#i needed to write this for me

[mrsaltieri-real]

I Can Be Sweet (Mickey Altieri x GN!Reader)

Word count: 1.5k

Warning/s: GN!Reader (no specified pronouns, Mickey uses the pet names baby and babe) fluffy fluff fluff, language, nudity, Mickey being soft, (yes it’s a warning) the L bomb gets dropped, romantic shit, Mickey being a terrible cook, Mickey still somehow being a little shit, etc

I’ve had a really, REALLY shit week so I wrote this as like a little soothing thing for myself and anyone else whose having a crappy week. I just needed to comfort myself by writing something like this. I’ve got good friends that have helped me through my stuff this week (you know who you are) and I wanted to say a big thank you.

Anyway, here’s a fluffy Mickey fic because sometimes we need our murder boys sweet.

You knew him better than almost anyone.

Even though you didn’t know about his… extra curricular activities, you knew Mickey.

He was cocky, sarcastic and most of the time a complete ass because that’s simply all he’d ever been. He never allowed anyone to get too close to him in fear they’d disappear like everybody else. He was a performer, an artist. A master of deception and only letting people see what he wanted them too. But once you broke through that hard shell and got to the soft centre, there was a whole different side to him.

Mickey was… sweet, he was romantic and passionate yet remained surrounded by his defensive coating until he finally trusted you enough for you to see it.

After a particularly exhausting day of serving booze to the drunk college assholes in the on campus bar you worked in to make extra money so you could live in an apartment by yourself to avoid having to share a dorm room, you walked toward your door, head pounding and feet aching. You wanted nothing more than to shower and go to sleep in preparation for what would undoubtedly be another shitty day tomorrow.

You rummaged in your bag for your keys but paused for a second outside your door, furrowing your eyebrows when you heard soft music and dishes clanking together. Had someone broken in? Fuck, that was just what you needed.

You pressed your ear to the door to try and hear a little better when you heard a familiar soft humming rendition of the current song playing on your speakers and all the paranoia faded away in an instant, calmly unlocking the door and walking inside.

Mickey was flitting around your tiny kitchen like a hurricane, trying to do far too many things at once.

“Oh, fuck me.” He cussed as he lifted the lid to one of the pots on the stove, grimacing at whatever horrible sight he’d concocted.

“Mick?”

He jumped a little, head snapping in your direction.

“Hey! Hi, you're back!” His cheeks were slightly flushed and his shirt had splatters of food spotted over the light blue material and you raised your eyebrows a little.

“Yeah, there was another fight in the bar. Shit got broken so we decided to close… what are you doing here?” An amused expression crossed your face as Mickey continued to move around the kitchen as you spoke, clearly growing more and more frustrated.

“You uh.. you said the other day you were having a rough week so I thought I’d TRY to do something nice for you. But I… yeah. I can’t cook.” He admitted sheepishly.

As he spoke you dropped your bag on the floor by the door and walked over to him, touched by his effort. “Yeah, I can see that.” You teased, gesturing toward the pots and pans completely wrecked with the burnt food coating the bottom of them. “But thank you, that’s really sweet.”

He shrugged, waving you off with his hand but you caught it, pulling him close to you. “I mean it.” You said softly and he smiled down at you, looking a little bashful.

“Sorry ‘bout your cooking shit.” He said, eyes narrowing at the ruined pans. You laughed a little, shaking your head at him.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Probably was due to get some new ones anyway.” You let go of his hand and walked around him to turn off the stove and grabbed a garbage bag, dumping the pots and pans inside. “I’ll throw them out and buy some new ones tomorrow.”

“Oh, I did do one thing right!”

You tied the bag, placing it down before looking at him.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

He grinned at you, gesturing for you to follow him as he left the kitchen and walked down the hall to your bathroom. You followed him sceptically, unsure of whatever the hell he had awaiting you but was taken aback when you entered your bathroom after him to see he’d run you a beautiful bubble bath, candles scattered around the whole room with your favourite song playing softly on your other pair of speakers. Whatever he’d used in the bath smelt of honeysuckle and lavender, the smells oddly complimenting each other.

Mickey dipped his hand in the bath before smiling proudly to himself and turning to face you. “I might be a shit cook but I can run a mean fucking bath.”

You didn’t respond, staring at the bubbles until they blurred into fuzzy white spots, a tear falling down your cheek. “Hey, hey, hey! Why are you crying?” Mickey’s voice sounded alarmed as he moved in front of you, his hand automatically reaching forward to wipe the fallen tears.

“I… no one’s ever done anything like this for me.” You felt slightly pathetic for crying, trying to move your head so Mickey wouldn’t see your face but he held your cheeks in his hand, beautiful face soft and affectionate.

“I wouldn’t have done it if I knew it was gonna make you cry, baby.” He still looked a little anxious, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

“No! No, these are happy tears.” You assured him, sniffling a little. His hands dropped from your face and slid down your arms, seeming at least a little comforted as he said, “still.”

You reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up on your toes so you could bury your face into the crook of his neck. He let out a small laugh before wrapping his arms around you, hand rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades and burrowing his face into your messy hair.

“You stink.” He mumbled into it making you laugh and pull back, playfully smacking his arm.

“Yeah genius, I work in a college bar of course I stink.”

“Want me to help you?” He gestured toward the bath before his hands moved to the hem of your shirt, a broad smile on his beautiful face as you nodded eagerly.

“Lift your arms.”

You obeyed, raising your arms above your head so he could pull your shirt off of you, placing it carefully on top of your laundry basket. His hands moved down to your jeans, popping the button open and pulling down the zipper slowly, smirking a little at your soft shiver when his warm fingers made contact with your skin. “Easy babe, we’re just taking a bath.”

You rolled your eyes, lightly nudging his hands away so you could remove your jeans along with your underwear, turning to toss them on top of your shirt.

When you turned back round Mickey was already naked and your eyes automatically dropped to his package before quickly diverting away, making him laugh again.

“Giggly prick.” You muttered as he climbed into the bubbly water, opening his arms out for you to climb in in front of him.

You took his hand, sighing happily at the perfectly warm water before you sat down between his legs, head resting back against his shoulder. He leaned forward, picking up your washcloth and dipping it into the water and wringing it out a little before he smoothed it over your chest, his head resting softly against yours.

“You’re being very sweet tonight.” You said softly, hearing his breathy laugh in your ear.

“You sound surprised. I can be sweet.” He defended himself in mock offence.

“I know, but never like this.”

It was quiet for a moment as Mickey continued to gently wash your aching body. The warm water in combination with his hot body was relaxing your tight muscles in a way that almost had you floppy in his arms.

“Am I really that bad?“ he murmured into your ear.

You frowned a little, lifting and turning your head so you were looking at him. “I didn’t mean it like-“

“No, no it’s okay. I know how I can be sometimes, and I guess in addition to me doing this because you’ve had a bad week it’s also to show you how much I care about you.”

You leaned up a little so you could press your lips to his cheek softly before sinking back into his arms, head leaning back again against his shoulder and your eyes fluttered closed.

“There’s also another reason.”

“Mm?“ you hummed absentmindedly. You felt his heart rate pick up and his breathing hitch ever so slightly as he swallowed, as if he was terrified of whatever he was about to say.

“I uh…” he sighed, face burrowing even further into your shoulder. “I love you.” He mumbled, his voice slightly muffled by your skin.

You froze for a moment, trying to comprehend what he had just said. “Y- you what?” You twisted around so his head moved off your shoulder and he was forced to look at you.

“I love you.”

You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face and you struggled to turn all the way round to face him in the bath, and he laughed as he gripped your elbow to help you. “Steady, steady.” He said softly.

“You love me?” You whisper once you are facing him. You were straddling him, knees either side of his thighs and your hands resting on his chest while his rested on your hips under the water as you looked into his eyes, trying and failing to stop the tears from welling up again.

He bobbed his head once and even in the dim light of the flickering candles you saw his cheeks flush slightly.

“You don’t have to say it back!” He suddenly said quickly. “Please don’t feel like you have to say it b-“

“I love you too.”

A relieved sigh came out of Mickey’s mouth and his lips turned up into a devastatingly beautiful smile. “Thank fucking god.” He whispered, leaning forward and resting his forehead against yours.

[sylvies-kablooie]

i do unironically think the best artists of our generation are posting to get 20 notes and 3 reblogs btw. that fanfic with like 45 kudos is some of the best stuff ever written. those OCs you carry around have some of the richest backstories and worldbuilding someone has ever seen. please do not think that reaching only a few people when you post means your art isn't worth celebrating.

[officialspec]

modern au but set in brisbane. is this anything

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was young my dad offhandedly told me he thought people treated fish with so much casual cruelty because fish can’t scream.

The words branded themselves across my soul.

As an adult I think he may have been joking. He payed no especial attention to any indignities fish suffered in our household but I could never forget. I saw fish in a different light after that.

Fish kept in tiny bowls, breathing their own poisons, dying by inches. Fish kept in cold tanks, casually disposed of. Fish touted as being short lived when they could outlive the better loved family dog if only they could breathe. Fish casually won and discarded in cheap plastic bags, thrown away a week later.

How they would scream, if they could.

[tofixtheshadows]

I've been thinking a lot lately about how Kabru deprives himself.

Kabru as a character is intertwined with the idea that sometimes we have to sacrifice the needs of the few for the good of the many. He ultimately subverts this first by sabotaging the Canaries and then by letting Laios go, but in practice he's already been living a life of self-sacrifice.

Saving people, and learning the secrets of the dungeons to seal them, are what's important. Not his own comforts. Not his own desires. He forces them down until he doesn't know they're there, until one of them has to come spilling out during the confession in chapter 76.

Specifically, I think it's very significant, in a story about food and all that it entails, that Kabru is rarely shown eating. He's the deuteragonist of Dungeon Meshi, the cooking manga, but while meals are the anchoring points of Laios's journey, given loving focus, for Kabru, they're ... not.

I'm sure he eats during dungeon expeditions, in the routine way that adventurers must when they sit down to camp. But on the surface, you get the idea that Kabru spends most of his time doing his self-assigned dungeon-related tasks: meeting with people, studying them, putting together that evidence board, researching the dungeon, god knows what else. Feeding himself is secondary.

He's introduced during a meal, eating at a restaurant, just to set up the contrast between his party and Laios's. And it's the last normal meal we see him eating until the communal ending feast (if you consider Falin's dragon parts normal).

First, we get this:

Kabru's response here is such a non-answer, it strongly implies to me that he wasn't thinking about it until Rin brought it up. That he might not even be feeling the hunger signals that he logically knew he should.

They sit down to eat, but Kabru is never drawn reaching for food or eating it like the rest of his party. He only drinks.

It's possible this means nothing, that we can just assume he's putting food in his mouth off-panel, but again, this entire manga is about food. Cooking it, eating it, appreciating it, taking pleasure in it, grounding yourself in the necessary routine of it and affirming your right to live by consuming it. It's given such a huge focus.

We don't see him eat again until the harpy egg.

What a significant question for the protagonist to ask his foil in this story about eating! Aren't you hungry? Aren't you, Kabru?

He was revived only minutes ago after a violent encounter. And then he chokes down food that causes him further harm by triggering him, all because he's so determined to stay in Laios's good graces.

In his flashback, we see Milsiril trying to spoon-feed young Kabru cake that we know he doesn't like. He doesn't want to eat: he wants to be training.

Then with Mithrun, we see him eating the least-monstery monster food he can get his hands on, for the sake of survival- walking mushroom, barometz, an egg. The barometz is his first chance to make something like an a real meal, and he actually seems excited about it because he wants to replicate a lamb dish his mother used to make him!

...but he doesn't get to enjoy it like he wanted to.

Then, when all the Canaries are eating field rations ... Kabru still isn't shown eating. He's only shown giving food to Mithrun.

And of course the next time he eats is the bavarois, which for his sake is at least plant based ... but he still has to use a coping mechanism to get through it.

I don't think Kabru does this all on purpose. I think Kui does this all on purpose. Kabru's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder should be understood as informing his character just as much as Laios's autism informs his. It's another way that Kabru and Laios act as foils: where Laios takes pleasure in meals and approaches food with the excitement of discovery, Kabru's experiences with eating are tainted by his trauma. Laios indulges; Kabru denies himself. Laios is shown enjoying food, Kabru is shown struggling with it.

And I can very easily imagine a reason why Kabru might have a subconscious aversion towards eating.

Meals are the privilege of the living.

[ribbittrobbit]

these kids are incredibly stressed out

[whumperfultime]

Hey idk what writer/artist/creative needs to hear this but: You can create the most garbage self-indulgent poorly made full-of-cliches awkward ugly piece of art on the entire planet and you're still allowed to be proud of it and share it with the world. In fact, I outright encourage you to be proud. You deserve it. I love you. Keep making things.

[louloubye]

support your local businesses!!!

[erabu-san]

I enjoyed every second of this quest

[This art has platonic intention. Thank you for not tag ship!]

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[lauravian]

“Don’t let it get to that big head of yours, Merlin.

I just… thought you were dead.”

[stoopidstapler]

SO IVE BEEN GOIN INSANE SINCE THIS TRAILER DROPPED. JUST. SIMON. SIMON. SIMON.

[kangals]

friendly advice from vetmed: I know that when your animal has an infection that is generating a lot of discharge, you want to describe that to the veterinarian, because it’s a concerning sign. that is true. I also know that the most common word for this type of discharge is “pus,” so it’s logical that that’s the word that you’ll use when describing what’s going on. and in English, we often add a “-y” when we’re using a word as a descriptor.

but. the word. the word you are looking for. is purulent.

please stop sending in messages telling the doctor that your dog has a “pussy wound.”

[zosanbrainrot]

part 2 of Zoro in WCI

01 02 03 04

I tried to write something to sum up my thoughts on this, but then it got longer and longer and tbh I'm itching to write a fic set in this AU djjdkf I think I could develop on their inner feelings more than in the comic form

Before posting the first part I didn't realize people had such strong opinions on how this would play out lmaooo

imo, of course Zoro wants to fight Sanji, not with actual intent to harm (they threaten each other on the daily, come on), but because that's how they are together, how they communicate. He respects Luffy's decisions and their goal here, which is to learn what's really going on with Sanji, but he's gonna be pissy about it all he wants. They both have so many intense and conflicted feelings about this and neither has any idea how to resolve them. So they fight.

ofc yall are free to headcanon this interaction any other way you want <333

[mumblesplash]

in honor of last season’s poem being called “”end poem”” (all quotes mandatory) this season i made one out of pieces of the actual end poem

[zephyrchama]

Water Wrinkles

Seven demon brothers sat solemnly in a circle around you. You did your best to ignore them. It wasn't often that you got to spend time at the human world villa, and you were intent on soaking up as much sun as you could before returning to the Devildom.

You reclined your beach chair back, crossing your arms under your still-wet hair. It was a gorgeous day. Perfect for being at the pool.

Leviathan let out a muffled sob. As the demon with the highest affinity for water, he blamed himself.

"Let us take you to a hospital," Satan insisted for the tenth time.

"They're going to laugh us out of the ER," you nonchalantly repeated.

Satan lowered his eyes and muttered, "I couldn't find any traces of a curse in the water... So how...?"

Asmodeus had his head in his hands, unresponsive. Sometimes his fingers curled around the ends of his hair. You briefly glanced over to make sure he didn't pull his hair out - that would be grounds for a real emergency.

"I can't bear to watch. Lucifer, do somethin'," Mammon whined. He was fidgeting all over the place and winced whenever he looked at your feet.

The oldest glared at you. You knew it was out of concern, but his fears were unfounded. Even Lucifer refused to listen to reason when he thought you were in danger.

"Actually, yeah. Lucifer, can you pass me a towel?" you asked. It was embarrassing having seven shirtless demons intensely staring at you. If they wouldn't let you go back in the water, maybe covering up would make you feel less self-conscious.

Lucifer didn't move. It was Beelzebub who plucked a spare towel off his younger twin and handed it to you with a shaking arm. He looked like a wet puppy, having been the one who first discovered your "condition" and swept you out of the pool.

Belphegor hadn't gone in the water that day. He only hogged the plush towels because of how comfortable they were and, following Beelzebub's lead, dumped them all onto your chair. Now he sat, wide awake. He was anxiously squeezing a loose chunk of concrete but at some point, without realizing, it got crushed to powder in his hand.

You had more than enough towels now.

"In half an hour you're going to forget this all even happened," you said to reassure the worry warts.

"In half an hour, you might be gone!" Mammon snapped back.

"You're going to be a wrinkled mess of skin and bones," Asmodeus weeped quietly.

Leviathan pressed his hands over his ears. Though, with nothing to cover his eyes he was forced to look at your wrinkled hands again. Based on the noises he was making, you'd think someone was torturing him.

"As I've said!" you reiterated. "All humans get wrinkly in water. Look, now that I'm drying off it's going back to normal."

Beelzebub grabbed your ankle, raising it for the brothers to observe at eye level. "I don't see a difference."

You didn't expect the sudden manhandling and slunk several inches down the lounge chair while the demons stared at your foot. Kicking and twisting your leg was futile. You modestly crossed your free leg.

"I think it's getting worse," Satan said.

"We need to take action," Lucifer decided.

Asmodeus was actively quivering now. Belphegor and Leviathan had crept behind you and started picking at your wrinkly fingers. You tried to swat them away to no avail.

"Give me 25 minutes! Literally! Probably even less, this will go away on its own! I just need to dry off."

"We need a solution now," Mammon asserted. The cogs in his brain were turning. "We need fire."

You tried to sit up, to jump up and stop Mammon before he burned the whole villa down in an attempt to dry you off, but Beelzebub had not let go and you stumbled. You grazed your knee on the concrete and winced.

A second round of panic overcame the demon brothers. Beelzebub let go, Lucifer picked you up, and Belphegor wrapped your knee with every available towel he could lay his hands on. Asmodeus and Leviathan were crying on each other's shoulders. Mammon came running back, oblivious to the second disaster that just occurred, with a flaming stick in his hand that Satan tried to keep at bay. If you got burnt on top of everything else, they'd probably go insane and destroy the human world.

In the midst of the chaos you caught a glimpse of your hand. It was practically dry. You couldn't even see the wrinkles anymore. You angrily wiggled in Lucifer's grasp as various hands fussed over you.

"Stay!!" you shouted over the clamor.

The brothers went tumbling to the ground, save for Lucifer who fought to stay rooted in place. You could finally hear yourself think again. There was primarily one thought on your mind.

"I just want to go swimming."