#(car engine laugh)

[notrobinsomethingworse]

Everybody know the scene in The Dark Knight where some idiot dresses like Batman and Bruce gets real pissed at him. Well it goes a little something like this:

Copycat Batman: What’s the difference between you and me!?

Batman: I’m not wearing hockey pads.

Alternatively:

Copycat Nightwing: What’s the difference between you and me!?

Nightwing: CAN YOU DO THIS? *insane quadruple flip off the roof with his middle finger out.*

Obviously not Red Hood: What’s the difference between you and me!?

Red Hood: I died.

Copycat Red Hood, mumbling: well obviously not.

Red Hood, cocking his gun: Wanna change that?

Copycat Red Robin: What’s the difference between you and me!?

Red Robin: Spandex isn’t usually something I wear on the regular. And that latex cowl isn’t doing you any favours either. While we’re at it- [proceeds to roast the shit out of the copycat until they’re begging him to stop. He doesn’t.]

Copycat Robin: What’s the difference between you and me!?

Robin, unsheathing his Katana: Run.

Copycat Robin: What?

Robin: If you care for your life you will know to flee. I will not give you another warning.

[7empesticide]

saw au where everything is the same except hoffman isnt an apprentice hes just really fucking weird so strahm is stalking this regular ass guy

[gutsofgold]

basically laughing stock

this was funnier on tiktok but im starved of things to post

[beebuus]

list of pet names that are Tumblr-core (will be updating whenever my imagination works)

- unemployed fish soap

- vodka tampon

- sonic quasi-cup

- vanilla extract

- bells, the instrument

- live, laugh, lorb

- semioptics

- the void

- environmental engineering

- juice

- zoominator 2000X

- what's their name

- gall wasp

- Bartholomew, child of Demetrius II (they arent actually son of Demetrius II)

- car hammer explosion

- gun from Chekhov

[verilog-official]

every time i hear peter griffins laugh i think of this

i spent an hour on this lmao

[invye]

Story time:

When I was younger, around 15/16-ish, for a time I dreamt of becoming a pilot.

I was so happy when I grew the final two centimetres, because here if you want to get your pilot licence for commercial aircraft (with an airline, no way I would ever be able to pay for that myself), you have to be 1,60m tall minimum, so you can reach everything in the cockpit.

Sadly, during that time I also realised I would never pass the extremely strict psychological evaluation (stress resistance, mental stability, etc), but every once and again I dream of flying.

And all that led to a conversation with my father just now (a decade later) where I went: "I don't want to be able to drive a car, I want to be able to fly a plane!"

[enchantedchocolatebars]

(It's Kikimora's first day as the Emperor's assistant.)

Kikimora: (Is clasping her hands together as her eyes sparkle in excitement) Oh, my liege, I'm so grateful for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work for you! How do I look?

Belos: (In a soft, kind tone that is clearly false) Gorgeous.

Kikimora: (She emits a small gasp at the compliment as her pupils take the shape of hearts.) 😍 😍 😍

Belos: (Whispers to the grimwalker standing beside him with a hand next to his mouth.) Makeup. (He adds a pop sound at the end of 'p'.)

Grimwalker: (Nods before pulling out a comically large powder puff along with a powder box. Dipping the puff into the powder, he pats it once against Kikimora's face and pulls away to reveal her covered in clown makeup.)

Kikimora: (Still has hearts in her eyes) 🤡 😍.

Belos: Perfect. (To Kikimora) Now you look even better.

Kikimora: (Let's out a love stuck sigh). 🤡 😍

[mister-ancunin]

modern-professors!viklix keeps banging around in my brain . send help

[mamawasatesttube]

the unwritten coda to sun-kissed btw is just tim discovering just how charming it is when kon snuggles up to him in the afterglow and purrs like a motorcycle. the most starry-eyed tim drake of all time

[auspiciousleader]

Sometimes I'll just be living my life and I'll do something silly or make a small mistake and I can immediately hear a twelve year old making fun of me in my head. And that my friends is what it is like growing up with siblings

[iamunabletothinkofablogname]

You are scary good at threats

LOL thank you

[muirneach]

listening to crazy frog cds in my room with my brothers rn

[poetmellifluou-s]

My husband is Russian and I can confirm. Our car is never *not* in sport mode.

[racke7]

Car's muffler fell off.

[richo1915]

[goyardgoyangi]

planting evidence in street racer! sukuna's car

Sukuna’s car has always been untouchable—immaculate, brutal, fast. The kind of machine that mirrors him: sharp edges, no softness, no room for anyone else.

Until you.

Now there’s lip gloss in the cupholder and a scrunchie looped around his gear shift like some kind of silk flag staked in his territory. You started leaving little things behind, quietly, like you were planting evidence. Gum wrappers, a clip from your hair, even your iced coffee straw one day—left right in the side door pocket.

You expected him to toss it all back at you. Maybe with a grunt. Maybe with an eye roll and a muttered “keep your shit out of my car.”

But he didn’t.

He kept them there. Because you and Sukuna… you weren’t dating. No one had asked. There was no talk, no label. Just a long night that turned into a few more, then a pattern.

You, on the other hand, are more strategic. Conniving, even.

You don’t ask to be his girl. You don’t cling. You just leave marks. Subtle things. Things a hookup wouldn’t ever have time to leave behind. So that maybe—just maybe—if someone else ever got in the passenger seat, they’d know instantly: they’re not the first, and they’re definitely not the only one who rides here.

But no one else has. Sukuna hasn’t touched another girl since the first night he had you spread out across his sheets—back arched, lips parted, absolutely wrecked from round four. You were limp and glowing in the aftermath, falling asleep on his chest like you belonged there. And maybe you did.

He hadn’t cared to look at anyone else since.

That car used to be built for speed, for control, for the kind of thrill that made his blood rush. It was never about comfort.

But now? It’s starting to literally feel like a second bedroom. Like an extension of you—your perfume clinging to the seatbelt, a receipt from your favorite café crumpled in the passenger door, your earrings slipped into the little tray under the dash.

The backseat holds the imprint of your body, the curve of your hips pressed into the leather, a reminder of all the times he’s fucked you in his car—your legs spread wide as he drove you to the edge with each brutal, deep thrust.

Even the front, where your hand wraps around his arm as his fingers make you come undone, hitting a spot that drives you wild in ways only he knows, still carries the unmistakable mark that this seat—this car—belongs to someone else.

So when Sukuna rolls into the garage late one night—hair still damp from a shower, muscles loose from hours tangled up inside you, still half hard just remembering how you moaned his name—his fellow mechanics clock it instantly.

“Yo,” Mahito says, glancing up from under the hood of a stripped RX-7. “You have a girlfriend or somethin’? Your car smells like vanilla.”

Sukuna just grunts, shoving his keys in his pocket.

He leans against the hood, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he’s not thinking about you sleeping in his bed right now, curled up under his sheets in that oversized tee you always steal from him.

They take his silence as confirmation.

“You hear that, Suguru?” Mahito continues to instigate, smirking. “Sukuna’s got gloss on the gearshift.”

Suguru raises a brow from where he’s cataloging parts. “Damn. Didn’t think anyone could turn Sukuna into a personal Uber.”

That earns a laugh from the group. Sukuna doesn’t say anything, just lazily flicks his middle finger their way. But he doesn't deny it either.

“No wonder you leave work early so often,” another mechanic mutters, elbowing Uraume. “He used to hang around, talk engines, grab beers.”

They shrug. “Guess he’s got better company these days.”

Sukuna barely hears his coworkers gossip over the echo of your moans still ringing in his head. Because they’re not wrong—he has been slipping out early, ditching post-race drinks just to pick you up from work. Just to get you back in his car, where your legs fold up sweet and tight in the passenger seat and your hand always finds his without a word.

It’s routine now—his hand on your thigh the second the engine starts. He doesn’t even think about it. Just needs it. Needs the feel of you under his fingers, to squeeze the thighs he’s bruised a dozen times with his mouth.

And when you finally fall asleep, innocent and warm, lips parted just slightly?

He drives slower than he ever has in his life. Because the longer he keeps you next to him like this, the longer he gets to pretend you’re already his girl.

And he knows—he knows—you’re testing him with the things you leave behind. Waiting to see if he’ll clean them out. Waiting to see if he’ll hand you your lip gloss and tell you to stop marking your territory.

But he won’t.

Not when the vanilla scent lingers in the air. Not when the other mechanics glance at the cupholder and trade knowing looks because even they can see it—

The car’s not just his anymore.