#for me . . . . ? you shouldn’t have . . . .

[starbuck]

“…to me” is one of the most powerful disclaimers we have on here… is this character analysis accurate? debatable. but it’s real… to me.

[andromeda-after-dark]

Honestly I’ve never come across a character people want pregnant more than batman which is kinda funny to me, especially in the context of superbat, like you’d think they’d take advantage to the cop out of alien biology to make Clark the one to be the carrier but nope, this 6ft 3 brick shithouse of a fully human man is too mother coded, he grew a working uterus out of spite

[magic-owl]

I don’t believe in gatekeeping at all but if you flat out admit to me that you’ve consumed little to ZERO of the canon media and have gotten all of your information based off of reading fluffy fic with woobified characters, I will not be taking ANY of your fandom opinions or meta seriously

[frownyalfred]

GOD BRUCE PUTTING UP WITH HIS DIET BECAUSE OF HIS KIDS!!!!!!!! I CANT I NEED TO BE SEDATED

I just imagine the batkids poking fun of Bruce here and there about the disgusting smoothies he always drinks not understanding that it's all for THEM

Like AS IF he would ever push his diet for them, I remember that one panel where dick is eating chips and Bruce is smiling saying to Alfred that he likes it and its all he'll eat

That man wants his kids to be happy and he's probably so glad that Jason (the closest one to his body type) knows how to cook, bake, and hates his smoothies, he'll never eat like Bruce

“I am Batman (so you don’t have to be).”

[eclecticwordblender]

adopting misandry is WAYYY easier than adopting radical feminism tbh.

misandry is like i hate males they are the root of all evil which is true but it allows you to be a third-party criticiser.

misandry by itself means little.

radical feminism forces you to question the existence of misogyny in every walk and aspect of life which involves criticising everyone you love, everything you love, your choices, their choices, yourself and whatever you have done EVER.

[aestheticallynotdeerlightful]

Heyyyyy, y'all like trolls?

Bunch of random little doodles to try and learn to draw them all

.

(Please do not use, trace, or repost my works anywhere without explicit permission from me first, thank you <3)

[absolutepokemontrash]

Y’all, this is going to be so random, but I was hit with a memory from my Catholic school days and I have this vivid memory of stumbling across a Bible story where Jesus walks into a village, sees someone possessed by a demon, and is like

“Begone, Beelzebub, go back to hell.”

And the demon just fuckin leaves because JC told him to

I always found that really funny, and even funnier when I think of it with Obey Me Beel-

Beel: He said I couldn’t possess that human anymore 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Belphie: Don’t you listen to that oily hippy! You can possess whoever you want, Beel.

Mammon: UGH, next thing you know Jesus is gonna be all “you can’t set up a shopping mall in the middle of the temple!” Like sorry you don’t like fun and money, bro 🙄

[solbaby7]

I love the blurb bar idea and I loved the pina colada one, how about a neat gin n tonic with a salt rim?

[ forced proximity: “you can’t seriously be insinuating that i should sit on your lap.” + smut + az ]

guys i got carried away 🫣🤭 but at least it’s finished and has minimal spelling errors 🤍🩷

-> BLURB BAR <-

To put it quite frankly, you and Azriel didn’t really get along.

It seemed almost easy for everyone else in the Inner Circle to latch onto him; to gravitate towards him and all his shadowy mysteriousness—but not you. Between his victim complex, lack of self-control and the inability to properly communicate his feelings like a normal person, you’d lost your patience for him long ago.

Maybe that’s why you laugh right in Rhysand’s face after he lays down the guidelines for your temporary deployment to the Steppes. Everything sounds perfectly normal up until the end when Rhysand’s lips form the words, “—and you’ll be going with Azriel; he’s already been briefed.”

“Very funny,” Shoulders shake through your laughter, tickled from the joke. “But, you don’t have to go to such lengths just to make me laugh Rhys.”

Your grin fades comically fast and the deep frown that takes it place doesn’t falter long after you’ve left the High Lord’s office and scrounged back to your own chambers to pack. Every move is mechanical, clothes being folded and stuffed away a little rougher than necessary as you try not to think about having to spend seven whole days holed up in a creaky cabin with some brooding bat.

To be fair, Azriel seems no happier than you about the situation, his signature brood securely in place when you meet on the balcony at the witching hour with bag in hand. “Come—let’s get this over with.”

You refrain from commenting on his attitude; hold yourself back from snapping when he snatches your duffle from your grasp just to watch it disappear in a puff of sentient shadow. They’d almost be cute—Azriel’s shadows—if they weren’t so fucking useless. Capable of procuring intel and acting as camouflage but can’t manage to hold two fae long enough to get them to the Illyrian mountains.

No, instead you were subjected to this. Close contact and his fucking hands holding onto your body as he flies on a route you’re unfamiliar with. You eye his wings cautiously, trying to be subtle when you peek over the strong line of his shoulder but being this close? He can feel every beat of your heart against your sternum. Every squirm and twitch of a limb as you try to find a more comfortable place to put your arm. “Will you stop moving?”

“I can’t help it,” Hips shift once more, one leg hitching just a little higher on his hip. “Your fucking daggers keep poking me.”

Azriel tenses up, muscles locking and suddenly you’re being moved how he pleases—both legs wrapped around his waist and a firm forearm clasped around the base of your spine. “Stay.” His voice is rougher than your used to, his blunt nails biting into the sliver of skin exposed to the elements. “Don’t move, we’re almost there.”

That was a lie—it would take hours to make it to the Steppes but the gruff command is surprisingly easy to follow. And while you’ll never verbally admit it, the secure bracketing of his arms around your body was more of a comfort than a nuisance. It’s all too easy to ease into his grasp, allowing sleep to take over until the journeys over and you swear you can feel him cradle you in closer, his nose ghosting over the crown of your head.

He makes absolutely no comment on it when you finally arrive with your hair ruffled, clothes crinkled and the imprint of Azriel’s syphon on your cheek other than a chuffed out, “You snore.”

Instinct screams at you to make some snappy comment back but reason doesn’t allow it to be voiced—not here. Here, you and Azriel would have to appear as a united front, for the males raised in this terrain were bred to sniff out any and all weaknesses to exploit. Only here do you allow the hand that permanently glues itself to the dip of your back, pushing you past rabid animals swollen with pride and snarling with hatred.

Slurs are spat from their lips but Azriel doesn’t pay them any mind, so you don’t either.

He walks through the camps as if he owns them, spine straight and shoulders square. Strong wings stand proudly behind him, shadows guarding your flank until the unforgiving chill is replaced by the stuffy warmth of a mess hall. It’s cramped—a little dirty and smells like a mixture of male and tobacco but either way you’re given a warm meal and fresh water to drink.

The vulgar comments grow more frequent, mutterings of their unwanted appreciation towards your body so sickening that your appetite threatens to scurry away. “They’re disgusting.” You scoff, setting down your tray of food, one hand curled around the chair.

It doesn’t give. Azriel’s boot curled around the leg holds it in place. Arched brows furrow at him, nose scrunching under the effort it takes not to kick him in his shin but there’s something about his body language that make you stop. “They’ll keep doing that shit if they think you’re free game.” Every syllable is clipped; laced with a wildness you’re unfamiliar with—almost as if he’s insinuating that it’s your fault that such brutish males were salivating at the sight of you. Darkness cloaks the hazel tones of his eyes when he meets your own and you nearly miss the gesture he makes.

One hand patting twice at his lap.

“Absolutely not.” Azriel’s boot shoves the seat away completely when you make a move to sit down on it once more. He settles deeper in his own, thick thighs manspreading as deft hands adjust the positioning of his holsters, guiding sharpened weapons away from the area of space he frees up for you. “You can’t seriously be insinuating that I should sit on your lap?”

“I’m not insinuating anything, this is me telling you—sit down.”

You pray he doesn’t see the blush that burns against your cheeks when you take a seat in his lap, his hands resting along the sides of your hips. He keeps eating as if nothing is new. As if he doesn’t realize the way his touch has you squirming against solid muscle through thick leathers, legs subconsciously parting to make more room for the wandering fingers that slide down your thighs, digging into sensitive inner thighs. “What are you doing?” You ask, barely able to grab at the food before you with the way your hands shake.

“I’m sending a message.”

Breath catches when you feel Azriel’s thigh flex between your legs, pressing against your sex in such a way that you’re certain it’s impossible that he hadn’t felt the way you clench in response. “What kind of message?”

“The kind that says someone already owns you.” People are looking, that much you know—can feel their eyes tracking every move. Azriel’s hand splayed over your stomach, his head tucked in the curve of your shoulder as his free hand spies its way through your breeches. There’s a pause, one where you’re time to push him away, to declare that this was entirely too far and smack him clear across his face.

That doesn’t happen. Your legs only part further, making more room for needy fingers to shove past your panties.

It’s a foolish decision, you can feel it the second you make it. As if you’d just unconsciously confirmed the ridiculous notion that you were one of Azriel’s possessions. To do as he pleased. To sit there splayed out across his lap like some puppet and allow him to take the reins and show off all your tricks until you’re boneless and drooling.

He’s too good with his hands. Too slick with the sly filth he mutters into your ear as he fondles at your clit under the table, pressing firm circles into the bundle of nerves until you’re panting like a bitch in heat.

You barely remember how much you hate him when he touches you like this. Until the orgasm fades and your consciousness clears and even though the way you lean into the dip of his neck appears like some typical lovers embrace—bystanders fail to hear the sharp way you sneer, “Tell anyone about this ever and I’ll fucking kill you.”

[themoonunderstoodmydadjokes]

I don’t think we talk enough about how being love bombed can like really fuck you up??? Like yeah is it easy to identify from an outside perspective? Absolutely. But being in it and having someone devote that much time and attention to you (even if it is manipulative in nature) to then having it end abruptly when they’ve gotten what they wanted out of you… 🫠

[foreststarflaime]

Thinking about how Sephiroth’s wing is on his right and Genesis’ is on his left, so they’d made a complete set of black wings when standing side by side. They were meant to stand together not apart

[vanhelsingapologist]

Publishing has always been a fucking nightmare, but now it’s a layer of hell. It’s not enough that writers be good at what they do. Writers have to maintain an active social media presence and cultivate a following. Be available.

They have to be conventionally attractive enough to look good enough to see on a screen, aesthetically pleasing, kind, funny, up-to-date on trends, socially aware but not so controversial that they turn off a brand from California from slapping their discount code on a video promoting a book.

They have to do all of this with no media training, with little help from the companies that are supposed to be doing this for them.

Of course, a lot of this isn't possible for say, the 40-something mother of two who teaches English at a school and writes on the side. She’s boxed out of an already complex industry that already has enough walls.

On some level, I think authors have always marketed themselves a little, but we’ve reached such a crazy point where we’re demanding the author become the influencer. Accessibility in publishing has narrowed from an inch to a sliver. And that inch was hard enough to get in as is.

[turnipoddity]

caught

[princescar]

Twinning.

[incorrect-upon-a-witchlight]

Gideon: Hey, Kremy, what do you think it would be like if we had kids?

Kremy: What would it be like? Inconvenient, mostly.

Gideon: No, I mean, what would they be like, the kids? You ever think about it?

Kremy: Can't really say I have.

Gideon: You know, for someone as eccentric as yourself, you can be boring as fuck sometimes.

Kremy: Sorry, Gid. For what it's worth, I'm picturing them now. A boy and a girl. Two perfect little freaks of nature raised by people who've clearly got no business bringin' up anybody.

[valenrixo]

Hey so making a minor character not a minor anymore to write smut about them is weird!!

[lorebird]

In which Ford struggles so badly to relate to other people that he wonders if he’s really human at all. The more isolated he becomes, the harder it is to reconcile with his own humanity.