#love Carries On

[fckbatmanhiskidsareminenow]

headcanon

damian is surprisingly good at playing a non traumatised ten year old. at first he doesn’t understand why he would need to ever play the part until he watches his family act at a gala. he now understands the mission to protect their identities.

he slips into the role easily. he acts shy around strangers and soft around his siblings. even going so far as to let them carry him around. if he notices someone is uncomfortable or not overwhelmed he will walk up to his father with puppy dog eyes taught to him by grayson and say “father i’m tired” the other members of gotham high society will coo at his formal words and father will scoop him up before collecting his other siblings.

he’s also unsurprisingly good at fake crying. (i mean look at the poor kid and all his trauma)

[fiasco95]

Sirius: Regulus got arrested at 2 in the morning. Guess who he called?

Sirius: Oh, James? His fiancé, logical choice right? No.

Sirius: Oh? Then, me. His brother, the most obvious choice at this point! No.

Mary: I’m confused, who the fuck did he call then?

Sirius, pointing at Remus: Him. And they got maccies right fucking after!! Instead of letting James and I know!

Regulus, nodding: Brother-in-law.

Remus, nodding back: Brother-in-law.

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

[peanuttoffee]

i sorta kinda waited for a reason to post this, and today seems to be perfectly reasonable :D

[kawareo]

I'm a Gortash enjoyer, which means I obviously enjoy watching him get the shit beaten out of

[meltedmush]

Sorry! 😭

[bixels]

Scary Sunset.

I'm concepting things way outta order in this story, but I'm sure you can piece things together. Context is for a storybeat where, after defeating and capturing Adagio (thus having all three sirens in her possession), Sunset enacts her revenge plot to release the sirens on Canterlot as Thea discovers she's been manipulated. In a confrontation, the two scuffle and fight over the siren orbs while Sunset struggles with her conflicting wants and emotions.

[akajustmerry]

I'm simply of the opinion that lestat de lioncourt wishes he had half the swagger of lazlo cravensworth

[proxycrit]

(I point. Gently, in the voice of somebody who’s mind touched by the outer gods, i whisper truth in your ears:

Your honor the horses are now lesbians

(Anyways here’s the designs)

[kenchann]

some silly book 7 doodles that i looooved so much

[chloesimaginationthings]

FNAF movie Mike isn’t wrong, but he’s not right either..

Based off @/Tanijrou post on twitter

[lazylittledragon]

Hello I love your bg3 content and your Dorian is so lovely! Can we get like an alternative reality with Dorian and Ascended Astarion? What would your headcannon be for them? 🙇

something like this, probably

[yeyinde]

waking up after a night out drinking in a foreign country only to realise that the bed you're in is not your own. no one is beside you. you try to leave but the doors are all locked. the windows won't open. you're trapped. a pretty bird in a cage.

nothing is in the dressers except large, old shirts. the clothes you were wearing when you woke up disappear after you take a shower. no panties. no bra. food shows up on schedule. you never see who leaves it.

they don't answer when you scream. when you bang your fists against the door until they're bloodied. passing out on the floor when the drugs finally kick in. but the mess you make in the daytime is cleaned up. your hands bandaged. disapproval heavy in the air along with the stale scent of tobacco. smoke.

when you're good, you get things. books. magazines. treats. your favourite food. a laptop arrives when you sob yourself to sleep after screaming yourself hoarse about loneliness, and how this isn't right. this isn't okay. it's restricted, of course. you log into Facebook but the moment you try and ask for help, the internet is turned off. you're being watched. monitored closely.

you learn your lesson slowly, giving nothing away to your family and pretending you're enjoying your holiday. being good. quiet.

instead of treats, gifts, recipe books arrive—some pages dogeared. you start making the food. leaving a plate in the fridge. it's gone the next morning. more recipes appear. you make them, too. an expensive chain comes next. a pretty gold necklace for a pretty bird in a golden cage.

(each meal gets you a strange rash on your cheek, jaw the next morning. beard burn, you think, and try not to shudder.)

lingerie comes after. silk, lace. all of it fits perfectly. you try to avoid it. the idea, the implication, is a knife between your ribs, but the next morning, your laptop is missing. the books are gone. food, too. your clothes disappear until all that remains is the lingerie set and a little black box. one you pointedly ignore. throw out with the trash. chew on gum to make the ache in your belly go away until that vanishes too.

your world is narrowed down to hunger. loneliness. isolation—

(in the corner of the rooms, a red light glints in the dark. lonely, but not alone.)

it persists until you relent. give in. another lesson you learn. you wear the set to bed, and try to think nothing of it—

you wake up to something heavy around you. a warm, thick body pressed against your bare spine. coarse chair tickling the skin between your shoulder blades. a burly arm under your neck, elbow bent to wrap a rough hand around your neck. the other slung over your hip, shoved between your thighs. something hard presses into your ass. a bruising pressure. it aches. you stifle a gasp, but with his long, thick fingers wrapped tight around your throat, he feels it.

everything goes still. quiet. just the faint rustle of sheets. the scratch of coarse hair on silk. a breath. you tremble. fight back another gasp when lips press into your crown with a sharp inhale. scenting you. nuzzling into your scalp. warm breath that smalls of malt and honey. woodsy. tobacco.

your eyes adjust slowly to the dark, and fall on a black box left on top of your end table. velvet, you know. you've felt the softness between your fingers when you threw it in the trash with a sob. no escaping it, after all.

the hand between your thighs twitches. when he speaks, it shudders through your spine, makes your hair stand on end. it's a growling purr. the low roar of an old engine. more grit than comfort in the midnight dark.

"jus' close your eyes, love," he rasps, pushing his thick body tighter against you. coiling around you like a big, hungry bear. "an' go back to sleep for me."

and you do.

[honeyandsalted]

The part where Alicent covers her mouth with a sob and Rhaenyra’s challenging expression melts away completely and it is completely clear that who she is seeing now is Alicent— the girl who’s hand she once held in the godswood, the girl she once loved— hurt and grieving and broken, and Rhaenyra swallows back her own sob. And you can tell that watching Alicent fall apart physically pains Rhaenyra, and that in the moment, all she wants is to hold Alicent and offer her comfort.

[hollytree33]

PLEASE GIVE US MORE PAPA SOLAS I BEG YOU, MY LIFE WILL BE YOURS!!!!

Your wish is my command, dearest anon

[simon-pitch]

he was crazy for that