#my head hurts bye

[cringelordofchaos]

Just silly Sean doodles bc I'm tired of drawing but also not at the same time

[obsob]

there he is......the man of the house

[glitchedcosmos]

Don’t leave.

[crybaby-bkg]

you know how basketball players do those little conferences where they sit in front of a mic and let reporters/journalists ask them questions???? that but with pro hero Bakugou and his barely one year old baby. he walked in with his full hero gear, save for his gauntlets bc it’s hard to hold baby with them on, and he doesn’t want her to mess with it!!

and when he sits, he holds her up against his chest, her little chubby arms grabbing at the hair on his nape and tugging on his bottom lip bc she finds it so funny. he just lets her, answers the questions like there isn’t a baby trying to dig up his nose and gnaw on his cheek, leaving a trail of spittle in its wake.

she babbles on and on, her eyes lighting up in surprise when she turns to the mic and hears herself. Bakugou can’t help but laugh though, leans down to nibble on her fat little cheeks, forgets to compose himself when everyone starts snapping pictures. a reporter steps up and asks her, “Baby Dynamight, who’s the best ranking hero of this year?” and she answers, babbling a little, turning and looking at Bakugou with a gummy grin and two little teeth sprouting at the bottom as she giggles a, dada daaaa dadada!

also the baby of the group that everyone passes around. Bakugou hates giving her up to anybody, but she will twist her little body around until he damn near drops her whenever she sees Uncle Kiri sitting beside them. she stands on his thighs and tugs at his hair, then goes to Uncle Denki where she slaps at his cheeks bc he makes funny noises and faces whenever she does. Uncle Sero is next, where he bounces her on his knee before Aunt Mina swoops in to give her some nice girl gossip. Uncle Deku is always last, only because everyone knows baby will be out like a light whenever she’s in his arms and cuddled up against his chest. Bakugou is furious every time, but also a little grateful that the shitnerd was able to put his little gremlin to sleep with his boring ass face.

[betweenblackberrybranches]

RLGL au peeps featuring that feeling when a late night baking session turns into a group therapy session instead

I just went wild hearing this song for some reason

[redmarqar]

im gonna go take a nap and you can have whatever this is

[sunglassesmish]

speaking of misha riding a motorbike………

[astrobei]

Something’s wrong.

It’s a quiet afternoon in Will’s room. Mike is here, and this simple fact should be taking precedence over all else. It would be, on any other day — a day where it wasn’t off-puttingly quiet outside. On any other day, it would be all he could focus on.

Not that it’s not important. Mike is here, sprawled haphazardly across him, limbs akimbo like he couldn’t even be bothered to right himself before the need to bodily press every square inch of himself up against Will’s torso suddenly overtook him. It’s endearing, is what it is, even though Mike’s feet are dangling off the side of Will’s bed — they’re getting too tall to be able to lie down like this, side by side and taking up all the room they could possibly want. He’s got his cheek pressed up against Will’s sternum, arms wrapped so tight around Will’s stomach and lower back that it’s bordering on uncomfortable.

Endearing. It’s endearing, the need for proximity. The need for closeness, for touch, for reassurance. Mike wasn’t like this before. Not to this degree, at least. Will pretended to be annoyed by it at first, but the façade hadn’t even lasted a day before he cracked. He needs it too, and they both know it — the rhythmic push and pull of Mike’s breathing. Feeling Mike’s heart beat steadily against his own, separated by a meager few inches of blood and muscle and bone. The kinesthetic weight of a body against his own, grounding him on his off days — days where his pulse is perpetually panicked and off-kilter, threatening to fly away entirely, rendered unsuccessful only by the shape of Mike’s shoulder blades under his palm. The cotton of his flannel button-down, worn soft with use.

Grounding things. Real things. Safe things.

It’s a quiet afternoon. Mike’s foot twitches, suddenly and gently against where it’s pressed up against the line of Will’s calf.

It’s a quiet afternoon, and Will feels off, down to his bones.

Mike might be falling asleep.

Will smiles, hides it in the soft curtain of Mike’s hair where it’s brushing over his neck. Cups a hand around the back of his head and wraps his other arm around his shoulder — tighter, tighter, like Mike might just get up and walk away if he doesn’t. For all his pretending, Will is like this too, now: desperate, a little needy, selfish in small, ordinary ways. Too quick to worry when a call goes unanswered. Too quick to fuss over cuts and scrapes and bruises. He hugs too tight and he kisses too hard and he gets unsettled by quiet, calm afternoons.

He wasn’t ever like that before.

Mike twitches again — so delicately that it’s almost like an afterthought — then his arms tighten around Will’s midriff.

That feels intentional. Even if it hadn’t been. Things with Mike feel intentional. Purposeful.

Even if he is — you know. Asleep, a little.

Will’s room is comfortably warm; the late summer sun has been hiding lately, and the sky isn’t blue, exactly but at least it’s not red anymore — dark and rolling and angry. It’s still, and it’s quiet, and it’s peaceful for the first time in a long time — a long time—

—and still, something’s wrong.

“Will?”

Mike shifts, just slightly, just enough to lean his head against Will’s collarbone and look up at him. He catches the edge of Mike’s expression like it’s a secret, a glimpse of wide eyes, a little confused.

Will peers down at him. “Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t,” Mike says, even as he blinks heavily. He rolls out his ankle, bumps it against Will’s and keeps it there, stretches long and languid, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Will says. If Mike stays like this, if he doesn’t look up any farther, maybe he can get away with it.

Mike doesn’t sound convinced. “You sure?” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with one hand and pushing himself up, just enough to be able to look at Will better. “You seemed…”

He trails off. Will tucks a stray strand of hair back behind Mike’s ear, from where it had been falling loose and down into his eyes. “I’m sure,” he murmurs. “Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep!”

“You were,” Will laughs. “You were twitching. Like a cat.”

“I don’t twitch,” Mike insists, then pauses. “Do I?”

“Sometimes,” Will admits, then presses a kiss to the top of Mike’s head. “When you’re really tired. I think it’s cute.”

“Stop,” Mike mumbles, but he lowers his head back to Will’s chest. “So mean to me.”

“I called you cute!”

“Mean,” Mike says, sounding like he’s halfway back to sleep already as he snakes an arm back around Will’s chest, hand resting lightly on the side of his throat, just over his jaw. He tangles their legs together, the sheets going wrinkled and bunched up under them. “So mean.”

Will smiles. “Sorry,” he whispers. He glances down at the mess of black hair in front of his face, runs a careful hand through it. Again, and again, and again. Mike makes a small noise, content and pleased, and presses in closer, like he’s trying to vanquish whatever minute semblance of space might have been left between them. “I won’t be mean again.”

It’s a joke, obviously. Still, Will traces apologetic circles into Mike’s back, into the gentle dip between his shoulders. He maps out the planes there, tries to commit them to memory by touch alone, the way he can feel Mike breathe in — slow, hesitant — and then out again — faster, like he’s collapsing back into Will’s body.

The circles give way to shapes, any that Will can think of. Then lines, curved and looping around his shoulder blades, his upper arms. He trails fingers up the back of Mike’s neck, where the cotton of his shirt gives way to a more organic warmth, and scrapes his fingernails lightly against the skin there. Drops another delicate kiss to the sliver of Mike’s forehead where his hair is parted as it falls around his face.

Mike lets out another pleased noise, half-coherent and probably involuntary, and his hand twitches lightly on Will’s jaw. Will bites back a smile, and stares straight up at the ceiling.

Will was never good at this before either — taking the things he wants. Letting himself have things he wants. Something is turning over in his gut, warm and viscous and slow, with each moment of touch he lets himself have, in this newfound, selfish way — through Mike’s hair, down his arms and back up again. Over his back, his shoulders, trailing fingers up his cheeks. He rubs circles into Mike’s temples, watches his brows unfurrow — for once in his life — and his expression go slack with contentment. He wants to touch the corners of Mike’s mouth too, where they’ve turned downwards, vulnerable, half-pressed into Will’s shirt.

He does. He can.

It’s a novel thing, for him, having someone be this close. Having someone be this close just because they want to be, because they trust you.

Will doesn’t know what to make of that. He’s never felt this before, the urge to hold someone so close that all the bad things go away. The urge to touch, the urge to lie here until entropy takes them.

There are no bad things anymore, though. It’s a quiet afternoon, and it’s calm, and it’s peaceful, and—

Will stops.

His hand stills on Mike’s back.

Oh, he thinks, still looking up at the ceiling. Oh.

“Will?” Mike stirs again, and he’d definitely been right on the precipice of sleep this time, judging by the way his voice is dragging on the single syllable. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Will whispers, a little incredulously, as realization dawns upon him. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry too, a little bit. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m great.”

Mike taps a slow finger against Will’s cheek and peers carefully up at him. “What is it?

“I,” Will starts, then stops. He’ll sound ridiculous if he says it. Ridiculous and pathetic and— “Nothing,” he says anyway, despite every molecule of better judgment in his body. “I’m just— I’m happy.”

Mike pauses. “Oh,” he says simply, cheek still pressed to Will’s chest. He sounds a little caught off-guard, in a good way. “I— that’s good. That you’re happy.”

The weird feeling in Will’s gut bubbles up, up, and over. “Yeah,” he says quietly, trying to keep his voice even. “I am. You make me happy.”

At this, Mike looks up. His expression is a bit startled, like a deer in headlights. “What?”

Oh, god. Will swallows. He looks back up. “I just,” he says, “I’ve never— I’m happy. And I don’t know when— I don’t know if I’ve ever. Been this happy before, I mean. Before everything. Before—”

You, he thinks. He doesn’t say it, but it goes implied.

Mike is silent.

The weird feeling starts settling back into Will’s stomach, slow and steady like molasses. Shit. That was, objectively, probably a weird thing to say. It was, right?

Oh, god.

Will blinks, once, twice, thrice in quick succession, and keeps his stare fixed on the ceiling.

“Will,” Mike says at last, from somewhere below him. He lifts his head off of Will’s chest, tufts of black hair swimming into view. “Can you— can you look at me, please?”

Oh, god.

Will looks down. “Yeah?”

Mike looks— wondrous, maybe, which is a bit dramatic, but it’s true. “Really?” he asks, and he doesn’t sound freaked out or anything, which is a good sign, but— “I do?”

“Yeah,” Will whispers. “You do. Like, really happy.”

Happy seems a bit diminutive, if Will’s being honest. Whatever this feeling is runs much deeper than that — past contentment and comfort and satisfaction. Ease, maybe. Safety would be closer.

He doesn’t say any of that.

Mike’s cheeks flush a brilliant pink. He splays his palm across Will’s cheek and asks, in mild disbelief, “Is that what was bothering you?”

“It wasn’t bothering me,” Will says quietly, tugging at Mike’s wrist and sitting up, just slightly, leaning back against one elbow. “I’m fine.”

“You weren’t,” Mike says simply, and lets himself be moved. “I could tell. I just— I thought it was something, you know. Worse.”

“What?” Will laughs, and Mike’s expression softens in relief. “Like what?”

“I don’t know!” Mike exclaims, but he’s smiling too. “I just— I could tell, and I didn’t— I don’t know. Never mind.”

Will pushes a strand of hair behind Mike’s ear again, the same one that had been falling back out the entire time they’d been lying together. “I’m sorry if you worried,” he says quietly. “I just— I didn’t know what it was. I’ve never been this happy before.”

“Will,” Mike starts, expression earnest and searching. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Sorry,” Will adds, for good measure. Maybe Mike is, like, totally freaked out. “No pressure, or anything.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mike says immediately, frowning. “Never apologize. I just— I’m happy too. You make me happy. Really happy.”

“Well that’s good,” Will jokes, but it comes out halfhearted. “I should hope I’m not making you sad.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Will.”

“Sorry,” he says on instinct, then immediately bites down on his lower lip. “I mean. Yes. Yeah.”

Mike gives him a look, exasperated and a little fond. “I mean,” he says, then leans forward, all the way back into Will’s space, “you make me happy too. I don’t know when I’ve been— me too, I mean. Me too.”

“Oh,” Will breathes out, in awe, a little bit, of a lot of things — the deepening flush across Mike’s cheek, the ease with which the admission comes tumbling out of his mouth. The simple reciprocity of it bowls him over, like maybe Mike thinks about this, when Will doesn’t know — just how happy Will makes him. “Okay.”

Mike eyes dart between his own. “That all you have to say?” he teases. “Okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?” Will asks, teasing back, a little, but also asking a little truthfully. He’s not the greatest with words, but he’s also not stupid — he understands the implications, here, of what it means to feel so happy around someone that it feels like you’re admitting to something bigger by just saying it. He knows what he’s implying, and he knows Mike is picking up on it, but he doesn’t know how to put that into words — the way his soul feels like it’s stilled inside of him, somewhere, no longer restless or jittery or perpetually keyed up.

He wonders if Mike feels like that too.

The thought, suddenly, is too much.

“Nothing,” Mike says, after a moment. He pauses, then presses a fleeting kiss to Will’s cheek. “Nothing.”

“Mike,” Will says, suddenly, then grabs a hold of Mike’s wrist again. “I— you know that I—”

He feels overwhelmed, a little frantic. He’s sure it’s coming through in his voice. The rest of the sentence hangs there, suspended in midair between the two of them.

Love you, Will thinks. I love you. I love you.

He needs Mike to know.

Mike can’t ever know.

He looks away again, like maybe Mike will be able to tell exactly what he’s thinking just by looking at him.

“Yeah,” Mike is saying. “It’s okay, Will. I know. Me too. Obviously.”

Will relaxes. Thank god for plausible deniability. “Okay,” he says instead, feeling a smile split wide and exhilarated across his face. He feels like he just ran a marathon, and it isn’t until he lies back down that he feels it. The adrenaline, sweet and thick and palpable in his veins. “Okay. Cool.”

“Cool,” Mike echoes, then settles back down on top of him. “Yeah. Cool.”

Will tucks his chin over the top of Mike’s head, running a soothing hand over Mike’s hair. His heart is beating so fast that he’s sure Mike is able to tell. “Go back to sleep,” he says quietly. Mike lets out a noise that might be a laugh, and tucks his face into Will’s neck.

It’s a quiet afternoon. Everything feels perfectly right.

[inkskinned]

i have so much to say about this but like. fuck social media for making certain types of "pranks" popular. just as a blanket statement? if the intent of a prank is to humiliate someone without their consent, there is a good chance what you're doing is actually just bullying.

and if you record that person, you are being twice the asshole in that situation. recording someone takes away their agency. do you really think someone you just humiliated on camera is going to have both the bravery and presence of mind to calmly ask you to please delete the video if it makes them uncomfortable? and do you think the people who pull these kinds of pranks would be like - oh sorry, sure, let me delete it, no problem.

"pulling a prank" is like. supposed to be funny for both sides. when you put people in unsafe situations and then laugh at them/judge them for their response.... like. that's not funny. that's abusive behavior. you are training them to accept their dehumanization. it's controlling and ugly. please fucking have any form of empathy.

if you don't actually care if they feel safe/comfortable, you're not being funny. you're being mean. labelling something "a joke" in hindsight does not undo the damage. it just gaslights the other person into thinking their reaction was invalid. you broke someone's trust and personal boundaries for clout. they deserve to be upset about it.

and as a side note? i will bet you 200 american dollars that most of these "pranksters" would immediately crumble into a huge overreaction if anyone even vaguely reciprocated and put them into that level of humiliation - because it was never about how "funny" pranks are. it was about control and manipulation. they like feeling powerful and they like making other people feel less powerful. which is ... bullying.

[fortheturnstiles]

rick danko epic dance moves compilation from don’t do it live at the casino arena 7/20/1976 . hope you enjoy

[pup-pee]

this is b4 theh confused their love or smth

[mondaymelon]

help the way that i want to interact with you but i'm scared for my sanity if i do

ahha

why whould you be scared

im

im not scary

im just silly ok iimsiiiillyyy .

[crybaby-bkg]

cw: butt stuff

Bakugou always wants to be so close to you whenever you guys have sex, and you’re just the same. He holds you right up against him, sweaty skin against sticky flesh, mouths breathing in the same air, he consumes you wholly, and you let him every time.

You’re on top, but all you have to do is sit there and take it. He wraps both arms tight around you, locked against your sides, his mouth buried against your cheek as he huffs against you. You’re all high, staccato moans, arms wrapped tight around his neck, fingers holding onto his nape. He feels so deep in this position, like he’s trying to carve a path inside of you no one else can follow.

“Feel good, huh baby?” Bakugou grunts, cocky and grinning, the slaps of his thighs against yours loud in the quiet room. You meet his hips at every thrust, face buried into his neck as you try to keep your cries at bay. You go to answer him shakily, and you can feel his arm moving, but you don’t think too much of it.

“S’good,” you slur, craning your neck up to mouth messily at his pulse point, squeaking when there’s a sudden wetness against your rim. Bakugou laughs meanly, licks the tip of his fingers again before he creeps thick digits down until they circle you again.

“That—that’s my ass,” you weakly protest, despite untangling your arms from around him, reaching a hand behind you to spread yourself wide. You can feel his grin more than see it, as he takes the opportunity to start teasing at the unprepared hole.

“Yeah,” he sighs dreamily as he watches you open yourself up from over your shoulder. “I fuckin’ know.”

It’s embarrassing how fast you cum when Bakugou slides his finger inside your ass, back arching to keep feeling his cock rub your g spot, his pubes rubbing against your clit sweetly. You scramble from the pleasure, still holding your ass open, still meeting his thrust, pushing up on your free arm as you scream your pleasures to the ceiling. Bakugou watches you, adoringly all the while, bites at his bottom lip when your tits bounce in his face, when your eyes cross, and you call his name for mercy.

He finishes inside you in mere seconds, the feeling of your cunt spasming around his cock and your ass sucking in his finger, there’s no way he’s supposed to last any longer than he did. You both collapse onto the bed, sweaty and heaving, wrapped all around each other once more. He rubs your back and you massage his stomach and arms as you both lay there, trying to catch your breath, thinking.

“You liked a finger in your ass?” Bakugou asks bluntly, and it makes you snort. You hide your face in his neck as you nod quickly, and he hums in response. It goes quiet again before you sit up a little to look at him, a deviously evil little smile on your face.

“Can I put the finger in your ass next time?” You ask him, expecting him to push you away so he can get the wet rag. But Bakugou only looks at you funny for a while before he shrugs, dragging you into a sloppy kiss.

“You’re a nasty little freak, aren’t ya?” He asks you, but he never actually says no to your question. You take it as a win, anyway.

[itissadbutitsmy-artblog]

of all the things to turn into a ridiculous (cleaned up) long comic (i have PLENTTYY of sketched long comics) i chose: spader skips class

i still dont know how to panel comics but that s what practicing is. for

[r0b0t1me]

quick leo drawing before i sleep