#what I do instead of writing
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What do they do in their free time?

…..
This is what I do…
Anyways but another creation for April fools love u guys <3
Please if u save this photo give me credit for it.
#nom nommmm1#fluff#free time#andy biersack x reader#andy lover#i love andy biersack#andy biersack#andy sixx#andy black#i love emos#emo bands#2000s emo#emo#emo scene#writers on tumblr#what I do instead of writing
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something so fucked up about Chat Noir’s whole deal is that he is in a lot of ways Adrien playing a character. Like Adrien picked up his miraculous and was told he’d be a superhero so he was like “ok, time to act like a superhero!” and he lets himself have fun w it and play up the role and let loose and kind of just allow himself to be silly and goofy and have fun and for once in his life not care about performing Perfection™.
But. But none of the other characters KNOW THAT. So everyone just sees Chat Noir and is like “look at this guy’s ego. He’s so full of himself. Surely it’d be fair to knock him down a few pegs” without being aware of how few pegs he actually HAS. He’s like the “insecure character who overcompensates in ego” trope except he’s really not doing it unironically, he’s just having a fun LARP pretending to have self worth in his off-hours but nobody else is on the same page about it being a game and he refuses to tell them. He just dramatically pouts about it and lets them laugh and pretends like he’s not internalizing it and it is almost 3 am and my brain forced me to write this instead of sleeping I’m gonna take a melatonin
#writing this my brain was like: what if he actually likes it?#what if he likes people openly criticizing him in ways nobody actually does to Adrien agreste?#because Adrien Agreste is perfect and can do no wrong. maybe he enjoys being insulted or something#and then I remembered chat noirs multiple breakdowns about feeling unworthy and yknow what yeah I don’t think he likes it LOL#do normal people actually fall asleep when they lie down#if you can’t tell I recently decided to make my random ml musings your guys’ business instead of keeping it to myself#hope you enjoy#buggachatter
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always a fun time when real life people are doomed by their own narratives. like guys you know it doesn’t have to be like this right? this isn’t a stageplay the foreshadowing isn’t real until you make it real
#what do roman senators rock stars and real pirates have in common#i would love to write a magical realism psychological horror movie about a up-and-coming celebrity#in which the premise is that the more and more you garner a parasocial following#(i.e.#the more and more you are treated like a character instead of a real person)#the more you become subject to the rules of fiction and thus narrative fate#and the protagonist slowly but surely realizes that by becoming famous they’ve sold away their own ontology#//#god. i need to find that sexy quote from pete townshend about how the music industry is perpetuated on human sacrifice
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monologue
#they said i couldnt have a worse speech bubbles to image ratio and i said 'bet?'#isat spoilers#in stars and time#in stars and time fanart#isat fanart#isat siffrin#isat loop#two hats spoilers#isat#lucabyteart#sifloop#not rlly but it gets the tag in case ppl r backscrolling my tags on my blog for some reason#anyway this dialogue has been kicking around in my files for about 2 months as it is known to do & i wanted to play with typesetting#'write a fic if you like words so much' absolutely not . what if it was pictures instead. and also i wanted an excuse 2 loop gradient#but yeah uhhhh this is very . very loosely the result of me thinking about the 'island is trapped in the fucking future' theory.#like if so. would it just like. reappear. when the rest of the world catches up w where it was stuck in time. like . 20 more years on.#and thus the q: god wait at what point would sif be older than the age they last knew their parents to be. theyre nearly 30 now so like.#you can see my logical path thru these thoughts yes? anyway i think its fun when these two put their braincells together to realise#the horrors. and kind of exclusively the horrors. wahoo!!!#anyway food for thought re: island reappears and to the islanders it's not been any time at all. but its been like 30 years for the rest#fuck do you do: your boy returns 30 years older plus a family (maybe even a child) and minus . a fucking eye.#also theres a fucking angel with them? update. thats also your boy what the fuck. wait fym theyre married. hold on. wait--
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@codywanfirstkissbingo : Sleight of tongue
I wasn't super duper focused on the prompt - I mainly just wanted an excuse to draw wlw codywan. theyre pretty.
Bingo card under the cut

#cody in a crop top is special in the same way that obi wan in a dorky sweater vest is#cwfkb2025#codywan#also peep boga bead lizard on that there carabiner#i tried to make their modern outfits mimic their canon outfits#i think canon obi wan should wear a miniskirt also#i think it would be funny and i need no other reasons#he has a tunic. just make it a miniskirt. simple#obi wan kenobi#commander cody#my art#star wars#star wars fanart#modern au#i did not know what to do with this prompt tbh#i think its more geared for writing and also for a writing style that i dont have#so i just drew the lesbians insteads#but trust me bro theyre definitely fulfilling the prompt i just didnt show it#fanart#digital art#wlw codywan#sapphic#sapphic codywan
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what the cat dragged in

[yan! michael kaiser x fem! reader, childhood friends au.] synopsis: your grandfather once cautioned you against feeding strays. it’s a lesson you wouldn’t fully learn until many years later. words: 4.6k cw: yandere themes - obsession, possessiveness, implied stalking, slight dubcon (no nsfw). a/n: [head in hands] this was supposed to be a drabble
“You be careful with that, now.”
At the sound of your grandfather’s voice, you glance over your shoulder, fixing your attention on the man standing in the doorway, propped up against his cane. Your knees and face are smeared with mud, as any seven year-old’s would be.
You turn back around, cooing gently at the scraggly kitten that eats the canned tuna out of the palm of your hand. You lift your free hand to scratch at its head, smiling as it nuzzles into your hand before going back to the food.
“Why?” You ask innocently. “It’s so cute.”
“It’s a stray,” your grandfather says, voice dripping with disgust on the last word. “If you feed it, it’ll keep coming back.”
You frown. Would such a thing be so bad? If the poor little guy was hungry, you would happily indulge it; after all, withholding such a vital thing to its survival would be cruel.
“But it’s hungry,” you whine. The kitten polishes off the rest of the tuna before looking up at you and meowing loudly, bumping its head against your palm. Your heart soars at the endearing action.
“I’m serious,” your grandfather snaps at you in the tone that tells you you’ll be in trouble if you don’t listen. You give the kitten one last pet before reluctantly retracting your hand. You bite down on your warbling lip and blink away tears when it meows at your sudden absence in confusion and protest.
You walk over to your grandfather, and he takes your small wrist into his hand. He takes in your crestfallen expression and sighs, shaking his head.
“It’s for the best,” he says softly. “You don’t want strays getting attached to you.”
You look up at him with big, watery eyes. “Why not?”
“Because no matter how much you feed them, they’ll always be hungry, and then they’ll never leave you alone.”
Despite your grandfather’s warning, you continue to feed the kitten.
You’re careful to do it somewhere he won’t catch you, though. It’s summer, so you’ve been spending a lot of your time in the park that’s only around the block from your house. Turns out the kitten has been spending lots of time sunbathing there, too, so you make sure to start sneaking out some canned tuna with your packed lunch.
You walk past the swingset and toward the large, twisting slide that you’ve gotten used to finding the kitten under this time of day. Your small purple lunch bag bounces against your leg as you skip happily, swinging your arms animatedly. The tune you’re humming gets stuck in your throat and dies as you duck under the play structure and find a small figure already huddled beneath the slide.
A boy in a black hoodie two sizes too big for his frail body sits criss-cross on the floor. Bruised hands gently pet the kitten, which is curled up in his lap and purring softly. He can’t be that much younger than you— probably only by a year— but he seems far smaller than the kids in the grade below you at school, concerningly so.
His head snaps up as your feet come into his line of his vision, wide, impossibly blue eyes locking onto yours. He flinches so hard that the kitten yowls and jumps out of his lap, startled. He curls in on himself defensively and his breathing becomes labored, yet his wide eyes never leave you, tracking your every movement.
You blink in confusion at his reaction. “Um,” you start to say, but you’re cut off by a loud meow cutting through the air.
You turn to the kitten, which has now settled at your side and is pawing at your lunch bag. You giggle— of course, it’s already come to know where its next meal is coming from. You pick up the bag and unzip it, producing the canned tuna from inside it. You grunt as you tug at the tab a few times, but finally it gives way and comes off cleanly. You place it down, and the kitten eagerly prances up to it and starts eating out of it.
After a long moment of watching it eat, your eyes drift back to the boy across from you. His eyes are locked onto the kitten with such focus that it’s concerning.
Then, you realize he’s not looking at the kitten— he’s looking at the tuna sitting on the floor.
You reach back into your bag and take out a sandwich secured tightly in saran wrap. You unwrap it then split it in half, extending your arm out to offer it to the boy.
His eyes dart down to the sandwich and back to you, but he doesn’t make any move to take it.
“Here,” you say, waving your arm up and down in emphasis. “You can have some, if you want. Mom always packs too much for me, so I’m okay sharing with you!”
He glances back down at the sandwich and hesitates for just a moment more before his hand shoots out, snatching it out of your own and quickly bringing it to his mouth. You avert your eyes back to the kitten as he eats it, slowly working through your own half of your lunch.
When you’re done, you peek into the bag to see what else your mom packed for you. There’s a small bag of chips, an orange, and a banana. Maybe it’s a little selfish to keep the chips for yourself, but the boy seems to be just as eager when you set the fruits in front of him, so it’s probably fine.
He finishes eating before you do, and slowly, he inches closer toward you and the cat. He begins petting it again, stealing glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.
Finished with your snack, you crumple the bag up and throw it into your lunch bag before zipping it back up. You brush your hand off on your pants, leaving a smatter of chip dust behind that your mom will probably chide you for later.
You look up at the boy, who is already staring at you. He flushes red and is about to look away when you hold your hand to him and introduce yourself.
You tilt your head toward him with a warm smile. “What’s your name?”
Michael waits for you under the slide the next day, and the next, and the one after that.
Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. You become permanent fixtures in each other’s lives. You bring snacks and books, bandages and a gentle touch and an unspoken oath to never ask, never pry. He brings nothing but himself, but for you, that is enough.
Your mother never asks why you pack extra food, or where it’s ending up. She likely just chalks it up to you being a growing girl, and for that, you are grateful.
There are some days, though, where you’re being looked after by your father, who chides you for taking more than you need and makes you put the extras back in the pantry. On those days, you apologize to Michael for the smaller portions you both have, but he simply brushes it off. He says he couldn’t care less if you show up with no food at all, so long as you show up.
At some point, it stops being about the food, you just fail to realize it. Michael never breaks his habit of trailing behind you like your own shadow, and he’s not exactly a sociable person (in fact, his glare alone scares off any other kids your age who try to approach you two), so you figure there’s still something he wants from you. And because of your upbringing, hand-holding and leaning against each other and hugging is something so normal to you that you cannot even begin to suspect that there is something much different he’s actually after.
You’re fourteen and he’s thirteen the first time he kisses you.
It’s a sunny day, but not too hot; there’s a nice breeze in the air that keeps you cool as you sit in the grass, idly popping grapes into your mouth as you watch Michael kick a ball into a wall over and over again, as is customary for you two these days. As always, he eventually wears himself out and finds his way over to you, collapsing beside you and leaning his full body weight against your side as you complain and futilely try to push him off.
“Micha, get off,” you whine, shoving at his shoulder. He doesn’t budge, and instead sighs in irritation and wraps his arms around yours to stop your attempts. “You’re heavy!”
“Your fault for feeding me so much,” he mumbles into your shoulder, prompting you to roll your eyes. “Seems like oversight on your part.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have if I knew you’d grow up to be this annoying.” Your words lack heat, of course— you don’t really mean it, and even if it wasn’t evident by your tone, it’s evident in the way you relax into his embrace. “Seriously, though. You’re all sweaty. It’s gross.”
Michael gives one last aggrieved sigh before releasing you. He reaches for the water bottle set beside you and drinks from it, and you go back to your grapes.
A comfortable silence settles between you two as you observe the other people in the park. It’s summer, so it’s busier than usual, which means Michael will probably leave sooner rather than later.
You turn to look at him, but as always, he’s already looking down at you.
You tilt your head to the side. “Do you need something?” You ask playfully.
Michael stares at you a moment longer, the wind rustling his hair into his face. Then, he leans down so quickly that you can’t react before he presses his lips to yours.
It’s soft, gentle. It’s barely there, his desire contained by a hesitation you haven’t seen within him in so long.
When you don’t respond, he pulls back, his face carefully smoothed over into a blank canvas, but you know him better than that. Fear dances in his eyes, fear that he’s overstepped and swung a sledgehammer straight into your friendship.
You blink rapidly, trying to pull yourself together. “Oh,” you say, smartly, and then feel yourself flush red as you fully process what just happened.
“Sorry,” he mutters under his breath. It sounds wrong coming from him, and you reach out to grab his arm just as he starts to withdraw into himself.
“Hey, look, it’s fine. I just— you just caught me by surprise. That’s all.”
He looks back at you, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. His blue eyes are shining, but there’s something dark in them that you haven’t seen before, something you can’t quite place.
“It’s fine?” He echoes in question.
You feel your face grow hotter.
“Yeah,” you whisper back, “it’s fine.”
When he leans down this time, you respond in kind.
You’re always the one to break off the kisses shared between you two.
At this point, you’re convinced he’s not human, given the way that lack of air never seems to be a problem for him. If anything, he seems more annoyed by the fact that you’ve stopped kissing him than the fact that he’s nearly panting from how long he’s gone without taking a proper breath.
He’s insatiable, you quickly find out. Shockingly, for a few weeks following your first kiss, he spends more of his time kissing you under the slide than playing football. When you get tired or want to take a break, he just opts to hold you in a tight embrace until you’re ready to kiss again or have to leave.
Eventually, his initial enthusiasm dies down, but his way of kissing you never changes. Shallow, rapid kisses swapped between inexperienced middle schoolers, but he never lets up, always eager to meet your lips again and take in your breath in place of oxygen.
You never put a name to whatever’s happening between you two. You’re not friends anymore, that much is clear, but you two don’t have the means of going out on dates, either.
Regardless of what you are, he becomes clingier than ever following the shift in your relationship, and a small part of you can’t help but feel like you’re suffocating.
“Micha.”
He looks up from the ball at his feet, skillfully dribbling it despite the fact that his focus is elsewhere. It’s impressive; hopefully, one day, you’ll be able to see him play professionally.
Your heart sinks to your stomach and sits there heavily. Would that be the next time you see him? On some screen, miles away from him, years from this moment in this time?
You’re moving out of Berlin. Your father’s being suddenly transferred to an office in Cologne, and you have just five days to get all your stuff packed up and ready to go for the train ride on Sunday. You have a shitty starter phone— your parents aren’t keen on you having a smartphone, yet— but Micha has nothing. You suppose you could write to him, but that would put him at risk if his father got to the mail before he did.
When he catches the look on your face, he settles the ball at his feet and locks his full attention on you. “What’s wrong?”
You swallow, averting your gaze to the ground. “I’m moving,” you mumble.
A thick silence settles between you two. The soft breeze is sharp in your ears, like deafening static reverberating through your head.
His voice comes out sharp, digging in a way you’ve never heard it before. “What?”
“I’m moving,” you repeat. “I’m leaving. Dad’s job— we’ve got to go to Cologne.”
He doesn’t respond for so long that you finally force yourself to look up at him. His face has gone completely blank, and there’s only something dark in his eyes, something completely unreadable to you.
His voice is tight when he asks, “When are you coming back?”
“I—” You sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t think I am. I think the transfer’s permanent.”
He looks down, seemingly mulling over your words. When he looks up again, his gaze goes is cold, and he hums, straightening out. “No.”
You blink, confused. “No?”
“You’re not leaving.”
You furrow your brows. “What?”
He looks down at you derisively, seemingly irritated that he has to repeat himself. “I said you’re not leaving.”
“I can’t just not leave,” you spit out. He’s starting to be ridiculous, and his condescension has never been something that bodes well with you, having only been on the receiving end of it so few times. “I’m not gonna have any family here.”
He jostles the ball between his feet as if this is another one your shared mundane conversations. “So we’ll just run away together.”
You narrow your eyes at him in disbelief. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”
He slants a side look at you. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Oh, sure,” you say, voice getting higher with each word, “just two teenagers running away and figuring out how to make ends meet. Can you please take this seriously?”
His foot comes down on top of the ball, hard. He flicks a finger between you two. “I am the only one taking this seriously.”
“This,” you echo, incredulous. “A stupid relationship.”
He kicks the ball to the side and turns to face you fully, and that’s how you know you fucked up. Each word bites as he asks, “Is that all this is to you?”
“You know I care about you, Micha,” you say carefully, “but asking me to throw away my family to stay with you is insane.”
Something shutters in his expression, but it’s gone before you can even register it. “I knew it,” he spits, “you’ve never cared about me as much as you’ve led me to believe.”
You grit your teeth. “Are you serious?”
He shrugs. “You obviously don’t value me as much as I value you.”
“Oh my god,” you snap, “you are fourteen. Get the fuck over yourself.”
“You think this is meaningless because we’re young?”
“I think,” you hiss, “that we have our whole lives ahead of us. I wouldn’t ask you to stay by my side if you had bigger and better things ahead of you.”
He continues to stare at you in icy silence. You sigh, frustrated.
“If it’s meant to be, it’ll work itself out,” you say.
Michael tilts his head, as if considering this. His eyes wander your face, committing every bit to memory. Then, he walks over to you, seizing your wrist in his hand. You step back, a bit thrown off, but he lightly tugs on your arm, pulling you back toward him.
“It will work out,” he says, eyes boring into yours. “I’ll make sure of it.”
He leans down and presses a familiar, gentle kiss to your lips.
“Then you won’t have to leave me ever again.”
This time, when you pull away, he lets you go. Seemingly without a care in the world, he turns around and picks up the ball, heading toward the trail that he takes home.
You return to the park the day before you leave, but you don’t see him. You wait for hours, but he never shows.
The unease twisting in your gut doesn’t unravel until the train speeds away from the station, leaving Berlin behind you.
You’re about to turn eighteen when you see him again.
Not in person, but on a screen like you expected. The name Michael Kaiser sits in a scrolling bar across the bottom of the screen which plays footage of him playing on Bastard München’s youth team, his long golden hair flowing behind him beautifully. The news anchor says something about him being one of the most promising players of the new generation— not that that’s something you need to be told.
Your friend says something from across the table, ripping your attention from the screen. You don’t notice how tense you’ve gotten until you relax again.
Despite the lingering feeling of unease his memory leaves you with, you’re still glad he made it, after all.
“Who’s this?”
You’re back home for the holidays during your second year in university. Your studies have taken you back to Berlin, albeit a part you hadn’t grown up near and is still new and fresh to you. “Home” might not be the right word, though— you’re spending Christmas Eve at your grandmother’s house. She’s been hosting your entire family the past couple years since your grandfather’s passing forced her to relocate to a smaller house, an attempt to fill the empty home with warm presences.
Currently, she’s playing with a small, bedraggled dog that has wandered onto her porch. It’s wheezy and staggers when it walks, indicative of its old age.
“Oh, just a sweet little thing,” your grandmother replies as she pets its back. “You know, your grandfather always hated it when I would feed the strays. I did it a lot back at the old house on the other side of town, but there’s not too many animals on this side, so I don’t really do it anymore.”
You consider the dog. Its fur is matted, but nonetheless, its tail wags so hard from your grandmother’s attention that its whole body shakes with it. It sneezes pathetically.
You shove your hands into your coat pockets. “So this is a new one, then?”
“Well, not quite.” Your grandmother chuckles. “I first met this little guy back at the old house. I’ve been feeding him since he was a puppy! Seems he found his way back home on his own.”
“Huh.” Your eyes snap back to her. “I didn’t think they could actually do that.”
She laughs some more. “The most determined and loved ones can.”
You retreat back into the house. Your younger cousins jump on you immediately, demanding you play whatever nonsensical game they’ve thought up this time. You shed your coat, and with it, your lingering distress at your grandmother’s words.
“Oh my god, do you have a secret admirer?”
Your roommate’s voice pulls you out of your shocked state. The dread freezing your veins gradually thaws out, and you kneel down to pick the bouquet of flowers off the floor in front of the entrance to your shared apartment.
Blue forget-me-nots, with some blue roses interspersed throughout.
It’s October now. Just under a year has passed since Christmas, but your grandmother’s words are fresh in your mind, as if you’d heard them just yesterday.
You fumble around with the bouquet, movements becoming more frantic when you can’t find what you’re looking for. “There’s no card attached to this.”
“Well, duh,” your roommate says. “That would defeat the purpose of a secret admirer.”
Except, it’s not a secret who sent you these. You might have been able to brush it off if it was just the forget-me-nots, but the roses speak for themselves.
You flick your wrist out to the side, shoving the bouquet into your roommate’s chest. She grabs onto them, so you let them go in favor of getting the door unlocked.
“Figure out what to do with them,” you say as you enter the apartment.
She trails in after you, hot on your heels in incredulity. “Wait, you’re seriously not going to keep them?”
“You know I’m not interested in a relationship right now,” you say breezily, feigning a calmness that contradicts your racing heart. “It’s a sweet gesture, but I don’t want them.”
“I mean—” Your roommate stammers a bit before her words peter out. She sighs, then starts rummaging in the cabinet beneath the sink. “Alright, whatever you say.”
She ends up arranging them in a nice glass vase you weren’t aware you two even own and sets them in the center of the dining table. They mock you until they wither and die, and you can finally dispose of them.
By the time February rolls around without any further incidents, your guard has lowered significantly, which is, of course, your first mistake.
You’re lounging on the couch in the common space when there’s light knocking at your apartment door. There’s mostly college students renting in this unit, so it’s not uncommon for someone to stop by and invite you to some party or other, and with Valentine’s around the corner, there’s sure to be plenty.
You set your laptop down on the coffee table and get to your feet, sliding your feet into your slippers and crossing the room to get to the apartment entrance. You reach up and begin to undo the locks without checking the peephole, which is your second mistake.
You pull the door open, and immediately, everything freezes in place.
His eyes are as blue as the day you met him, only his gaze is far sharper than they were even on the day you left.
The television and billboards really don’t do him justice. He’s fully grown into his figure now, the diet and training regimen of a professional athlete filling him out in ways that the portioned-out food fed to him from your hands could not. His hair is choppy, but a face that gorgeous can make anything work. It’s pulled up into a messy bun made to look regal by the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. The blue rose on his neck is stark against his skin, and you eye the thorny vines that trail down and disappear beneath his shirt.
You meet his eyes again, apprehensive. His face is impassive, but the intensity of his gaze betrays him and keeps you pinned in place.
You clutch the doorknob so tightly your knuckles go white.
“Michael,” you say softly, and he frowns slightly at that. “What are you doing here?”
How did you find me? The unasked question hangs in the air between you two, but neither of you reach for it.
“Who’s Michael?” He asks airily. He steps forward, and hooks a finger under your chin before you get the chance to move away from him. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your Micha already.”
You swallow thickly. “I haven’t,” you mumble.
He hums. His thumb brushes against your chin lightly as his gaze trails over your body. When it lands on you again, his eyes swallow you whole. “You look good.”
Heat floods your cheeks in spite of the dread settling in your stomach, and you look to the floor again. “Thanks.”
You attempt to step back, but there’s a hand that finds its way to the small of your back before you can. The hand on your chin tilts your head up, up, until you’re forced to look at him again.
“I spent so long waiting for you, liebling,” he says. “Is this how you greet your boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend?” You sputter. “I don’t—”
His thumb presses firmly against your lips, quieting your protests. “Friends don’t make out, do they?” When you don’t respond, he adds, “We never did break up, you know. I’m glad to see you haven’t cheated on me in my absence.”
You finally reach your breaking point, all the agitation and unease within you spilling over. You shove at him as hard as you can, but if he didn’t budge all those years ago, he certainly wasn’t budging now. You shove at him again, this time trying to use the movement to push yourself away rather than push him, but he swiftly grabs hold of both your wrists and tugs you back toward him. Caught off guard, you careen forward and crash into his chest. His arms snake around your waist, an iron cage holding you firmly against him.
“Micha,” you hiss, “let me go.”
“Now, liebe,” he coos, releasing his hold on you just enough for you to shift and properly look up at him. “You know what that will cost you.”
You glare up at him, but to your chagrin, he seems perfectly content to simply hold you and gaze down at you. As seconds bleed into minutes trapped in his hold, you crack under the pressure.
You tilt your head up fully, and Michael lowers his head just enough to be within your reach. You close the distance between you two, intending for the kiss to be short, shallow, and sweet, just like your first.
You honestly should know better at this point. One of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, and he pulls you back in just as you’re about to get away.
The next kiss is deep, far more passion behind it than anything you two shared before you left. He bites at your bottom lip, and forces his tongue in when you startle. A whimper leaves your throat as he continues to lick into your mouth. You reach up to try to shove at his chest, but he places his other hand over it, rubbing his thumb against your knuckles in a mockery of a soothing gesture.
You gasp out when he finally breaks for air. Your lips sting from the sudden release of pressure, and a thin trail of saliva lines your bottom lip. You stumble back, but firm arms are there to catch you again.
You look up, and his pupil-blown eyes cause that unease to settle over you once more.
Gently, he brings your hand up to his lips and ghosts your knuckles over them.
There’s a glint in his eye as he asks, “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”
Never satisfied. Insatiable, and now, somehow finding his way back to you.
You should have listened to your grandfather when you had the chance.
#how did this become nearly 5k words jesus christ#this got away from me entirely#finishing this at four am instead of doing my final. need this white man to release me#hes been in my house since december and WONT LEAVE#he walked toward the husband brainrot throne like. “are you ready to die sunday oak”#literally pulling word counts out of me that rival what ive written for sunday this is so messed up </3#i hate him (i need him carnally)#first time writing for him hope it doesnt uhhh suck#michael kaiser x reader#michael kaiser x you#kaiser x reader#kaiser x you#bllk x reader#blue lock x reader#yandere blue lock#yandere bllk#yandere kaiser#yandere michael kaiser#yandere kaiser x reader#ceru.writes#ceru.yan
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2024 Akira Amano 'The Characters' Exhibition bonus 'Selfie-style' cards.
[ID: Official art of multiple characters from the manga and anime Katekyo Hitman Reborn.
They're all drawn as if taking a selfie, most of them smiling and/or doing a peace sign or another playful gesture with their hand.
Reborn, Colonnello, Viper and Fon are in their cursed forms, with Viper pulling their hood down, trying to hide more of their face.
Gokudera waves at us, with "Vongola Famiglia" written on his palm and the Vongola's emblem drawn on it too. Lambo is in his Ten Years Later version, Tsuna's shown both in his normal state and in Hyper Dying Will mode, Basil is in Hyper Dying Will mode too and Chrome's wearing cat ears.
Squalo and Xanxus are scowling. /End ID]
ID courtesy of @hopeswriting.
#Akira Amano Exhibition#Katekyo Hitman Reborn#Tsunayoshi Sawada#Gokudera Hayato#Yamamoto Takeshi#KHRel#((I don't have a scanner so I just did my best with a scanning app and ye. Forgib))#((Just accept this for what it is. Maybe i'll find access to a good scanner and try again someday bc I sure as hell aint doing it at work))#((I own all of these cards so I tried to take pictures and did try to adjust lighting to be closer to the card itself))#((I'm not good at graphics so forgive me))#Reborn#Lambo Bovino#Ryohei Sasagawa#Hibari Kyouya#Dino Cavallone#Colonello#Rokudo Mukuro#Basillicum#Superbi Squalo#Xanxus#Mammon#Belphegor#Chrome Dokuro#Byakuran#Yuni#Uni#Fon#Enma Kozato#((Did I just spent a long time on this when I could've been writing instead? No comment))#(Okay to reblog)
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I love you messy artstyle i love you visible brush strokes I love you textures and rough edges I love you imperfections I love you roughness and colour blobs I love you scratchy sketches and bold stylisation and dirt and imperfections I love you ugly and raw emotion!!!!! ❤️
#i talk sometimes#art talk#i made a tweet like this on twatter ages ago but i've been feeling this a lot lately#also this is the start of me writing more on this blog and not only using it as art because who cares!! i don't!!#I wanna translate raw emotion into colors and shapes. I wanna know where to ignore all details and where to go ham you feel me?#i used to dream about developing a style like for MtG where it looked like a masterful oil painting that oozes realism and details#and i've realised the last two years or so that I would actually hate that for me. I know I wouldn't enjoy doing it. For myself.#it's that pipeline from wanting to be the perfect realistic wotc artist to accepting that I will never be that#instead i wanna learn how to stylise better and get a good brush economy going yknow. I wanna be bolder.#i doubt i'll ever be as incredible as all these MtG artists no matter what anyone says. but it's ok!! i don't have to be!!!#i just luv art man!!
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I NEEEEEEED Kurt shippers. or just Kurt insane people to know that the german word for tail is also german slang for penis
"You like my tail dont you" said in german ("Du magst meinen schwanz, oder?") will be read as "you like my dick dont you" by a german
this isnt to discourage people from using the word Schwanz, the oposite, i want people to write Kurt saying that because he WOULD
#and yes. 'schwanz' will be read as 'dick' by default#even if it is the only word for tail we have#we will still read that as dick even if it wasnt the intention#to the point of german warrior cats (the suffix 'tail' exists a lot) having to use the word for a horses tail (which is more implied to#be just A Tail Made Of Hair. or an alternative for pony tail) instad of actually 'tail' because . ya know#anyways. i want people to write him being a little flirt and shit but the people that understand Some german without knowing slang#just thinking hes actually referring to his tail instead of.............. not#kurt wagner#x-men#uh what the fuck do i tag this as#Logurt#?#im writing this BECAUSE of a logurt tiktok i saw so shrugs#nightcrawler
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happy new year Ego!!! Just wanted to let you know that I absolutely adore your twst fanart and the tags are just an absolute pleasure to read! You are my greatest inspiration for my personal twst art and I just wanted to thank you for your wonderful masterpieces <333 if possible, may I ask what are some of your headcanons for the diasomnia family? If not for diasomnia then any other characters are fine as well!
thank you, and happy new year! 💚💜💚 that is amazing to hear; it's always a little bewildering but super flattering that other people like my silly little doodles so much!
I don't think I really have any really solid headcanons and also canon keeps validating me left and right (FLUFFY DOMESTIC DIAFAM IS REAL). mostly just kind of...impressions and general thoughts, if that makes sense! lately though I've been kind of obsessed with thinking about Lilia's hair, and specifically when/why he ended up cutting it. (l-look, we're bouncing around the timeline and I gotta make decisions about these things when I draw, it's relevant) (I mean I would probably be weirdly fixated on this anyway, but.)
I think I've settled on the idea that he kept it long until he went to NRC, partly because 1) I like drawing The Ponytail, and 2) I think he thought of NRC as a chance to reinvent himself a bit! he gets to go and be a wacky carefree teenager for a few years and have fun! (officially he's there to keep an eye on Son #1, but how much trouble could he get into, really.) so he gave himself a Cool Teen Haircut to go with his fresh new Cool Teen Persona!
also maybe he had some reflection on his hair's troubled past with three kids...
...and had to weigh his vanity versus the fact that he was going off to be around hundreds of kids on a daily basis, and. the choice suddenly seemed obvious.
#art#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland spoilers#twisted wonderland episode 7 spoilers#twisted wonderland episode 7 part 6 spoilers#twisted wonderland book 7 spoilers#twisted wonderland book 7 part 6 spoilers#this is my blog and i'm going to write a million words about lilia and you can't stop me#but anyway i do genuinely get the impression that he's using Pretending to Be a Teenager as a chance to be even sillier than usual#he's a very silly man he's just being EXTRA silly#supported by his recent birthday card where he says he was specifically trying to cast himself as an adorable little brother-type#because he wanted the other students to give him free shit and save him seats and things like that#it worked for about a week before he turned out to be way too good at stuff and everyone just kind of ended up in awe of him instead#and he was like DANGIT. I'VE RUINED IT FOR MYSELF.#(then he and epel went on to talk about their hypothetical vtubersonas because the birthday cards are INSANE but anyway)#i'm bad at headcanons :( sorry!#unless it's dumb things like...what pokemon they would have or whatever#(malleus would have some kind of special fancy-colored dragapult) (but i digress)#i have a hard time putting things into words. just know that i love the grampa bat and his weird kids very much.#my brain is also still kind of fried from the last couple of weeks#i am however starting 2024 off the way i intend to continue it: in deep contemplation of anime hair#(sorry if these look weirdly aliased) (i realized about 3/4 of the way through i was using the wrong brush and i didn't want to restart :U)
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fifteen men on a dead man's chest, it's time for: pirates!
there's an idea here, and the idea is slowly turning into a story, and in march I've got some one shot comics about pirates I want to post! ideally, in march. hopefully in march. there's a lot of stuff to figure out, drawing wise. I spent an amount of time I won't mention researching the history of leg prosthetics & vintage leg prosthetic designs for basilica, and I haven't even figured out tall ships. which is. well. it's pirates, what are pirates without tall ships
#i also want. to better convey some kind of nc wyeth color scheme/vibe with this one i think.#there's also a cohesive story to figure out. ive been fucking around with these characters (generic) for a few years but my god is it an#ordeal. mostly bc its like. the stuff i would normally write about is what black sails did and i'd rather re watch black sails than attempt#a less interesting version of it. like that would be boring for me personally to do#so instead im going for more of a 'well whats some weird fucked up shit i can pull off here' vibe#which is going much better. we already got a priest getting sexually fixated on a corpse in the plot rotation#ANYWAY before that there's definitely going to be some prototype art. new jacob geller video essay dropped and oughhhh prototype....#much to think about.....much to rotate around in my head..........visuals to consider..........#original tag
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"May I help you, mister...?"
Pariah Dark paused, slowly looking the old (by human standards) butler up and down before slowly sheathing his sword and crossing his arms. He looked the butler up and down once more, before glancing at the mansion and back at him.
Hm.
Hm.
"May I come in?" The king asked calmly, voice kept carefully lower than he would usually speak with. He was aware that his normal tone of voice was 'loud' in human standards. The butler stared at him for a moment, before slowly stepping to the side. "Of course, sir. Though I am certain I have not yet gotten your name."
He pushed his foot forward, soon passing through the threshold as fire wrapped around his body as he shrunk. Armor being exchanged for more 'comfortable' clothing besides his cape as he stepped through the doorway and grunted. "You may refer to me as War."
The butler nodded, not batting an eye as the sudden shift in clothing or size. "You came at quite the convenient time. Would you like to join us for dinner, sir War?"
Him?
Eat mortal food?
Perposterous.
"If you would have me and it's no further effort on your part, I could make such an arrangement." He fell in step easily behind the butler, hands folding behind his back in a similar if not a bit more extra way as his cape and hair swayed behind him with his every step.
"I believe I can arrange something to your liking," There was a sliver of mischief in the butler's tone as he led the king to what he assumed to be the dining room. "So far, all of my guests had only good things to say about my hospitality. I do so hope you're among them as well, words of praise from one of your station is quite hard to come by."
"I trust that your hospitality be nothing but kind." The king said, coming to a stop at a door the butler soon held open.
"Please, make yourself comfortable while I go inform those who will join you and make something more..." There was a slight twinkle in the butler's eyes. "Attuned, to your pallet."
The king chuckled. "I look forward to it." Then stepped inside.
#dc x dp#dpxdc#dp x dc#dcxdp#dp x dc crossover#dc x dp crossover#What the heck am I doing#Ofoejksd#Notice how Pariah never refered to Alfred as anything but butler#Originally this was supposed to be a kinda crack idea#Where Pariah has come to fight to see if the one who claimed his son's (Danny's) hand was worthy#Which was Jason but they never told anyone anything about them not having romantic feelings for each other so#Pariah's just assuming some things#Wouldn't really change the result even if they did have romantic intent#ANYWAYS#That was how it was supposed to go originally but this is it instead#Dunno how to write Alfred so I just fucked around#Gonna find out based on how this is received
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Mammon doesn’t like it when others get too close to you. It sends a shock of nervous energy through him. In most cases, it’s because he wants to protect you. But other times, he sees you with someone who would treat you well, someone who almost deserves you, and it’s a slightly different feeling coursing through him.
Mammon doesn’t look at those feelings too closely. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that deep down, he’s afraid he’s not good enough for you.
He thinks he hides this uncertainty well, but you know him. You can see the anxiety in his eyes sometimes and you know what it means.
You take a moment to brush his hair back gently. He leans into your touch like you knew he would. You tell him that he’s the only one you want, the only one you need. You tell him that you will always be by his side. You watch how his eyes clear, you feel his arm tighten around you.
No matter how often that insecurity creeps in, you will banish it from his heart. Mammon will know what you’re doing, but he will pretend that he doesn’t. Because he never gets tired of hearing you say you love him.
masterlist | Thank you for reading!
#I don't write about this guy enough#because I'm always worried about writing him out of character#but I've decided I'm going to just do what feels right#instead of worrying about it#obey me#obey me nightbringer#obey me shall we date#omswd#obey me mammon#om mammon#mammon obey me#obey me mammon x reader#om mammon x reader#mammon obey me x reader#obey me x reader#misc writes
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Ummm…… Weasel x child turned weasel reader?
Hear me out…
An alternative universe where the Weasel managed save one of the kid and evade custody, but he accidentally bite the kid and the kid transformed into a weasel-creature like him
☆ Two Of A Kind — Weasel & Child! Gn Reader HCs ☆
Genres: Platonic, Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || Warnings for mild angst
──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────
ᯓᡣ𐭩 From the very millisecond you got dropped off at the jail and entered his sight, Weasel didn't let you out of his vision. He could tell who you were by your scent, and he didn't leave your side since that first flicker of recognition entering his damaged mind
ᯓᡣ𐭩 He did everything with you— walking, playing, eating, anything he could do to stick by your side. If you wandered off he'd gently nudge you with his head or snout in the right direction, or simply pick you up by your scruff
ᯓᡣ𐭩 He can't really comprehend that he's what caused this to happen to you, but he knows you're different now. In occasional moments of clarity he may gently nudge at you while whining, trying to communicate worry and remorse
ᯓᡣ𐭩 The wardens have tried to separate you two before, but Weasel nearly took a whole hand off of someone's arm before that could happen. Not even the other monsters could pry him back. You were his kit, and you weren't going anywhere
ᯓᡣ𐭩 He'd occasionally drag you over to the other Commandos to get them to pay attention to you in a 'look! Look at my kit! This one's my kid!' kind of way
ᯓᡣ𐭩 You started seeing the same therapist as him, and you soon began having some sessions together since you seemed to give him some mental clarity, more than any picture or scrap of newspaper had
ᯓᡣ𐭩 He shares everything with you. Every bit of food, item, anything. You immediately become the center of his world, no matter how small or disorienting that perspective may be
ᯓᡣ𐭩 You tried to occasionally engage in play with him, the typical friendly roughhousing. You were confused when he didn't seem to reciprocate and would instead nudge you off or disengage entirely. Really it was more that he kept having flashes of memories to back then, when this all started, when you were just a friendly face that wanted to welcome a monster. He can't bear to feel like he's making the same mistakes
ᯓᡣ𐭩 He always sleeps curled around you, or he tries to. He usually ends up in some insane twisted napping shape eventually, but he never strays far from your side regardless
ᯓᡣ𐭩 Any dangerous situation he senses, you're the first one he's picking up to safety. Sure he's mauled people in front of you before, but he still makes sure when he can think properly that your safety is top priority. Be expected to be grabbed by the scruff immediately
#creature commandos dc#creature commandos fanfiction#creature commandos weasel#weasel creature commandos#weasel cc#cc weasel#creature commandos#creature commandos x you#creature commandos & reader#creature commandos & you#creature commandos x reader#platonic x reader#familial x reader#NOT romantic do not try me#x reader fanfiction#platonic x reader fanfiction#child!reader#mutant!reader#gn reader#writing requests#fic request#creature commandos headcanons#creature commandos hc#Cannot emphasize enough that this is platonic😭#I hate using “x reader” for platonic/familial fics cause of the romantic connotations but there is hardly any variant to use instead#I work with what I got ig#familial fanfic#platonic fanfic#proship dni#fuck proshitters
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oh ok so its the usual no-homo bullshit you always hear, good to know.
#wwdits#what we do in the shadows#guillermo de la cruz#nandor the relentless#nandermo#look im a reasonable guy#i dont get worked up easily and ive been around writers rooms and understand the pressures of writing a big show like wwdits#hell i even liked season 4#but this has got to be one of the most offensive bs ive read that wasnt from 2015#‘its only a small (but vocal) amount of people that actually want to see them together’#‘their love isnt ~s*xual~ they dont need to kiss its more ~profound~ than that’#‘you don’t REALLY want to see them together! (thats gross!)’#also ‘the power dynamic is ~problematic~’??? are you kidding me???#jfc its like someone literally got this out of the queerbating handbook from 2010#and like yeah i know wwdits isnt queerbating but its queerness feels more performative when it treats an actual central relationship#like its a gross kinkything only a few freaks on the internet want#instead of a legitimate plausible story that deserves exploration#nandermo should be a triumph - a victory for the characters and something the writers should be pleased with writing#not…this.#like it’s some problem pressured reluctantly upon them that needs to be carefully defused#this has left a bad taste in my mouth
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characters in this show having emotional outbursts would be way more impactful if they weren't constantly crying and shitting and having breakdowns over every ant they see on the pavement every 12 seconds
#helluva boss critical#stolas crashing tf out might have been funny if he had remained calm collected and repressed up until that point#all these mfs do is cry over everything its hard to be like Woagh....when they start tearing up again#stolas this is the 3rd time you've shown Crying my gay little eyes out in class#this is why exercising restraint in writing is good. instead of 'what if i put in everything i thought would be cool or emo'#it diminishes ur other cools and emos
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