#somebody get it please

[rain-and-jellyfish]

my classmates are so annoying i am this 🤏 close to

[lessonincanvases]

I’m taking the term world tour away from artists and management they can have it back when they’ve shown they know how to use it properly

[bougiebutchbitch]

fucking obsessed with Izzy being everyone's bestie and genuinely supporting and caring for Ed and Stede through their Relationship Drama - but also accidentally influencing them into breaking them up again by telling Ed to follow the path of throwing his leathers away, if that's where his heart leads him

my little guy is The Cockblocker Supreme, even when he wants sooo badly to be The Cockenabler

[imfinereallyy]

some of us, and I’m not naming names, need to start being properly tagged on fics.

Angst: Is it me?

No.

Unhappy Ending: Is it me?

……it’s not Angst.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 111

Y’all know H2O? Where some people get cursed to turn into merfolk whenever they get water on them? That, but replace water with ectoplasm and merfolk with naga. 

No, Bruce has no idea how they managed to get cursed or how he ended up with an armful of baby snake-person creature thing. At least this one isn’t black-hair and blue-eyes so his kids can’t complain at him. And it’s not his fault they all fell into this, this was supposed to be a vacation while Lucious, Alfred, and Gordon kept an eye on things back in Gotham. 

On the bright side, his children want to snuggle up for once, which he supposes is nice. And Damian seems pleased about it judging by his rambles about snakes. So there’s that. 

[crt8ball]

also now that everything is over can we please talk about what charlie said about not turning into gegg as often cause its getting more and more difficult to change back??????

LIKE ITS NO LONGER teehee!! he makes loud echoey scream sounds for funsies and turns into a silly small egg!

It physically pains q!Slime to become Gegg.

i feel like this presidency if gegg actually gets voted is going to be the end of q!slime like...

im not gonna put it past charlie slimecicle to make a pyscological horror plot about him slowly each time being more hurt by doing this metamorphasis until he is fully unable to get out of this slimey egg form

i mean especially with q!slime "blacking out" and "not remebering what happened" for the whole debate despite him BEING THERE in the form of gegg...

im so worried for his character... i cannot handle another wretchedly tragic and unsaveable charlie slimecicle character RIGHT after genloss, my mental state will not recover

[grumfield]

boy suck it all, boy suck it down

[evildolokhoded]

being subjected to the things dan and phil tweeted at/about each other back in the early days feels like having to witness that one couple in high school that was full making out in the hallways at 8 am while you were running on two hours of sleep and half a ham sandwich for the next six hours.

[wormspoodle]

mutant mayhem doodles,, i am so excited for this movie

rise mikey meeting klunk :]

real and canon interaction between donnies

[cinamun]

We need a plan | Next

[forestmossling]

you all seem to like steddie marrying and building a family together in their thirties so much, but what about them playing house together in elementary? never thought about that, huh? what about eddie weaving a flower crown for steve during recess and proposing to him with it behind the school in fifth grade? what about steddie marrying each other when they’re twelve with wayne officiating their wedding in the yard in front of their trailer at sunset? what’s with everybody being so keen on letting them fall for each other in high school at earliest? why not make a ten years old eddie profess his undying love and devotion to steve while he’s playing a knight defending his princess? why not let steve make amazing sand pies for his husband, who is hard at work looking for cool rocks for him outside? never thought about writing that, huh? cowards.

[ovaryacted]

This is a random thought but just imagine inviting Leon over for Thanksgiving for the first time.

It would be so endearing, so sweet because he doesn’t really have any family left or someone remotely close to him. Maybe the Redfields would invite him so they could spend time with him but I think it would be so cute to see this white man coming into another household especially if it’s a household of color or of another ethnicity.

That poor boy would come into unfamiliar territory, not knowing how to interact outside of saying hi and hello and he would be awkward and nervous and you have to hold his hand to make sure his anxiety doesn’t spike. But when he makes a relative laugh, he thinks it’s okay and starts chatting it up some more. Shares a drink or two, and it’s really all smiles from there as the family members give off the vibe of “YOU AIGHT WHITE BOY!” and Leon thinks he’s won the jackpot.

Then it’s time for actual dinner, and after saying grace and the thanksgiving prayer, Leon goes to TOWN. He fills his plate up with everything he sees, not knowing what some things are but he just gets it anyway. You’re in front of him guiding him around the food selections, and he’s asking you along the way “What’s that? What’s this?”, while putting some on his plate anyway. Collard greens, candied yams, mac n cheese, ham, turkey, pork, cornbread, macaroni salad, mashed potatoes, dressing, lasagna, peach cobbler, banana pudding, apple pie, literally EVERYTHING. He’ll have the sweets on one plate so it doesn’t mix with the rest of his food.

And when he finally sits to eat, he eats it all in silence. Literally just munching away and basically inhaling his damn food. He’s hunching over his plate and not lifting his eyes up for a second, and if you look at him closely he’s just shaking his head in awe from how good the food is, feels like he could cry. He’s a foodie at heart and finds comfort in it, and knowing he’s getting home cooked food made with so much love would probably make him emotional because that to him is a privilege he never got to experience until he met you. You’re just watching him eat for a good minute, how he basically licks his plate clean, and when he really is finally done he asks if he could get a second plate. That grants him a kiss from granny and appreciation from some of the other relatives who cooked the meal, as if they were giving him a blessing.

Best believe, Leon would make sure to get multiple to-go plates, probably even a tray of stuff he’ll make sure to eat tomorrow. He’s satisfied, happy, and he’d be sitting on the couch next to you fighting the itis BAD because he’s ready to just fall asleep after eating so much. And he looks at you with so much adoration and love in his eyes, he doesn’t need to vocalize how thankful he is to have you in his life, you can see it all in his face. You just give him a soft kiss on his cheek and tell him those three words he loves to hear from you so much.

[braisedhoney]

i found just the most phenomenal voice line for dan randomly on youtube… and so i animated it for him!

some frames i liked (when i can get his hair to work lol)

(jazz needs a best sister award tbh)

[floertoer]

I've had a lot of fairy tail brain rot recently

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 119

Another divine twitch chat Au? Another divine twitch chat Au. With a bit of a twist. 

Billy would like to say it is in fact not his fault. It’s really not. Who hits someone with magic they obviously don’t know how to use? Well okay maybe he had done that before, but it’s not like he ever did it around other people where they could get hit! 

But someone was an idiot and now he’s here, as his normal ten-year old self kicking his legs while sitting in the Watchtower as the others argued. Apparently the League thinks he’s been de-aged, which is good as his secret isn’t out. 

The uh, issue is that something about the spell might have um, partially manifested the gods- or as he called them the Mediterranean Magic Men, if only because of how annoyed it made Zeus. Now everyone can see the chat that’s usually only visible to him and apparently it’s concerning. 

He doesn’t see how it’s an issue, Zeus has been silenced for the next hour and Hercules has been dying of laughter for the last three. Oh, wait, it might be from Mercury’s constant attempted flirting with Flash. …Or the fact they’re trying to convince him to commit a crime and he’s honestly down for doing so seeing as he’s a homeless ten year old who is down for getting clairvoyance and super speed for the next thirty minutes in exchange…

[sun-snatcher]

🌾 ・ OF CLARION CALLS

summ. The rebellion runs into trouble, & Jet takes the brunt of it. In the aftermath, you fight to keep him alive. pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader w.count. 1.5k a/n. So little Jet fics/imagines around so i had to take matters into my own hands. Enjoy!

The moonlight casts a halo above your head, and for a brief moment, Jet thinks you’re a divine spirit, perhaps a goddess— or whatever it is his mother used to read to him before bed.

( In some ways, you are. )

…Jet, he hears, distant. He can’t pinpoint exactly where— every sound is either muffled or echoing, and the world keeps tipping in and out of a blur. All he can sense through the haze is the belt of dull pain creeping up his chest, and the cotton-numbness engulfing his head. Right. He’d been shot clean through his armor plate by a wayward arrow after he’d jumped infront of Sneers to protect him. He remembers now, vaguely. It had been an ambush on their way home.

...et, stay with me. 

Jet. 

“Jet!”

The world focuses. He inhales, sharp, and the pain blinds him white as he gasps.

“Easy there, handsome,” you joke (not really), holding his twitching body down and trying to meet his dazed look. The blood is thick enough to taste, and one look is enough to tell he’s walking a tightrope between life or death. He's growing colder, and losing colour by the minute. You make quick work to staunch the gaping wound in his chest, hope he can’t detect the shakiness in your hands, or the tears gathering in your eyes. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Will he?” comes a voice behind the two medics crowding him. It’s Smellerbee, standing at the step of the medical tent; her voice sounds uncharacteristically frightened, and it sends a pang through your heart. I’m fine, Jet instinctively wants to insist, but you answer for him instead. “Yes. He will." ( And, well, surely such a small deception would not count against you, not when it was meant to give the others some measure of peace. )

Jet blinks, finally orienting himself enough to look at you and not through you— and blinks again. You’re lying. He could feel it. He could always tell, whenever it comes to you. 

…Stay, he thinks, suddenly and senselessly, and clasps his bloodied hand around your wrist. He calls your name, voice straining in pain. But he must’ve said it aloud instead, because you’d smiled at him as gently as you could— even when it looked as if the effort of doing so would wound you— and said, calmly, convincingly: I promise, I’m not going anywhere.

“With me?” he asks, again, even when he knows he must’ve sounded like a madman. Perhaps it’s the bloodloss. Likely, it was. It wouldn’t be such a bad end, though, so long as you stood by his side. He wants to tell you this— been wanting to for a long time, now— but the strength has left him, leaving him floating somewhere between the world of waking and dreaming.

“With you,” comes your reply. 

You catch the ghost of his trademark smile just before he slips away.

Jet survives.

That’s the first surprise. 

The second is that; you’re here. Just as you’d promised.

He must have been out for longer than he thinks, because the atmosphere in the medical tent seemed to have ebbed to something much more conducive than last he remembers. The tinctures of alcohol and sedatives surrounding him and his bloody bandages that night are now replaced with dry ingredients; yarrow half-crushed in a mortar and pestle, mixed herbs and colourful liquids corked in tiny bottles and tins he couldn’t begin to name. His armour had been stripped from him, lying above a chest by the corner.

Ever the leader; “Sneers,” is the first word out his mouth, once he’d stirred awake on his cot and recognition returned slowly to him. It’s early sometime in the morning, judging by the colour of the sky outside the tattered tent flaps and the still quietness in the air. Beside him, an incense of sandalwood burns. “Sneers—”

“Is alive, thanks to you,” you override. The faint bitterness in your voice is not lost on him.

Somehow, someway, seeing him conscious now seemed to make you bristle. You think— no, you know— that it’s unfair of you; that it’s simply the pent-up frustrations and stress overflowing from the night he’d been hauled back to camp with one foot in the grave. But Longshot’s harrowing clarion call for a medic from the trees still rings clear as a bell in your head, just as much as the cold shock that had seized you the moment you realised the birdcall was for Jet.

“Good.”

“Not good,” you correct, “Not when you of all people pay the price.”

( Jet doesn’t delude himself into thinking that there could possibly be another meaning to what you said. It would be impossible. ) “You would’ve done the same,” he bites back, and takes your silence as quiet agreement.

“You’re upset,” Jet points out, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

A sigh. “You just woke up,” you dismiss, if only to get him off your scent. “We can talk another day.”

“We’re already here, so let’s settle it now. The mission went well, and as far as I can see, I’m the only one in here, which means nobody else got hurt on the way back but me. Atleast, not as badly.”

It’s a debrief, you recognise. A coping mechanism for him— to spur himself into action and settle himself. Given the stress and trauma his body has been enduring the past days, you let it pass.

It’s only when you shift out from your seat by his cot, standing to begin putting away the bowls of medicine prepared, that Jet realises your fingers had been holding his wrist before. You must have stayed up for, what he can only imagine to be long nights, to keep track on whether his pulse was still beating. ( Something inside his chest burns. He can’t tell if it’s your doing or the injury being fussy. )

“I’m sorry,” he huffs, sighing out. “If that’s what you wanna hear.”

“For what?” You set the mortar down on your table with more force than necessary, and looked at him sharply from over your shoulder. Jet, damn him, still looks at you straight in the eyes, confident as ever. You want to kiss him. You want to break his nose. “For being a hero?”

“No.”

“Playing martyr?”

“No.”

“For saving Sneers? Everyone?”

“No—”

“Then what?”

“For scaring you,” he says, simply.

Your heart starts. 

A frisson runs through you, and you feel the back of your eyes begin to burn.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he emphasises, and doesn’t say, I’m sorry I made you cry, because your prideful self would have denied it instantly, even if he remembers it clear as day. “I’m sorry I put you through that.” 

He yanks at a loose thread on the blanket you’d laid on him a night ago. It must have been terrifying to see him be dragged to the table, half-dead with a broken arrow in his chest, and leave a mess of blood and horror in his wake. It must have been terrifying, indeed, to be the one responsible for him against Death itself— to carry the weight of his life on your shoulders, while the rest of the Freedom Fighters watched on. 

“It’s, it’s my job,” you turn away to close a drawer of medical instruments, because you’re not quite sure you can stand meeting his gaze. Not when it only reminds you of just how much he lived, breathed and bleeds chaos and revolution; not when you know this accident definitely won’t be the last.

You can’t handle him. Or maybe it’s yourself you can’t handle, when it comes to him. “Just, be careful.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he salutes mockingly, albeit with a wince. The flinch is what kicks you back into action.

“You’re staying in bed until you’re better,” you order, curt, ignoring his groan. His wrapped shoulder still seems painfully defiant despite all the numbing you’d given him; it would be a couple of weeks longer before he’d be fully healed, but knowing Jet— he’ll be up performing duties within a week. “That means no strain at all. No scouting or recon or hunting, got it?”

He lulls his head, but there’s a dash of humour on his face. “Since I’m bedridden, does that mean you’re at my every beck and call, then?”

Your face twists. He lets out a laugh when you answer, "In your dreams, Jet."

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

You roll your eyes, though without heat, and place a bowl of fresh water by his side. There is, at the very least, a smile on your face, and Jet’s sure he can sleep well tonight knowing you both are, at the end of the day, okay. 

“Hey,” he calls your name, once you've begun making your way out the tent. You try to ignore how much more sweeter it sounds coming from him. “I really am sorry. I’m serious.”

He had caught your sleeve when he spoke, so your fingers now brush against his. You try not to focus on the touch too much. “So am I.”

“We can’t lose you, Jet,” you continue, unsteady; because saying I can’t lose you would have been unthinkable.