#anyway have a snippet

[heyimkana]

I'm writing a super fluffy husband!gojo fic to make me feel better because I can't afford therapy

[fantasykiri5]

Leave it to Joe Hills to manage to have a full two-person conversation with himself I guess

(Aka day 24 of Hermit-A-Day May!! Don’t forget to check out this year’s Tiltify!!)

[scriblesandbits]

So god created us in his image, right? And that’s cool and all but what if it turns out god, like, hates his own image??? What then????

[seleneprince]

Snippet of my Neglected! Family x Yandere! Batfam au (I really need to find a name for this au already)

Wife! Darling has known of the Batcave's existence for years already, and so do her children.

She found out by pure accident. Her oldest daughter was doing her usual computer stuff she didn't understand, and said she found a weird signal coming from under the manor, in the underground...only they didn't know there was anything down there, not even a basement. Alfred never mentioned it.

The girl went to check, tracing the mysterious signal with her phone, and found a hidden compartment behind the pendulum clock. Before her mother could tell her to stop, she went down there.

Cue to Wife! Darling following her daughter to make sure she didn't get in trouble or hurt herself, because who knew if Batman even bothered with basic security measures for his vigilante stuff. From what she's seen of him as Bruce Wayne, she doubted it.

And that's how they found the Batcave. By the time Alfred found out and met them there, the daughter had already tinkered with half the equipment and replicated part of the Batcomputer's code in her tablet for fun, while her mother explored the whole place with a critical eye. Alfred expected them to be angry, to ask a lot of questions, but instead:

Wife! Darling!: "Who takes care of this place?"

Alfred: "Mostly me, Mistress (Name)."

Wife! Darling squinted her eyes, gaze darkening: "Just you? Does no one help you?"

Alfred: "It's part of my job, Mistress (Name). Don't worry, I can handle it perfectly well on my own."

She scoffed. "Well, this has to change. You're just one man, Alfred, and you're not getting younger with the years. The fact that they let you do so much already by yourself is infuriating, and you also have to clean after their crime-fighting bullshit? The nerve. I'll take care of this from now on"

Alfred blinked: "Mistress (Name), I can't possibly ask you that. You already help me more than enough around the house-"

Wife! Darling: "Nonsense, Alfred. You do way too much already. At this rate, it'll only affect your health for worse. I live here too now, so technically it's also my responsibility."

And that's how she ends up handling the maintenance of the Batcave along with Alfred, even taking over his tasks entirely. She starts off with the excuse of helping him, which it's true, but eventually she always takes care everything so the man has no option but rest.

And because she's such a perfectionist, she doesn't spare any efforts in the task. Cleans all the surfaces, fixes the suits, rearranges the weapons after cleaning them and creates a system to organize their gadgets so they're much easier to find. Even the Batmobile is left spotless, inside and outside. She goes as far to feed some of the bats casually roaming around the edges of the cave.

(And if her kids had naps inside the batmobile sometimes when they were down there, only she and Alfred are witnesses. Well, the bats too, but they're not snitching)

This way she takes some work off Alfred's shoulders. She finds it enraging that a man his age has such a heavy load of work with little to no help, so she takes over some of the house chores for him so he can have breaks. Plus, it helps her unwind and relax a bit from her usually stress-fuelled life.

She also begins to leave snarky notes about the shameful state of their gear when she finds it in particularly bad shape. And feels even worse that Alfred has had to take care of all of this at his age until she came.

"This blade is duller than your sense of self-awareness. Fix it"

"Blood is not a fashion statement. Grow up"

"If you die in this crusty suit, I’m not cleaning your corpse"

"Are you fighting villains or rolling in garbage?"

Seriously, the richest man in Gotham can't even afford a bit more of staff? But of course, she reminds herself he's the same man who forgot to use protection when fucking a random woman, so she shouldn't expect too much from him.

To avoid uncomfortable encounters, she specifically schedules her cleaning times for when the whole team is out, so she can work peacefully without being having to be in the same room as them. So far, it goes well. Alfred even warns her when they're coming back, and the Batcave is actually a pretty nice place to enjoy time for yourself when it's empty. Just the beeping of the computers as background noise, or her children messing around when they go down there to do their things.

It becomes part of her routine, one she even looks forward too during the day. Until one day.

The Batcave has been left spotless, as usual. Weapons polished. Suits lined up by height and damage level. Even the Batmobile has that new-car shimmer. It smells faintly of citrus-scented cleaning spray and frustration. There are also four sticky notes scattered across the table already, complaining about the state of their things again.

She is crouched near the weapon rack, holding the Batman suit with one gloved hand and a lint roller in the other, glaring at it like it personally offended her.

She mutters under her breath in Spanish, something about how "ni siquiera una máquina de coser podría salvar este desastre de traje, Dios mío." (Not even a sewing machine could save this disaster of a suit, my godness)

She’s in sweats, hair tied back in a messy bun. An apron over her tank top that says "KISS THE COOK (or don’t, I’ll stab you)". She's so deep in the cleaning zone she doesn’t hear the footsteps.

"Well, this is a surprise. I could get used to this."

Her entire body freezes. It feels like her blood turned ice in her veins instantly with the voice. That irritating, familiar voice.

Her head turns slowly, and there he is. Bruce Wayne in the flesh. Her husband in paper, father of her first child, owner of this cave, and responsible for half of the stress she deals with.

She could be annoyed or even embarrassed that he caught her like this, handling his suit no less. But instead, her mind is focused on what he said, and the tone in which he said it.

She arches a brow at him.

"Excuse me?"

He steps closer, clearly taking note of her work there. His eyes drifting to the Batmobile, the weapons, all she's taken care of already.

Bruce: "Me, coming back from work to find you cleaning my stuff. It’s so… domestic. It’s almost like we’re a married couple."

There’s a beat. A dangerous silence.

She blinks at him. Once. Twice. Processing the fact that he really said that. Out loud. To her. And in a completely serious tone.

Then he looks at her, and she notices the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Oh, that filthy little-

Her eye twitches.

Wife! Darling: "...........Oh, absolutely."

WHACK.

She chucks a batarang at his head with a speed and accuracy that would’ve made Deadshot whistle. He barely ducks, and it slams into the metal behind him with a THUNK so loud the Batcomputer flinches and some bats burst out from their spots.

Bruce: "That could’ve taken my eye out."

Wife! Darling:"I was hoping so."

He stares at her, and then shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle. A chuckle. Since when is this man capable of that? Before she gets her answer, he pulls out the batarang with ease and places it back on the rack (Good, she would've murdered him for real if he left it anywhere else).

Bruce: "I meant it. I think I like this sight of you. Suits you well. You look like the ideal housewife."

Without looking, she reaches for another batarang and throws it at him. This time, he catches it mid-air, cool as ever, before setting it down on the table like he isn’t one second away from getting stabbed.

Bruce: "Was that really necessary?"

Wife! Darling: "It was either that or shoot you. You're lucky I'm generous today."

He watches her, barely concealing his amusement now, but there’s something else in his expression too, something he's never had when looking at her: Curiosity.

She doesn't like it.

Unbothered, as if he didn't just activate her kill switch, he starts to walk to the table and peels off one of the sticky notes, reading it aloud with a deadpan tone.

"Blood is not a fashion statement. Grow up."

Bruce: "You know I beat the shit out of people in this suit, right?"

She replies without sparing him a glance, wiping down a grappling gun with unholy aggression: "Yeah? Well, do it without staining it with their blood. You look like Gotham’s dirtiest raccoon."

He leans against the Batcomputer, arms folded. "How long have you been doing this, exactly?"

She scoffs, going back to adjusting the suit like she isn’t being interrogated. "Long enough to know that you leave your weapons in a shameful state. Honestly, it’s a miracle your stupid gadgets still function. Do you ever bother to maintain your own things, or do you just throw them around and hope Alfred fixes it?"

He watches her for a moment longer before finally speaking.

"And you’re doing this because...?"

"Because unlike some people in this godforsaken house, I actually care when an old man is running himself ragged taking care of things that none of you seem to appreciate."

Bruce pauses. He glances at the Batmobile, cleaner than it’s ever been. At his weapons, neatly arranged, polished, functional.

At the post-it notes stuck to the Batcomputer, scrawled in Rosa’s angry handwriting.

He actually huffs a quiet laugh. Again. It's unsettling her.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she mutters, "Besides, if you die because your equipment fails, it’s only a matter of time before you try to drag me into this circus. And I refuse to wear spandex."

He raises an eyebrow. "You’d look good in spandex."

Silence.

She throws the batarang at him again. This time, it actually clips his shoulder.

"Go get that treated before you stain anything, or I'll wipe the floors next with your face."

.......................

...........

Suddenly, Bruce starts to "casually" come to the cave early more often.

Now she has to adjust her schedule AGAIN to avoid him. And in the meantime, her children start betting on how many batarangs it takes before Bruce gets critically injured. Or dead.

[laddertek]

etho said actually you _don't_ understand the intricacies of how tango is my boyfriend and bdubs is my ex

(and how tango and bdubs kiss too)

Scar: We went on that little adventure, you know! Etho: Yeah, yeah, we had our adventure, that's true, that's true. Scar: You disparaged your teammates. That's it, all right, no more spoilers. Etho: (laughs) Our team has -- our team has some weird dynamics this -- this season. Cleo: (overlapping) Really, Etho? Is there trouble in paradise? (pause) Who's third-wheeling with you, again? I can't remember. Etho: (laughs) Uhh. The -- Cleo: Genuinely can't remember. I know it's you and Bdubs. And...Tango? Tango. Tango. Etho: (loudly) Why -- Why is Tango the third wheel? Why -- why isn't Bdubs the third wheel? Cleo: Because it's you and Bdubs. I'm sorry. I understand how that relationship goes. Etho: (dissatisfied) Hmm.

[cubedmango]

「安達が魔法使いにならなかった世界線の話」 + 「もしもの話」 — english translation

[kenchann]

uh oh

also change my yuus outfit www

[moriaarts]

@waxerboilmonth : Week 1 take 2: Something Different - Commander Boil

Or ARC Cody and Waxer not as bad as Fives and Echo but equipped with Obi-wan’s olympic gold in fighting with words and fists they are definitely a headache. Also posted this originally to the wbmonth discord and jsyk Wax makes Boil sweetened caff using the sweets Obi gives them.

[whoviandoodler]

something I haven't really seen people mention or consider in relation to riz and jawbone and the whole 'what's up with you, come in and talk with me' thing is that riz legitimately cannot do that. he cannot get better because getting better means losing all the things he gains by pushing himself to a wildly unhealthy degree- the points from his extracurriculars and grades in general, the usefulness he still feels he owes to his friends, the ability to push through grief and loss time and again. it's so incredibly sad because like- he was the one who first offered jawbone the job that got his life turned around! he tries so hard at all that he does and has a huge heart and he deserves to live a life that doesn't run him into the ground, but that life would be one where he wouldn't get the education he wants, or at the very best a life where he loses the control that he is gripping onto white-knuckled and has to contend with a lot of things he could never bear to consider at present. getting better would mean stopping, stopping would mean falling, and if he falls, riz is not getting up for a long, long time, and he just cannot afford that

[mellohiizz]

I am still not over him... Also, I guess you guys can have a small nibble of Wifiescest just as a little treat. I found the song Real Boy by Lola Blanc after forgetting about it for years and went wait a moment... this reminds me of someone...

[hey-hey-j]

I'm leaving you alone

You can tend the garden, it's yours

You know that thing where you take a single snippet of a song and force it to fit The Character? Yeah......

~~ (★my Ko-fi) | (★commission info)

[futuristichedge]

Disability headcanons

[bieddiediaz]

“I thought—” Eddie gasped, eyes fluttering shut and head banging against the wall, “—you said—” another twist, another shaky breath, “—you were celibate.”

The man in front of him huffed out a laugh. “You said you were straight.” He pressed Eddie even further into the wall, if that were possible. Eddie moaned as the hand around him tightened and a thumb ran over his cockhead, his own hands gripping onto shoulders for dear life.

“I think we established—ah!—that I’m not good at letting myself have things.”

“Well,” a kiss on his throat, a tongue moving down to his clavicle, a mouth sucking on his neck. “You can let yourself have this.”

Eddie moaned again, barely able to focus on anything other than the body pressed up against his and the hand on his cock. He ran his hand down his muscular back, down a spine, gripped his ass. Hips jerked into Eddie’s, and all Eddie could see was white.

“It’s okay, Eddie. You can let go.”

It felt like sacrilege and it felt like salvation as he came, and came, and came.

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[beskars]

once more; vander x reader

"One more?" Vander suggested when the kitchen was clean, nodding toward the bottle of tequila and the remaining limes on the counter. "Seems a shame to waste it." You hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Why not?" He reached for the bottle, pouring a single shot with practiced precision. From a small bowl, he selected a lime wedge, his large fingers handling the delicate fruit with surprising dexterity. "Have you ever done it properly?" he asked, his voice dropping to that lower register that never failed to send heat spreading through your body.

"Properly?" you repeated, watching as he reached for the salt shaker.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Salt, tequila, lime. In that order."

"I know the basic concept," you replied, though the truth was your experience with tequila had been limited to mixed drinks and the occasional hurried shot at overcrowded bars.

Vander seemed to read your uncertainty. "Let me show you," he offered, extending his left hand palm up, then turning it slightly to expose the space between his thumb and forefinger. With deliberate movements, he sprinkled salt onto the tender skin there.

"First, salt," he explained, his eyes never leaving yours as he lifted the shot glass with his right hand. "Then tequila." He gestured toward the lime wedge on the counter. "Then lime. Cuts the burn."

Your throat felt suddenly dry as you watched him demonstrate, licking the salt from his hand with a swift motion before downing the shot and immediately biting into the lime wedge. The entire sequence was efficient, practiced, and somehow the most intensely sensual thing you'd ever witnessed.

"Your turn," he said, his voice rougher than usual as he poured another shot.

With slightly unsteady hands, you accepted the glass, then extended your left hand as he had done. Vander took your wrist gently, turning your hand to the proper position. The heat of his fingers against your skin made your pulse jump.

"Hold still," he murmured, reaching for the salt shaker.

The gentle cascade of salt crystals against the sensitive skin between your thumb and forefinger sent a shiver up your arm that had nothing to do with temperature. Vander's eyes met yours as he set the shaker aside, something darker than usual in their depths.

"Salt first," he reminded you, his voice so low it was almost a physical sensation.

You brought your hand to your mouth, maintaining eye contact as you licked the salt from your skin, the sharp taste dissolving on your tongue. Without breaking his gaze, you downed the shot, the tequila burning a path down your throat.

Before you could reach for the lime, Vander was there, holding the wedge between his fingers, offering it to you with an intensity that made your breath catch. You leaned forward, taking the lime directly from his hand, your lips brushing against his fingertips in a contact so brief it might have been imagined.

The tart juice flooded your mouth, cutting through the burn of the tequila as promised. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you charged with unspoken possibility.

"Again," you said finally, breaking the silence. "But this time, I'll hold the salt for you."

Something flashed in Vander's eyes—surprise, desire, a momentary hesitation quickly overcome. He nodded once, pouring another shot with a hand that wasn't quite as steady as before.

You took the salt shaker, suddenly bold as you reached for his left hand. His palm dwarfed yours as you turned it slightly, exposing that same tender space between thumb and forefinger. The skin there was rougher than yours, marked by years of work and training, yet somehow vulnerable in its exposure.

With careful precision, you sprinkled salt onto his skin, hyper-aware of how his pulse had quickened beneath your touch. When you finished, you didn't immediately release him, instead running your thumb lightly over his wrist where his heartbeat was visible.

"Your turn," you echoed his earlier words, reaching for a fresh lime wedge.

Vander's eyes remained locked with yours as he brought his hand to his mouth, the motion somehow more deliberate than before. You watched, transfixed, as his tongue swept across his skin, collecting the salt in one fluid movement before he downed the shot with practiced ease.

When you offered the lime, you held it differently than he had—between your thumb and forefinger, but close enough to your own lips that he would have to draw very near to take it. The invitation was clear, even if unspoken.

For one breathless moment, Vander hesitated, his eyes darkening as they dropped to your lips, so close to the lime you offered. Then, with careful restraint, he took the lime from your fingers without letting his lips brush yours, though his fingertips lingered against your hand longer than strictly necessary.

The almost-contact hung in the air between you, vibrating with possibility even as he maintained that final, crucial distance.

"Once more," he suggested, his voice a rough whisper as he reached for the bottle. "Together this time."

[amogus-real-not-clickbait]

part 1 of a little comic / art sequence that i've been working on! :D it's part tribute, part experimenting with brushes n colors and trying new thingz :]

| 1 | 2 | 3 | ... |

and thus continues my endless quest of spreading the carrot fics like a plague! if you've seen my art floating around you probs already figured that this au holds a very special place in my heart, forever and always!!

if you haven't heard of it, it's a fic series by @crowned-ladybug called carrot soup!! it made me wish i could speak colors and i need more people to share my struggle xd

go check it out if you're into sweet voice lore and qpr level gayness and just wanna feel warm and soft and warm (hurt/comfort my beloved) <333 there are some heavier themes cos everyone's traumatized but they're working through it! be sure to check the tags and stay safe! <3