#haha he’s so hot

[starry-sky-ocean]

Sometimes Babygirl is a 45 year old man with alcoholic problems and depression…

Yeah I’m talking about Simon Petrikov

[cabinette]

AU martin i've been cooking on the tma rp twitter....

[killertoons]

Wally gives you a BIG OL SMOOCH! and to remember to wave up high!!!

[keferon]

What are your thoughts on a decepticon prowl?

Oh I'm all for it. But! Only if he's actually a Con. Like. Wholeheartedly.

Not "nnnooo we're doingg a bad thing and I kind of dont wanna do bad thing but I have no choice poor me".

You know how in canon he truly believes he's on the right side and makes everything to ensure that Optimus wins the war? You know how he's willing to make every tough decision so Optimus doesn't have to risk his reputation? You know how he literally makes Autobots look like shiny brave and clean heroes who did nothing wrong ever?

I want all that but the other way around. I want him to do that for Megatron and for the Decepticons. The implications would be so fucking dramatic I could write a whole essay.

Low rank Cons would hate him so fucking bad.

Starscream would try to murder him at least once a day.

Megatron would absolutely treasure him. Autobots would have it r o u g h

Can you imagine

[maximura]

[kyurochurro]

mad day out!! 🎶☀️

reference image :°D

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

was having trans marty thoughts again and i came to a realization about this scene

[averycutesalamander]

pls write yan!boothill OMG WHO SAID THAT

ohoho....!! i must confess that im quite picky when it comes to yandere content, bc i don't particularly like the extreme end of the spectrum. physical violence and straight noncon in particular don't click for me (absolutely no shade to people who like that tho, you do you!!) buuuuuuut ..... i mean, im the one writing?? so i can do whatever i want??? so alright here you go :) also check my reblog for.. a lot of rambling lmao

may i present to you: my interpretation of boothill in love, but he has a few too many screws loose. warning for relatively vague descriptions of violence and, uh... yandere stuff. you know how it goes.

In all honesty, Boothill is not a "love at first sight" type. His attraction to you is a gradual, budding thing, built over many repeated encounters. He's emotionally isolated himself, after all - built a wall thick enough to muffle the whispers of his past, smothering it in a slurry of rage and sorrow. It'll take time for him to let down his guard for long enough to even register the feelings you conjure in him - a flutter in his chest every time you smile at him, a spark of joy every time he makes you laugh, a strike of fondness every time he looks at your pretty face when you aren't paying attention.

And beneath it all, a low, simmering greed, a hunger, a yearning; the urge to bite and devour and never let go.

The pressure builds with time, as the two of you grow closer. He visits often, though not so often that it would catch the IPC's attention. You laugh and joke and tease, playfully flirting with him yet keeping a healthy, platonic distance. (He very pointedly and stubbornly ignores the way his heart soars when you look at him like that - like you want to pull him into your bed and let him take you apart, piece by ruinous piece. It's just harmless fun, after all.)

(Right?)

Despite the yawning fractures in the wall he's created, despite the increasing complexity of his feelings for about you, he still hasn't untangled whatever complicated web of feelings that's arisen around you, content to leave himself oblivious for the time being - until you make a joke about him marrying you and sweeping you away on some bizarre galactic adventure, and he damn-near bluescreens.

(He hates, hates, hates that the first thing he feels is something adjacent to the feeling a cat gets when it finally corners a particularly unruly mouse, akin to the thrill he gets whenever an enemy exposes a weakness. A sick, twisted kind of satisfaction.)

His mind churns as the wall cracks, wavers-

...and crumbles.

He panics. He makes a flimsy excuse about getting a notification through his neurochip, about needing to help out a fellow ranger - and he feels even better worse when you believe him unhesitatingly, sending him off with a sweet little "Be safe!" just as you always do.

It's only after he leaves the planet that he thinks about how much you've grown to trust him, about how damn gullible you are, about how often you give him the benefit of the doubt, about how kindly you've always treated him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his dozens of strange quirks. Everything unravels, threads spilling from his fraying mind and spilling between his fingers, and when the tattered fabric settles-

He simply can't deny it. He's in love with you.

It takes some time for him to piece himself back together - weeks of complete silence from him, your texts going unanswered. Every time he sees a fresh notification from you, his heart twists with guilt - but he's not ready to face the music. Not yet.

He comes crawling back to you, sooner or later. He knocks on your door with the most sheepish, guilt-ridden look on his face that you've ever seen, a rich bouquet laden with yellow roses and purple hyacinths tucked timidly in his arms. He lies about why he left - says it was all because of a mission that got more complicated than it should have, and it wasn't safe to reply to your messages - but when he tells you that he's sorry, he means it genuinely.

He's a bit disturbed by the sensation in his gut - that foul, wicked satisfaction when you accept his apology with barely a slap on the wrist, cheerily inviting him inside to catch up. You tuck the flowers neatly into a vase, chatting easily with him as you carefully arrange them.

"It's alright!" you say, waving dismissively at him when he murmurs another apology. "I know you're busy. I can't be your biggest priority, obviously. You've got more important things going on."

(You don't have a clue how wrong you are.)

He integrates back into your life like he never left. When he has the time, he sneaks his way back onto your planet, knocking on your door or searching for you in your usual spots. You get impossibly closer; your playful flirting goes from blatantly humorous to something foggier, something more ambiguous, teasing the line between platonic and something heavier. He matches you step by step, returning your advances with just a little extra spice, his eyes a bit darker and his smile a bit wider.

He tries to be patient - god, does he try - but there's an itch that's bloomed beneath his metal, impossible to scratch, impossible to sate, made worse by every little joke you make about kissing him or touching him or marrying him or letting him spirit you away. The pressure builds further and further, the tension winding tighter and tighter, the anticipation bubbling higher and higher.

(He will never, ever admit that he truly contemplates stealing you away, crowding you onto a ship and carting you off so he can always keep an eye on you, can always guarantee your safety. His paranoia has been building since he recognized his feelings for you; it's taken every ounce of restraint in his body to stop himself from giving into the urge, from crowding you, from suffocating you, from locking you away like a fragile songbird in a cage.)

(He's torn between his protectiveness and his understanding that you deserve freedom. You deserve independence and a life that isn't tied directly to him. He doesn't even know if you return his feelings. But...)

(But there's that nagging feeling in the back of his head, that pestering little voice that grows louder by the day. You'll be safer with me, it says, dark and tempting, bursting behind his teeth. I can make you happy. I can keep you safe. I can show you pieces of the universe that you've never seen before. I can love you like no one else ever could. I can hold you and cherish you and consume you and-)

(He takes that little voice and wraps his hands tight around its throat, frantically trying to suffocate the noise, terrified by its allure. But it's always there, lingering, lurking - because the call is coming from inside the house.)

Something gives, eventually.

When he inevitably breaks, his lips crashing heatedly and messily into yours, there are two paths ahead - but the difference is ultimately moot, because they collide not long after.

Perhaps you reciprocate. Perhaps you melt against his lips, your arms coiling around his shoulders and drawing him further into you. Perhaps you whimper when his hands trail downward, squeezing at your hips. Perhaps you pull away with a gasp, your pupils blown wide, your heart pounding when you see the look in his eye - dark and hot and desperate and hungry. Perhaps you accept his quiet declaration of affection with open arms, returning it in full, your eyes sparkling with joy.

Or perhaps you reject him. Perhaps you freeze like a startled deer before pushing him away, your face slack with shock. Perhaps you apologize, stumbling over your words, your heart thundering in your chest when you see the look in his eye - dark and cold and empty and hungry. Perhaps you gently tell him that you don't feel that way about him - that you only see him as a friend.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because Boothill - careful, meticulous Boothill - has slipped up, and the IPC finds you.

After he leaves next, whether that be with a broken heart or a giddy one, a trio of IPC employees pluck you up from the street in broad daylight, shoving you into a dark transport ship for "questioning." And once they bring you to an IPC space station, they do indeed question you - though it feels more like an interrogation, considering that you've been tied ankle-and-wrist to a chair like you're a dangerous serial killer and not a regular civilian.

"Suspected colluding with the criminal known as Boothill," your "interviewer" tells you flatly, idly thumbing at the knife in their hand. "Camera footage, reports from neighbors, records from his Synesthesia Beacon... All clearly show that he has made repeated visits to your planet and your home. We're in the business of knowing why."

Perhaps you keep your mouth shut and refuse to divulge anything, no matter how close that knife gets to your bare skin. Perhaps you break when it begins to slice into your flesh, drawing blood from your body and tears from your eyes and stuttered words from your lips. Perhaps you grit your teeth and bear it, unwilling to betray the man you've grown so fond of.

Or perhaps you cave immediately. Perhaps you sell him down the river the first chance you get, frantic explanations spilling from your lips. Perhaps you tell them that you had no idea he had such a massive bounty on his head. Perhaps you panic when they find the information insufficient and draw the knife on you anyway, deaf to your begging and pleading as they wet your skin with blood.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because a distant explosion rocks the entire space station, and the flashing lights from the silent alarms interrupt your interrogation.

You're left alone when the IPC agent flees, locking the door behind them with a heavy clunk. Minutes pass as you fumble desperately with your restraints, your body pulsing with pain; a cacophony of gunshots and screaming penetrates the thick walls, growing louder and louder, your heart pounding faster and faster.

There's a noise just outside the door - a horrifically wet noise, like raw flesh on tile. You freeze like a rabbit that's just heard the panting of a starving wolf, far too close for comfort.

Silence. Your head aches from the flashing red lights.

Suddenly, steel fingers wedge into the gap between the locked door and the wall, single-handedly tearing it open and breaking the hydraulic lock with inhuman ease. Metal crunches and squeals, piercing the quiet - and there he stands, right in the doorway, a silhouette of black and red.

Never in your life have you seen him this manic.

His white hair drips with scarlet and his teeth are bared; his eyes are alight with rage, a shock of bright crimson among the dark smears of blood and viscera that coat him head to toe. In the light of the alarms, he looks like the perfect picture of a killer from a horror movie; violence and slaughter, just waiting to be unleashed. When his gaze locks onto you, there is a long moment of utter stillness; instinctual terror floods your entire body in a cold flash, because there isn't so much as a glimmer of humanity in those eyes - only pure, boiling, ravenous, frantic anger.

For a heartbeat, you're convinced he's going to rip you apart with his teeth.

Then, as if he finally registers who you are, the madness evaporates, replaced by a nearly manic sort of relief. He rushes to your side, looking you over; you don't miss the flash in his eyes - seething, smoking fire - when he spots your injuries. In the same breath, he snuffs it out, focusing instead on breaking your binds with his bare hands.

You're already crying when he takes you up into his arms, cradling you close to his chest and unwittingly smearing IPC blood onto you. "It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, soft and reassuring, a beacon of comfort in a sea of terror. "I'm right here. I've got ya. No one's ever gonna take ya from me again, okay?"

(Maybe if you weren't in shock, you'd be startled by his words. As it stands, though, they're like music to your ears, like a warm blanket settled over your shoulders, like a tight hug from someone you trust with your life.)

He encourages you to press your face into his shoulder - mercifully free of blood - as he carries you through the carnage he's left in his wake, the jangle of his spurs and your muffled sobs echoing through the silent halls. Your entire body shivers at the noise of him stepping into some unidentifiable slurry of viscera, and he thumbs at your back in an effort to soothe you, speaking quietly into your ear about everything and nothing.

Time passes in a blur of tears. He takes you to the ship he, uh... commandeered to get here, ducking into the bathroom and settling you gently - so very gently - onto the floor. Or, rather, he tries to - because your fingers are frozen stiff in his jacket, your grip unrelenting.

"You just wait here for a sec, alright?" he whispers softly, the chill of his hand settling lightly against your wrist; the blood there still feels warm to your delirious mind. "Gotta get the autopilot started, okay? I'll be right back."

You're both surprised when you shake your head insistently, your eyes wet and pleading. In an instant, he softens, his heart aching in his chest.

"Alright, sweetpea," he breathes, carefully picking you up again. "I've got ya."

He keeps you cradled to his chest as he walks to the cockpit, holding you easily with one arm as he gets the ship moving. Reinforcements are on the way, no doubt - but you'll both be long gone by the time they get here.

(Maybe the IPC will get the message when they find the scene he's left behind - when they view the camera footage and see the rampage he went on. Decapitation and disembowelment is a new one, even for him...)

(...but he needed to make it clear that no one, no one, touches what's his and gets away with it.)

When the engine is purring beneath his feet and the rumble of FTL travel is humming in the walls, he brings you back to the washroom and settles you to the tile again, gently untangling your grip from his jacket. You're in shock, he's sure, so he's careful to continue talking to you as he wets a towel with warm water, murmuring soft reassurances as he wipes the blood from your skin, handling you like you're glass.

Once you're clean, he messily towels himself off to get the worst of the mess off, then brings you to the captain's quarters, digging around in the closet to find something comfortable for you. Your shaking fingers cause you trouble, so he gently eases your ruined clothes off, his eyes respectfully averted as he helps you redress. He takes one look at the messy, used bedding and promptly decides to change the sheets. (Something within him stirs and snarls at the thought of you smelling like anyone else.)

Finally, when all is said and done, he eases you beneath the covers, brushing away the last remnants of your tears. His heart is torn between singing with joy and aching with pain when you reach up and take his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping tight around his.

"Gotta go wash up, honey," he murmurs, watching you closely as you sink into the protective huddle of the blankets, exhaustion painting your features. "That alright? I'll be fast."

(He tries very hard to ignore the flutter in his chest from the look in your eye - like you're genuinely considering whether or not you need to stay near him, like you aren't sure if you can bear the distance.)

(He also tries very hard to ignore the little pang of disappointment when you slowly nod, releasing his hand.)

He cleans himself up with record efficiency, resigning himself to wearing clothes that are a size or two too small until he can wash his usual outfit. The clothes are for your sake, really; it's not like he has any, uh... equipment to expose - not yet - but he's relatively sure that it would make you uncomfortable anyway.

By the time he steps lightly into the room again, you're asleep.

For a long, long moment, he's struck stupid by the sight of you, by the softness of your face in rest.

Fuck, you're beautiful. He knows it in his heart, feels it in his core, senses it in his chest - you're the prettiest little thing he's ever seen.

(And you're all his, now.)

His fists clench, and he swallows down the thought like bitter poison. (You deserve better than this - better than him. He's a broken man, he knows - a messy reconfiguration of a thousand corpses, glued together by hatred and grief. He could never love you the way you deserve. He could never-)

He's broken from his rapidly spiraling thoughts when you twitch, a tiny furrow appearing in your brow. A surge of emotion nearly bursts in his chest - the urge to comfort, to protect, to soothe - and he slowly circles to the other side of the bed, climbing into the empty space and settling beneath the blankets. Hesitantly, he wraps one arm lightly around your waist, drawing you against him with your back pressed tight to his chest.

His heart soars when he feels you instantly relax, the tension fleeing your body.

(It's fine. This is fine. He'll make everything better. No matter what he has to do, who he has to kill, he'll make everything better.)

A handful of days pass like that. When he stops by a market to get supplies for you, he gently tells you that it's best for you to stay in the ship for now; odds are that you actually have a bounty on your head as well, now.

(He's not wrong - but he also doesn't need to disable the button on the inside of the ship that opens the exit hatch. You don't need to know that; he doesn't need to acknowledge that.)

As time passes, he tries not to suffocate you, tries not to hover, wary of putting you under any more stress - but it's ultimately a useless task.

When you finally, tentatively ask him about going home, his brain goes numb, the world snapping into sharp focus. He turns his gaze to you, disturbingly absent of emotion.

"It ain't safe for ya there, now that those IPC dogs know to look for ya," he says, his voice far too even.

When tears begin to bud in your eyes, it finally sweeps up some sympathy in his chest, his entire face softening. He takes your shaking hands in his, tenderly grazing your knuckles with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps, reaching up to wipe away your tears.

(He's barely sorry.)

"I don't like it either, but..."

(Yes, he does.)

"It's safest for ya to stick with me, alright?"

(Wishful thinking. He could find somewhere for you to stay - some quiet planet outside of the IPC's reach, where you could live without worry. He could send you credits regularly. He could make sure you were happy and secure, independent of him.)

(He could. He should.)

(He won't.)

[bakudekublogblog]

i’m obsessed with this panel bc izuku why are you flirting with him during a top secret save the world ofa meeting

[doctorsiren]

Meet the people of Woodward Ranch! To most West Virginians, the place is just a normal animal sanctuary, but to those in the know, it’s a cryptid conservation ranch :)

Wyatt Woodward is the grandson of the man who used to own the ranch (I haven’t figured out that guy yet so…). His grandfather passed and left the ranch to Wyatt in his will, despite Wyatt only having met the man once or twice when he was little. Now he’s tasked with running the place, as well as grappling with the reality that monsters, cryptids, and the supernatural are very very much real

Lucy Lovejoy is a farmhand / wrangler on the ranch. She grew up living there and is miffed that Wyatt was given ownership. She believes she’s entitled to it because she actually knows the place and Wyatt didn’t even believe in the supernatural until he came to the ranch

Dr. Herschel Finch is the ranch’s science boy (that’s probably not the official title) and he does his magic + science stuff to keep the ranch safe as well as be the resident cryptid expert. He’s very chaotic neutral and would probably kill someone…yknow…for science! Nobody really quite knows his history, despite him telling lots of strange backstories about his past.

Denny is a feral little orphan werewolf girl that lives on the ranch and has deemed it her home. She causes trouble for Wyatt because he’s easy to mess with, but she’s also the one (other than the Mothman) who sees him as family the fastest

The Mothman is one of the cryptids who regularly stays at the ranch. He was Wyatt’s grandfather’s favourite, and so Wyatt quickly becomes the new favourite of the Mothman. Just look at him 🥺 he’s so,,,🫶

Bonus:

Cryptoria is Finch’s ex-wife. Nobody on the ranch has actually met her, but Finch’s reasoning for why they got divorced was that “she was evil”. They question why he didn’t take that into account when marrying a literal demon, and also why that was the dealbreaker, seeing as he’s not one to be opposed to some evil from time to time, but he doesn’t elaborate. He does explain, however, that she tried to kill him. Despite that, he also actively laments the relationship, clearly missing his hot demon wife. Cryptoria divorced HIM because she found him annoying. They’re soooo toxic for each other. They’re the kind of exes that simultaneously hate each other but would totally make out again if they had the chance.

[icarusredwings]

Based on real life events.

Thinking about how serious play time is in the Wilson- Howlett household

Wade, laying on the floor: Alright, Doc whats your diagnosis? Please dont be cancer please dont be cancer please dont be cancer

Dr gabby with toy tools: Hm.... Yup. You have cancer.

Wade: GAAASSSPPP No!! This can't be! I had so many dreams!! I- *drimatically starts fake crying.* I have to call my husband!

Dr gabby: You better make it quick, its spreading.

Wade: *gets out his phone and actually calls Logan, fake tears in his eyes and everything.* Logan!

Logan, who now walks out to the livingroom, holding the phone: Why are you calling me inside the ho-

Wade: LOGAN!!! I-.... i have cancer..

Logan: .... yeah??

Wade: *sobs drimatically* Im so young!! What are we gonna do!! I need a hug!

Logan: *steps back with his hands up* nu-uh if I mess up my nails Laura is going to kill me.

Dr gabby: Well I can do surgery. And save you.

Wade: GAAASSPP I wont have cancer anymore? Oh please Dr. Gabby!

Dr. Gabby: lay down.

Wade: *lays down very still*

Dr gabby: *litsens to his stomach*

Wade, giggling: What are you doing Doc?

Dr. Gabby: Im checking on the baby.

Wade: Baby!?

Dr. Gabby: Yes.

Logan, looking betrayed: Why didn't you tell me!?

Wade, blushing: Im sorry honey I didn't know untill dr. Gabby took away all of my cancer!!

Gabby: actually you still have cancer everywhere.

Wade: Fuck-

Logan because he's more drimatic then people think: YoU SAID YOU WAS ON THE PILL!

Wade, giggling: IM SORRY!! I HAVE ADHD!! YOU KNOW I FORGET TO TAKE MY PILLS!

Logan: Well You and I both know that Dr gabby took away my balls last week SO IT CANT BE MINE!

Dr gabby: *giggles*

Wade, genuienly shocked he would go this far: IM SO SORRY!! PLEASE FORGIVE ME! DON'T LEAVE ME! 😳😭

Logan: Who's is it!? Hm!??

Al, with popcorn: I bet it was that Spider kid he hangs out with.

Logan: GAAASSSPP!! YOU SAID HE WAS JUST A FRIEND

Wade: 👁👄👁💧 wait wut

Laura:.. what the fuck is going on

Gabby: Papa cheated on daddy

Wade: I-I DID NOT!!! 🤨

Logan: I CANT BELIEVE THIS!! 😰 I thought you loved me!! *fake sobs*

Wade: NO WAIT! I DO!! COME BACK!!

Gabby:.... are they still playing pretend...?

Laura:.. I dont know anymore..

[feroluce]

Love how Hoyo is just as much on Boothill's dick as the rest of us. The Wardance crowd really is just the fandom fjkdlsajlksl

[b4kuch1n]

simulated earth (it does not matter)

transcript

[seiwas]

for writing game, iwaizumi + assistance <3

hope this sparks some inspo and thank you in advancee

hi there!! thanks for sending in a prompt 🫶

contains: friends to lovers (ish), halloween parties, reader is dressed as catwoman, expletives, iwaizumi is thiiiiis 🤏 close to murdering seijoh4 (jk)

iwaizumi + assistance

this is a set-up.

iwaizumi knows he shouldn't have fucking believed anything the boys "promised" him back when they assigned him this costume.

the suit is fucking tight, spandex digging into his groins and all other crevices that definitely should be aired out after after a few hours. he's had to constantly readjust his stance almost every few minutes, the black fabric compressing his thighs and torso, significantly constricting the range of motion his shoulders and arms are typically used to. if anything else, it could double up as a back brace from how rigidly straight it's kept his posture all night.

he'll give it to makki though; he did outdo himself sourcing this year's costumes―this batman set looks pretty damn legit.

except for one tiny problem.

there's no fucking pee hole. it's a zip-up, zip-down one-piece situation. and that normally wouldn't be a problem, except that oikawa "accidentally" knocked over a cocktail straight into his pants, the sickeningly sweet liquid now seeping straight into the fabric and past his boxers―cold and sticky as it touches his skin.

and so, the problem: his pants are wet, it makes him want to fucking pee, and coincidentally, the only vacant bathroom is across the hall, at your apartment.

this is why he believes this is a set up. that, and the fact that you're dressed in an outfit strikingly similar―just with cat ears.

he's been asked five times in this party if you're in matching couple outfits.

it catches him off guard, flusters him because of how badly he wants to say yes. but, you're just friends, and he doesn't even think you like him that way (despite mattsun and oikawa practically begging him to confess. makki tells him he thinks you're going to do it first).

so he politely smiles and says no, but you look good, your costume clinging to you in all the right places. thank fucking god he has a cape because he's pretty sure he spent the first 30 minutes in the party hiding his boner.

"hajime, it's fine, i swear," you stand beside him in front of the conveniently locked bathroom in oikawa's apartment. from the other side of the door, he's pretty sure he hears mattsun and his girlfriend mumbling. maybe fucking? who knows. "you can just use the bathroom in my apartment."

he glances at you before closing his eyes, contemplating, before finally agreeing to you.

"okay."

if he's being honest with himself, friends is definitely an incomplete label to what you are. as oikawa's neighbor, you are conveniently around all the time; and oikawa being oikawa, the ever-social butterfly, he's somehow managed to carve a space for you in the friend group.

(never mind the fact that oikawa's sniffed him out from the moment he first introduced you.)

you were a crush, then a friend, and now you're someone he picks up from work and drives back home three times a week, because he "has to train oikawa." you don't question it, even when you both know he stays over for dinner way past the gym's open hours.

"you know where it is," you open your apartment and urge him in.

"sorry again," he turns to face you.

"yeah, yeah, just pee!" you laugh, shoving him towards the bathroom door.

getting out of the suit is manageable, and he's able to wipe off a bit of the cocktail that's leaked to the suit and his boxers just to make sure it isn't gross and sticky when he gets home later. peeing is a big relief once he gets it over with, but it's when he has to suit up again that things become difficult.

stretching out the spandex one body part at a time is a workout in itself―the hardest task being when he has to pull it over his shoulders, adjusting it to fit properly over his arms and chest.

but then the zipper breaks.

and he truly thinks makki has fucked him over.

iwaizumi contemplates what to do next for a good, good while. he tries calling oikawa, only to no success every time; no way in hell is he calling mattsun in the middle of having sex. and calling makki isn't even an option; he'd never hear the end of it.

then you knock on the door, your voice soft and concerned as you ask, "hajime? you good in there?" you hit it spot on, too, "do you need help with your suit?"

iwaizumi presses his palms to his eyes. he's a rational man, straightforward and logical in thinking. there is literally no other option for him right now but to ask help from you. again.

fuck.

.

it's 30 minutes later when oikawa barges in your door, and the sight that greets him is iwaizumi in nothing but a hoodie (the hoodie you borrowed some time ago) and his boxers, with his hands on your waist as you hover your hairdryer over the crotch of his batman costume―cat headpiece off and all.

"you finally got together?!"

[turtleblogatlast]

Don’t think I ever quite said what my LGBTQ+ headcanons are for the boys, so these are my current thoughts! Always changing of course but this is what I feel most strongly right now.

[mrrwsoup]

more boyfriend art! his dhole elias (and fossa wes) and my deer rueben