kept SO much) is starting to really try and go through things.

One thing I'd forgotten is that I used to write. REALLY write. I was a good essay writer, story writer... Once I had to really focus on math and science in school I just stopped writing. And I kind of hate that. But also have zero idea what I'd write about now. Maybe something I'll consider.

This has been a pointless post.

[bleachbleachbleach]

Just dropping by to say I love your blog a lot!!❤️❤️❤️ you are doing the lords work lol someday I try hard to find good questions to send you that I think you'd like to think about--but all I ever come up with is "since it's canon that after the tybw and 10 year time skip and they have tv--who would actually have a tv, and what do think they'd watch, or would they try to make their own weird version of a tv station/show? Would ichigo be able to get it on his home tv, like, he's just wanting one day and then there's yumichika, renji, ikkaku and shuuhei on the lowest budget drama in all 3 worlds"

Just want yall to know I love and appreciate all the work you do!!❤️❤️❤️

Aww, thank you! I'm glad you enjoy it! <333 You are one of our OG dash blorbos and it makes me really happy that we continue to blorbo it up together. <3

This seems like an excellent opportunity to bring back

which is further elaborated in this post. (I’d forgotten everything except the C-SPAN gif, which is a total disservice to House Hunters Interdimensional—I feel so ashamed!)

As far as who has TVs, I think all the division offices have one, because they were part of a military tech rollout. They have yet to really catch on individually, though. In the commercial district, there’s a TV store with a whole wall of them out front, and people tend to simple congregate in the streets to watch whatever’s on, as though it were a live playhouse. The difference is that it’s 24-hour programming, and when it’s not airing Central 46 C-SPAN it’s fueled by camera-happy insomniacs.

I used to live in a city that had a local access channel that a friend of mine swore by, which was a single-camera one-man puppet show performing the entire story of the Bible. Soul Society definitely has one of those, except it performs the full history of Soul Society. It’s actually incredibly well-researched and is the love labor of Some Guy who was granted access to and spent a lifetime absorbing the Kuchiki records. Byakuya has signed off on the show, but owing to its low production value, he did not consent to use of the Kuchiki name anywhere but in the credits roll.

There’s also a shopping channel that is essentially a slideshow of the existing SC catalogue, intercut with footage of straight-faced SC staffers describing the items. This show is incredibly popular, because it reaps the benefits of dual audiences: 1) People who want to buy stuff from the shopping channel, and 2) people who watch it because they think it’s a hilarious, dry-witted mockumentary-style social satire. (It is not.)

Similarly, there’s a fairly ambitious show that compiles "Lights and Sirens" style reporting from the top 13 most popular border checkpoints in Rukongai, filmed by bored shinigami sitting in firetowers. This show typically has the affect of John Trudell as Randy Peone in Smoke Signals’ KREZ Radio. (This would be my favorite show, she said, surprising no one.)

Yumichika, Renji, Ikkaku, and Hisagi DEFINITELY made a no-budget drama that was going for a found footage aesthetic but in actuality has the aesthetic of "Hisagi with a camcorder." Even though it’s supposed to be a hard-hitting crime thriller set in the universe of Detective Byakuya (but not centered on Byakuya), there are often entire sequences of, like, Yumichika doing tai chi on a dramatic outcropping in silhouette, sunset behind him, and the other three offering hushed commentary like nature documentarians.

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

got tagged by @greypetrel for WIP Wednesday earlier this week so. consider this a wip whenever x'D Had to clean up a couple things before i felt ok showing my progress lolol but! I am still working on this :]

hair is very low on my priority list rn lol, and color won't come into play until i'm at least 80% done with everything else. I am mostly trying to figure out how to arrange the clothing & extras layers to make them work together properly (gonna maybe do that with hair later too to make them fit with horns better, but not rn). Also me @ all the picrews with sparse beard options: watch me

[ichigosoju]

🍪🥛

[kn11ves]

emotional support group for autistics who got called condescending and rude as kids just for responding to things directly and still not knowing how they were being mean