Yisssssss! I Am Hyped

them,,,,

Did one of the few things that brings me joy lately: raccoon x fem!alien humanoid bumping uglies art 🎨 ✨️ ♥️

You have been warned

Don't think James Gunn truly understands how much he changed my brain chemistry with his silly little movie about found family and second chances so of course my brain chooses the most wholesome way to express my love for Rocket lmao

Acne and the scars that is can cause do not diminish anyone's natural beauty. Anyone who says otherwise is a shallow jerk-ass.

Can you please do me a favour and reblog this if you think people with acne and acne scars can still be attractive?

I’d really appreciate it. Thank you.

A Call Home ———

Little hands The world is yours Hold it close with open arms Little feet With miles ahead Take it slow see it all take it in

I see me in you You in me I see me in you You in me I see it in your eyes I see it in your eyes Little heart Dancing on So the ins and outs won't bring you down Little dream Grow up tall With a little rain A little sun you'll feel alive I see me in you You in me I see me in you You in me I see it in your eyes I see it in your eyes Little hands The world is yours Hold it close with open arms Little hands -Little Hands Inland Sky

———-

Based off Marvel comic creatures and the story by @bbasmos. I finally attempted to color this and it couldn’t have been more of a chaotic day.

I saw an image from a film called Delivery Man and decided to draw it for RocketRaccoonPromptWeek. Check out the movie, the song or the story and I hope you have a good time with it.

if you liked Giftwrap...

⋆˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall 𖤣𖥧𖡼⚘.˚⋆ preview [est 2/14] (a meetgroot*)

this has been a labor of love since like. august or september. featuring semi-shy ultrafeminine angel-reader from giftwrap (kinktober 2023).

18+ only | rocket x f!reader | no use of y/n | 3? parts | wip | word count: pending.

wind·fall /ˈwin(d)ˌfôl/ noun. an apple or other fruit blown down from a tree or bush by the wind; an unexpected piece of good fortune.

semi-shy ultrafeminine touch-deprived reader tries to avoid meeting knowhere’s intimidating captain. is profoundly unsuccessful. see end for more notes.

part one anticipated 2/14

“Do you and Groot live here? In this building?” He nods, and takes another drink. “I’m on the ground floor,” he says, then winces. “Uh, Groot spends most of his time up here when he’s home. S’why it’s weird he ain’t made it back yet, actually.” He leans against the wall. “Where’s your room, angel?” Something about the timbre of his voice makes you shiver.  “The floor just below this one,” you tell him. “I saw the door to the roof open this morning, and - ” You shrug helplessly.  “You snooped,” he says, but he sounds amused, in a snickering, snarky sort of way.  “I was curious,” you admit with a little smile, and it’s more of an embarrassed agreement than a defense. He just looks even more pleased, teeth flashing at the corner of his mouth. “Bet you were.” He leans back, and you can feel his eyes on you, plucking delicately at your hair, the strap of your dusty sundress, your skin. “Think I got you pinned now, sweetheart.” You laugh softly, a little delighted despite your self-consciousness. “Pinned?” He takes another long swallow of his wine and wipes his mouth with his forearm, eyes half-lidded. “Yup. Figured you out.” “What did you figure out about me?” you ask, wide-eyed and fascinated. He’s watching you like your cat used to watch birds on the other side of the window — right down to the flick in the end of his tail, draped over the edge of the wall. “You’re curious enough to get yourself into trouble,” he tells you with mock solemnity, “and prob’ly too soft and sweet for your own good once you’re in it.” His voice rolls lower: velvet and smoke and gravel.  “And you’re so, so needy, angel.” A sly little smirk taunts the corner of his mouth.  “But too shy to do anything about it.” Your fascination has fled in favor of pure heat, pooling in your abdomen like molten sunlight, licking up between your thighs, curling over your chest and throat. You feel your panties dampen and you truly cannot remember the last time that happened.  “Have I got you about right?”

(sidenote: look the sundress is basically its whole own character in this.) please note the model is in the sketch below is like. just there for the dress. i don't think there are any descriptions of size, skin color, or hair texture in this fic.

mcu-based, post-volume-three, explicit sexual tension rising through parts one & two, smut in part three (a very ♡‧₊˚✩ Blackmail Material format with slightly more plot/slightly less smut??). possible secondhand embarrassment. happy endings only don’t worry.

based on a prompt by @creativepromptsforwriting: The apartment she moved to has a beautiful, well-tended garden. After a while she finds out that her neighbor is the one tending to the plants and she decides to help him out one day.

This comic I’ve recently discovered is so, so Rocket and Jack coded.

Art by my request by Mila Losenko

The next Kiss Kiss Bang Bang Prompt is up on AO3! I’ll update it here later this evening after I get done with work. I hope ya’ll enjoy it! Here’s an image to give you a hint what it’s about.

Hurray for Soideypool and Spideytorch!

I made so many gay heart badges... And I'm still working on more designs!

The systemic elimination of the Native American population did not end with Trail of Tears or the "Wild West." Post Colonialism is still Colonialism, and until one group of people stops devaluing other cultures as less than. I am haunted by the story my great uncle told me that he experienced as a child. He was a small boy during the Great Depression in Northern Georgia. One day he went into his barn and found an ancient, wizened man. He asked the man what he was doing in his families barn. The man told him that this was the spot he was born in, and this is the spot he was going to die in as well. My Great-Uncle went and got his father, and the old man's tale unraveled. The man's family and tribe were removed- forcibly and cruelly by the US government when gold was discovered in North Georgia. The man told them of his hardships and how he had searched for this place. My Great-Grandfather, invited him into the house to eat and stay, but the man wanted to stay in the barn. The family brought him food, and offered him company. He accepted the food, but wanted to be left alone. He died a few days later. Evil actions that took place 100, 200, 500 years before still resonate in the bones of an entire people. The fact that Georgia's Capital building is covered in gold makes me sick- disgusts me. I remember my school books glossing over the Trail of Tears and focusing on the Gold Rush. Some proud state history.

“Kill the Indian, save the Man.”

Native parents from around the world held their very young children’s hands as they walked them to boarding schools and residential schools. Some Native parents were forced to completely sign away their guardianship to principals of these “schools”, or face jail time. Others were visited by policemen, who forcibly seized their children from them. A few were undermined by “Indian Agents” on reservations, who withheld their rations on ration days. Some children never saw their parents again.

Boarding schools were built to “assimilate” the Native population into a white society, targeting their children. It had been assumed that conversion to Christianity and assimilation was “for the best interests” of Native and Indigenous people in Australia, the US, and Canada. The Native children were not allowed to practice skills relevant and appreciated to their cultures, such as carving. They were disallowed to speak in their native tongues, and were often physically, sexually, and psychologically tormented for doing so.

A five year old Native boy is raised by his family to know his hair as an extension of his soul, and that people only cut their hair if they experienced a loss of a loved one, a loss of a relationship, or a loss of oneself. As a stranger cuts off the little boy’s hair in order to better assimilate the child into the sex-based roles of a white male, the Native child is left quietly wondering who it is that has died, where his family went, and why the other children are being beaten for speaking to one another.

Only a small portion of each day was spent learning academically at these “schools”. Most of the day the children were exploited for their labor. How the labor was divided was based upon the Native child’s sex. Native girls were expected to do the domestic labor that was expected of white girls and women, such as cooking and cleaning, and Native boys were expected to perform manual labor, such as farm work, blacksmithing, and shoemaking.  The children would reach a point where they would be “phased out” of these boarding schools for a summer or year at a time and forced to perform labor for private white and wealthy families who did not want these jobs and duties themselves.

Many boarding schools and residential homes had an overwhelming death rate from Tuberculosis, which swept through these schools and homes. Tuberculosis kills it’s victim within ten days. Native children were forced to play and sleep alongside other Native children who had contracted tuberculosis so that they, too, would die. Boarding schools suffered a 50% or higher death rate because of this, effectively reducing the Native population in an attempt to eradicate them.

Maisie Shaw, age 14, was kicked down a flight of stairs by Alfred Caldwell, the principal of the residential school she was forced to stay in and killed.

 Other small skeletons of Native children have been found in church basements, which served as residential homes and boarding schools.

Other children were forced into prostitution rings.

Over fifty thousand children in Canada’s First Nations residential schools were beaten, raped, suffered from electrocutions and electroshock therapy, were forcibly sterilized, often medically experimented on, starved, and murdered. 

It wasn’t until 1978 in the US that Native parents won the rights to deny sending their children to boarding schools. This wasn’t that long ago. In 1978, my mother was 21 years old. 

In Australia, the residential homes lasted until 1984.

In Canada, the last residential home was closed in 1996.