#About; Headcanons

[barebcnes]

What colour are you coded as?

BLUE CODED blue, a study in wisdom, belief, and knowing when enough is enough. you know yourself best, but you know the way the world works even more. you've been wandering in this world a little too long, and maybe that's the problem. you're a wanderer, a vagabond, an oracle, and a prophet all the same. who are you when the curtain call drops the last encore on you? do you dance behind the scenes for a job well done or are you already planning your next show? take a breather, for a moment. enjoy what you've done, enjoy what you have, enjoy the world that you've been wandering for so long. this world is so much better when you realize that some of it is worth living for.

Stolen from my other blog Tagging: @paramounticebound @ensnchekov @fallenregent and you.

[bumblingbabooshka]

Vulcan teen on Vulcan [tiktok] saying "I have just lost track of my father in the grocery store." The camera turns to show the viewers the grocery store in which almost every single older middle-aged man has a bowlcut and long robes. Camera turns back to show the teen's face which is expressionless and yet communicates all it needs to.

[violent138]

Starting to think a cooler headcanon for Clark’s upbringing might just be that the entire town of Smallville collectively decided to just go with it and accept that Martha and John's kid has superpowers, but we don't talk about it.

Someone's tractor gets stuck and nothing can get it out? "Be a dear and run down to the Kents, would you? Ask for Clark?"

"Why Clark, we need a machine--"

"Run along now."

Or if he kicks too hard and the football vanishes into the upper stratosphere, no it didn't, we all collectively saw it land over there *vague hand movements*

[rachelfc-art]

Princess in Shining Armor

[doodledrawsthings]

@mindboogling and i have been brainrotting over the unnamed Solace family members for like two days straight, the implications make me severely ill please take them Boog designed the sibs, i designed the mama. they dont have names idk what they should be...

[frownyalfred]

favorite Bruce Wayne hc of the week: you’re allowed to follow him into the Cave to continue your argument, but he’s going to start undressing and pulling off armor while heading for the showers and if you get an eyeful, that’s on you.

It’s an effective tactic and stops a good 60% of those arguments in their tracks. The remaining 40% are usually intense enough to follow Bruce into the showers and yell at him while he’s casually showering off grime and blood.

[novaneondream]

Anyways what kind of music do you think Eri listens to

[alloffandoms]

13yr old Sirius telling 13yr old James that his "sister was absolutely out of limits" about 12yr old pre-transition Regulus.

15yr old James telling a very angry 15yr old Sirius that, in his defense, he had said his sister was out of limits, not his brother.

[boxofoxberry]

desertduo are NOT beating the allegations rn

[lilacxquartz]

love you, love you, love you;

mr. crawling x reader

plot: some things are best expressed without the need of words — themes: spooning/cuddling, smut, maybe yan vibes — w.c: 1.1k

a/n: my first homicipher related fic. i want to try one for mr. silvair & mr. gap next, bc they were also my favs. this game has been taking over my life so much lately. like it’s been in my dreams, haaah.

masterlist • ao3

Mr. Crawling was always loud when he was excited within your company; his laughter filled out the vast empty spaces that were otherwise unadorned with familiarity. Whatever you once sought from those winding corridors was ever-fleeting, temporary, leaving you stuck within the confines of his company.

Yet, when he felt what you could only interpret as affection—that’s when Mr. Crawling then became different—quiet, soothing, kind but also… curious.

And when you would usually sleep, he would stand watch, knelt over the floor as per his usual stance but sometimes crouched near you, sometimes leaning back against the wall with his legs pressed up against his chest. He would watch you as his life depended on it, unwavering in focus and with eerie intensity. He would watch as your chest rose and fell, leaning close on occasion to catch the sweep of your breath and sometimes, he would trace the pad of his milky fingertips in long, languid strokes against your face. Always so delicate, so tender, but for the most part, quiet and even shy.

Having once caught a glimpse of Mr. Gap in your blanket space, however, set something territorial off for Mr. Crawling and he was never able to recover from such an invasion. The very idea that someone else was able to infiltrate what he deemed to be your space—especially someone who he disapproved of—wasn’t something he could stand for. Especially with the sort of trickster Mr. Gap was, he couldn’t bear to see you get hurt. It would kill him on the inside (and on the outside, too).

So, just as you were getting into bed to rest up once more, he too, slipped in under the covers with you. At first, you were startled as usual, turning to face him with confusion evident in your eyes, murmuring out some words in a language that he still could not understand. He repeated something back, the meaning lost and indecipherable upon your ears, though soon surrendering to emphasis using gestures instead. A hug to bring you closer, a reassuring pat on your head and a small, longing kiss over your nose.

You listened to his words again, repeating over and over like a broken record.

Perhaps he meant no harm, after all.

You turned your back to him and settled into his chest, finding that he was surprisingly warm for what he was. His taller frame encased your body, wrapping his ashen arms around your waist—accidentally brushing the fabric that sat over your breast—nicking the cloth ever so slightly. Your breath hitched in surprise and as though in sheepish realisation, he withdrew right away, terrified that you were upset with him.

You drew out a long breath, reminding yourself again, that after everything that has happened thus far…

That, Mr. Crawling does not want to hurt you.

That Mr. Crawling has only ever helped you.

So perhaps, right now, Mr. Crawling only wanted to be closer to you.

You relaxed your breathing, settling into his comforting shadow once more and allowed for his presence to envelop you. He repeated the soothing motions of his grappling arm, although he held onto you softer that time. His hands explored your body with a delicate touch, as though afraid of breaking you—of upsetting you again—his motions growing confident the longer that you didn’t protest. It wasn’t long before he, otherwise not disturbed by your lacking, conscious awareness, decided to explore further with you. Mr. Crawling’s fingers didn’t ask for permission that time, creeping beneath the clinging fabric, feeling your skin against his palms, inviting a pleased, almost delighted smile to curl on his lips.

The silence remained unbroken as Mr. Crawling continued his explorative focus on you; the quickly-building evidence of his need growing harder the longer he pushed himself behind your body, the repeated touches arousing something warmer within him. To both his surprise as well as your own—you were not repulsed, allowing him to creep even lower, below the skirt of the dress and up, brushing his hand up to your exposed skin and, reading into it—you communicated your consent from the moment you parted your legs, allowing him to get even closer.

Confidence surged in Mr. Crawling as he pushed himself into your hilt, allowing his hardened length to slip inside. Betraying the stagnant silence, he shuddered out a ragged gasp before giving into his own rising need; grinding himself into your sopping sex with steadily increasing fervour. His fingers clamped around the curve of your hips as he held you in place, slamming every last inch of himself deep into your core.

Ever touch-starved yet wanting nothing more than to surrender to the sensation of you, Mr. Crawling continued to drive his cock into your needy cunt, soon wrapping his winding arms around your body and holding on tight. He bucked intensely as you soon succumbed to breathless whimpers, incoherently begging for his name. Equally desperate whines rolled off the slip of his tongue as he found his lips pressed into the crook of your neck, dampening your skin with sloppy wet kisses—as many as he could give.

It felt overwhelming for you in a way to be worshipped like this but you did your best to keep up with such intensity, especially as the warm, tingling pleasure built up inside of you, too. You held on just as tight as he did, your hand seeking out his own—fingers weaving into his bony digits—interlocking and squeezing tight the closer you got, your grip and otherwise clenching need tightening simultaneously. To feel him losing himself inside of you was dare you admit, addicting, feeling him completely fill and stretch you out leaving you almost dizzied from the impaling force.

Mr. Crawling, like you, soon surrendered to the rolling bliss from the flick of his hips, feeling a surging warmth mount and rise, encouraging him to lose himself to the searing heat of the moment and you. Encircling your body in a possessive hug, he suddenly began to mutter out a new word in a strained mantra, again and again.

Given how desperate he seemed to be, you understood the meaning as ‘close’, especially as his actions grew more strained and less controlled.

“Close, close, close,” he repeated.

It didn’t take his chased release to catch up as his hips grew to a stutter, rutting out one final pump before melting into you. Mr. Crawling cried into your neck, spilling out the entirety of his overflowing love, feeling the pent-up devotion trickle down your thighs—yet not letting you move away—still retaining his claim on you.

Instead, he kept you even closer than before, not allowing you to part from him ever again (despite understanding your yearning for rest).

Words were never the problem, it seemed.

Mr. Crawling would have always found a way to… connect with you.

[demonicsuffrage]

Bruce showing his kids affection, aka, gift-giving

Tim, who finally got a spleen transplant after Bruce had begged him a million times, returning home from the hospital: Hey Bruce

Bruce, extending papers towards him: Welcome back. These are for you, sign here

Tim: Aren't these are Wayne Enterprises papers

Bruce: Yeah it's your company now :)

Tim: What do mean it's my Company now?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

16-year-old Dick, returning home after winning his mathlete championship: What're the papers for, Bruce?

Bruce: It's your new mansion's paperwork

Dick: What?

Bruce: On your new private island :)

Dick: WHAT?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jason, running into Bruce on patrol: Sup

Bruce, with a man in tow: Thank god I ran into you, Jason

Jason, eyeing the guy beside Bruce: Who's that?

Bruce: You couldn't get to family dinner last time because your bike was broken so

Jason: So you got me a guy?

Bruce: He's the new pilot for your new helicopter :)

Jason: My fucking WHAT

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cass, day after she defeated Bruce in training for the first time: Bruce, where's my suit?

Bruce: Oh I gave it away to charity.

Cass: What? Why?

Bruce: I'm getting you a new suit made with triple weave Kevlar and titanium dipped resin lined with memory foam

Cass: Expensive?

Bruce: Just $1,058,600 :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian, in his initial days as Robin, who hadn't killed anyone in an entire month: Good morning, Father, what are you doing?

Bruce, choosing a colour scheme for the new zoo he's about to make for Damian: It's a surprise:)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Duke, listening to music: Man i wish someone would buy me Spotify premium so I can listen without all these ads

Bruce, handing him the deeds of Spotify the next day: :)

[barebcnes]

What emotion are you?

Anxiety.

Anxiety is your companion, the shadow that hangs over you like a storm cloud. It's a voice that whispers in your ear, telling you all the things that could go wrong- echoing and bouncing inside the walls of your mind. It's a feeling that clutches at your chest, making it hard to breathe. It's a cycle, a never-ending loop of worry and fear. I wish I could turn it off for you, silence the doubt in your mind, but it's always there, lurking in the corners of your thoughts, ready to strike when you least expect it.

Tagged by stolen from: @ssolessurvivor (♥)

Tagging : @paramounticebound @ensnchekov and YOU.

[ghost-bxrd]

Headcanon that when Jason so much as says “ow..” on the comms the rest of the batfam immediately assume he must be dying.

[macaronniart]

putting astarion's sewing skills to worthwhile use

[rachelfc-art]

By Your Side