#it needs to be studied under a microscope

[qloof]

be gay, do soccer crime

[richardhellow]

Langdon is so interesting to me, wanna study him under a microscope. saw someone saying that he desperately needs approval from people and I'm thinking about it a lot. like, this is so true, this guy probably got married just to make his parents happy or something. also I bet his dad is a nightmare :3

[lesharl-eclair]

just two old men in glaringly bright team colours reminiscing on a past they could have had

[userarmand]

Armand recreating Amadeo in the penthouse

[sunsburns]

your alien boyfriend is just so alien in the sense that his anatomy is just slightly different and off putting but you kinda love it.

you’ve noticed his heartbeat doesn’t really sound like a heartbeat, and he’s so fascinated by the way yours beats so rhythmically.

or maybe his irises get slightly wider than a normal person’s would when he sees something he likes, making them seem darker than what they usually are.

he doesn’t drink, like at all, which is fine, but he tells you it’s because alcohol doesn’t effect him. you think he’s just realizing he’s a heavy weight but you’ve seen him take ten consecutive shots back to back and not even flinch once. but funnily enough he does act a little tipsy at the smell of your perfume.

he’s also weirdly light on his feet. like, you can barely make out his footsteps half of the time and he tends to scare you sometimes because of it. you can only tell when he’s approaching is if the door creaks, or he knocks something over or he trips on his own feet or something along those lines.

he can also hold his breath for an concerningly long period of time. whenever the two of you are at the beach or the pool and he dives in, he spends an uncomfortable amount of time underwater. and when you start to worry, even the lifeguard (if there is one) starts to blow their whistle, he resurfaces casually, barely breathless.

he also kisses you like he doesn’t really need oxygen to breathe, it’s almost as if he can breathe through you, quite literally taking the breath from your lungs. he’s always looking at you like a kicked puppy whenever you pull away, telling him you need a minute for air. he doesn’t really get that you don’t breathe the same way he does.

[twifairy]

Viago de Riva when I fucking get you.

[sunnylovescats]

Tommyinnit is either an enigma or a blunder of god.

He can say ‘I was a sex worker for 8 months’ and no one bats an eye, but he announces his book almost named after one of the best fics in the dsmp fandom and we collectedly go crazy. There is no plausible way to describe his behavior.

His middle name is also Michael. He’s already British, pick a struggle dude.

[mcr0wave]

he has infiltrated. no. HIJACKED my head. more toshi art soon unfortunately... 💔

[sharpjay217]

I desperately need Imp and Skizz to convince Etho to pay Phasmophobia with them. He doesn’t need to stream it, I just need to know how he acts when presented with a series of tasks and a ghost.

[antiadvil]

hold on when did the subreddit add this rule lmao

[ceaselesswatchersspecialboy]

Billposting because I can’t get enough of this freak.

[squidflavoredsoup]

pony homelander

also this doodle i did of him n my sona

[lavendermin]

the love on your neck | michael kaiser

michael kaiser x reader

wc | 1.8k

genre | drunken confessions

warnings | forced care, weepy drunk reader, kaiser has possessive and territorial tendencies, alcohol mention, overbearing mother hen kaiser loves a fussy sopping wet cat who can’t fight back

The water has been running for a good ten minutes. Kaiser is leaned against the wall of the hallway, arms crossed.

He tries the door again. Locked.

"Are you planning on being in there all night?"

The only response is shuffling from the other side. A muffled sob and sniffle catches his attention. It's followed by splashing water and more shuffling. The sink continues to run and you curse under your breath.

"I messed– I messed up," you sniffle, hardly audible through the door. You're more so muttering to yourself in a trance. "God, I fucked it up again."

Kaiser sighs, staring blankly at some framed art on your hallway wall. The door is still locked. He clicks his tongue.

"Open the door. You're just drunk."

"No," you whine, another hiccup choking you up as you take a shaking breath in. "I need to get sober. I need to go home."

"You are home, stupid. Who do you think dragged you four blocks back to your apartment?" His tone is a little mean, he knows this. But the longer you keep him out, the more breaking down your bathroom door is sounding like a better option. "Open the door."

The water shuts off with a squeak from the faulty faucet.

Your voice is smaller, barely audible as you continue to sob, "Can you call Ness to pick me up?"

His blood boils at that, and his patience with you slips. Momentarily. The accidental pressure that cracks fragile ice on a frozen lake.

"Open. The door."

There is surely sounds of wood splintering where he put his weight on the door trying to force it.

It's quiet, save for a few sniffles and the sound of water dripping from your shitty bathroom sink. The lock clicks and Kaiser wastes no time in barging in, closing the door behind him to take in the damage before you try to slink away again.

You're every bit a wreck— hair a sopping mess and mascara dripping down your cheeks where you sit in the tub. Your clothes are mostly soaked through judging by the mess of water by the sink. The aftermath of one too many unplanned drinks. Always weak in that regard.

He kneels by the tub, smile a little too satisfied for your current state. You're too drunk to unpack that.

"Hey."

"Go away." There's hardly any bite, not with defeated tears freshly dampening your lashes. You clamber out of the tub on unsteady legs, swaying a little too hard. "I need to get sober."

Kaiser's grin only grows. He coos, condescending as he crowds you against the sink. "Not feeling good, liebling?"

The endearment is said in a pointed tone that makes you shudder. You know he's being anything but kind. Caring, sure— but his brand of nurturing and kindness is not anything easy on your soul. Forceful and disarming, but fulfilling nonetheless. You respond better to it when you're out of your wits and a little intoxicated.

Kaiser revels in your tears— adores watching you take yourself apart so he can make you whole again despite your protests.

You're too in your cups to fight it right now. It grants him full control of the situation.

Your knees give out, slumping against the sink counter with another sob. "No, I don't feel good. I was supposed to– I was going to–"

Another hiccup and sob rips through you, eyes welling up with more tears. Kaiser hushes you, soothing you as he runs his hand over your back in comfort. Or to coax more vulnerability and tears from you, you think. He picks you up and sits you on the sink counter, hands on either side of you caging you close to him.

Forced proximity.

"Shh. There, there," he soothes, his smile both a comfort and a curse. His thumb traces over your trembling lip, forcing you to look at him. "You have to tell me what's wrong, or I won't let you leave."

His eyes are as tender as his smile is cruel.

"I want to love you," you admit with a shaky breath. The confession is a whisper through held back tears and a trembling lip. "I'm drunk and I shouldn't be because I need to be sober to tell you I want to love you… Let me love you."

It's only this liquid courage that could really get you to admit it to your close friend. Conflicted by the notion that you think he deserves to hear it from you while sober. From the real you.

It hasn't worked out the past seventeen outings you dragged him out to. To your credit, this one is as close as it's gotten. Always giving in to self-doubt and frayed nerves when he looks at you like he wants to eat you. The vodka shots really do a number on your coherency with a quickness.

Something wretched and possessive claws through Kaiser. Stronger than usual. Reaffirming it.

"I love you," you whisper— a sad, broken thing on the brink of more tears. "I love you, I love you. I do. I want to love you. But I'm drunk. I'm not ready."

It's more of a desperate affirmation for yourself. Drunken mumbling of a stream of lovesick consciousness.

His intense stare leaves you flayed open— trembling.

"Poor thing," he croons, wiping tears and mascara away from under your puffy eyes. "Keep crying. That'll help."

You choke back a sob, "Can't help it. Asshole."

"I thought you wanted to love me?"

Your attempt to squirm off the bathroom counter is met with rough hands on your hips pinning you in place. It makes heat surge through you, the room spinning. Stunned to a pouting silence under his intense scrutiny.

His smile is anything but kind, the alcohol gripping your system firmly ignoring it to lean into the crumbs of affection he will offer despite how condescending he may be when you're like this. You want to be as close as possible to him— a clingy, weepy drunk. Desperate for a reassuring warmth he leaves you chasing.

His favorite version of you. Less fight in you like this.

There's a gentleness in his meticulous care, overbearing and with a firm hand. It's silent the remainder of the time as he lets you sob openly and freely while he cleans you up. Your fingers weakly grip the hem of his shirt, grounding yourself. Until your tears are fewer and farther in between.

You flay yourself open like this— seeking his warmth and being pushed away lightly with a tut as he gives you a pointed look before going back to wiping your face clean and brushing your teeth.

Behave and stay put, the look says. A warning. He's not one to give many of those.

Ultimately he has you wrapped around his finger, sitting still and letting him move you this way and that all for the notion that he might throw a praise at you. Because you're being so good— letting him take care of you without much more fuss.

It's late into the night by now. The clock on the wall reads 1:37 a.m.

You're in his baggy shirt he made you wear and some sleep shorts, fussing in his lap on the couch where he has forced you to comply to his whims. Kaiser is all too comfortable with being half naked in your own home.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

You shake your head, letting him towel dry your hair. It's gentle and makes your senses heavy with sleep. The vodka, crying and his forceful care are really doing a number on you.

"No," you admit through a tired sniffle.

Your eyelids are heavy as he rakes his fingers through your scalp. It's easy to melt against him like this, so pliant and content. You could almost purr. A fussy stray cat he wears down to spoil how he pleases in some self-fulfillment he won't let you dissect.

The bare skin of his torso is warm— pleasant under your hands as you trace shapes absentmindedly on his chest where he has you tucked under his chin. His choppy hair tickles your skin.

"Mihya."

Kaiser tenses. It's not a nickname you use for him often. Too soft, too intimate. Both things that neither of you are when you're both sober. For once you have the upper hand, too half-asleep and on the dregs of alcohol still in your blood to even know it.

He hums.

"Will you let me? Love you, I mean." Your voice is a soft murmur against his skin.

"Go to sleep."

"Will you–"

"Tell me when you're sober. Get your shit together and tell me," he mutters, gentle and tender despite the annoyance that comes through. Still trying to keep you at a distance so you'll want to crawl into his ribs and stay there— stay with him forever.

His little game of push and pull.

Your eyes are a little glassy, still. Dazed and tired— less drunk than when you started but no less out of your mind. You intently wriggle away enough to look at him in the eye, searching. Kaiser thinks you're the most endearing like this. A fussy, curious kitten in his lap with your head cocked to the side and wondering eyes.

He wants to bite you. The temptation remains in the back of his mind at the sight of the unmarred skin he can see from the loose collar of his shirt threatening to hang off your shoulder.

"Do you like me? Not like a friend," you prod quietly. "You look at me sometimes— intensely, and I can't tell if you secretly hate me or want to eat me."

He loves you.

No, he wouldn't even call it that. The word is too simple for the stupid, aching feelings Kaiser has for you. Obsession, devotion, greed— he wants you all to himself. A complex cacophony of emotions. An ugly possessiveness that rears its head and he willingly feeds.

"You're a fucking handful, if you want to know. But you're my handful." He strokes a thumb across the pulse on your neck, a smirk on his lips when your breath hitches, "And I only keep the things I like around."

"Did you–"

He shoves two fingers into your mouth, "Enough. Be good and sleep."

You moan softly, settling comfortably against him again. Easily surrendering to him.

"I'll only tell you what you want when you’re sober.”

You hum against his neck, breathing slowed as you start to drift off to sleep. He feels the press of your lips on the blue rose on his neck, tender yet scorching the skin. He's fucked. More than he thought. More than he knew.

Kaiser will pry that confession from you come morning.

[myketheartista]

Post-takeover and Lovelace has some thoughts (and feelings)

[transrevolutions]

he's a pacifist. he brings guns to a funeral. he's passionate about education. he forgets about his own mother. he's studying to become a doctor. he can give an epic one-line takedown of an opponent's argument. he gives expression to revolution's natural right. in history he would've been known as the wise man. he goes up to his friend during a battle to talk ethical dilemmas. he's "selfish". he can draw a moth from memory. he tries to rescue an enemy soldier. he corrects the dictionary for fun. combeferre lesmisérables, everyone.

[cuntmand]

514 year-old ipad kid armand CONFIRMED!