#y'all I am SWEATING

[arvandus]

Having a smol crisis over how tall some of the Obey Me cast is...

I recall reading somewhere that Luci is 6'3", just to give a point of comparison. Also read somewhere before that Luke is supposed to be 5'2"?? EXCUSE ME??

And then I see this gem:

and realize that FUCK IT'S TRUE. I'M THE SAME HEIGHT AS LUKE. Like, if Barb really is that tall (estimating 6'2") then my 5'2" ass will look like THIS standing next to him.

Which makes this NB dialogue so much funnier...

YEAH. NO SHIT. OF COURSE LUKE FEELS BETTER WITH ME IN THE KITCHEN CUZ I NEED A FUCKING STOOL TOO, APPARENTLY....

Just imagining having to do everything using a stool now. Also imagining how fucking big the Devildom furniture would be. If I, at a reasonable 5'2", need a stool to comfortably prep food at the kitchen counter, then how big are the chairs? The tables? The couches...??

Just me, sitting at at the dining table with my feet dangling...

Don't even get me started on Diavolo...

...look how much taller his behind Barbatos.

Fuckin' hell....

[inkskinned]

you wanted to be a good friend, because you loved your friends, but the truth was that everyone else somehow had a pamphlet on being normal that you never received. most of the time you learn by trial-and-error. you are terrified of the next big mistake you make, because it seems like the rules are completely arbitrary.

you've learned to keep the prickly parts of your personality in a stormcloud under your bed - as if they're a second version of you; one that will make your friends hate you. it feels feral, burning, ugly.

instead, you have assembled habits based on the statistical likelihood of pleasing others. you're a good listener, which is to say - if you do speak up, you might end up saying the wrong thing and scaring off someone, but people tend to like someone-who-listens. or you've got no true desires or goals, because people like it when you're passive, mutable. you're "not easy to fluster" which is to say - your emotions are fundamentally uninteresting to others around you; so you've learned to control them to a degree that you can no longer really feel them happening.

you have long suspected something is wrong with you, but most of the time, googling doesn't help. you are so-used to helping-yourself, alone and with no handbook. the reek of your real self feels more like a horrible joke - you wake up, and, despite all your preparations, suddenly the whole house is full of smoke. the real you is someone waiting to ruin your other-life, the one where you're normal and happy. the real-self is unpredictable, angry.

your real self snarls when people infantilize the whole situation. because if you were really suffering, everyone seems to think you'd be completely unable to cope. but you already learned the rules, so you do know how to cope, and you have fucking been coping. it's not black-and-white. it's not that you are healed during the other times - it's just that you're able to fucking try. and honestly, whenever you show symptoms, it's a really fucking bad sign.

because the symptoms you have are ugly and unmanageable for others. your symptoms aren't waifish white girl things. they're annoying and complicated. they will be the subject of so many pretentious instagram reels. if they cared about you, they'd just show up on time. you care, a lot, so deeply it burns you. you like to picture a world where the comments read if they loved you, they'd never need glasses to see. but since that's a rule you've seen repeated - "one must never be late or you are a bad friend" - you constantly worry about being late and leave agonizingly early. there are no words for how you feel when you're still late; no matter how hard you were trying.

so you have to make up for it. you have to make up for that little horrible real you that you keep locked in a cabinet. you are bad at answering emails so every project you make has to be perfect. you are weird and sensitive so you have to learn to be funny and interesting. you are an inconvenience to others, so you become as smooth as possible, buffing out all the rough parts.

all this. all this. so people can pass their hands over you and just tell you just the once -how good you are. you're a good friend. you're loveable.

[melmedarda]

We need something revolutionary, Elora. Something to put Piltover on the map.

⸻ MEL MEDARDA, Arcane

[warpedpuppeteer]

We've got Buck doing the shoulder grab for once!!

[linkspussy]

Everyone with an excretion kink needs to hold hands I think. "I like XYZ but XYZ is gross." We're all gross, babe. Have your squicks, but don't ever act like you're above the person who jacks it to farts.

[khashanakalashtar]

RIP to 85 thousand of y'all but I have a built-in cooling system called sweat

[the-ghost-king]

Look.

He didn’t mean for it to happen.

It’s not like Will got up that morning trying to get a goddess's attention. Sometimes when you’re a demigod, things just sort of… happen. Who was to defy a goddess’s wishes? Especially one so beautiful as Persephone?

(Will was not going to call her “the most beautiful” he may not be smart enough to stop his heart from running up his throat every time he’s seen her, but he is smart enough to know he doesn’t want to be the demigod responsible for the next Trojan War, thank you very much.)

It was supposed to be a simple, “meet the parents” sort of dinner. Nico was routinely away to these sort of events in Hades’s palace, he didn’t understand why his “it’s probably going to be fine” was perhaps not the most comforting thing to Will. (“They’re gods it’s never safe, but they did promise food imported from the overworld, you know know, they have some installed child safety features, which means it will probably be fine.”) Will could be a rather anxious person at the best of times, meeting your boyfriend’s dad was terrifying to most young adults, and Will figured he should really get a free pass when your boyfriend’s dad was the overlord to your afterlife too. (“Persephone will be there, you like Persephone,” Nico was clever, Will enjoyed that Nico was clever, Will also enjoyed the many perks of bisexuality).

So considering he was nervous, and stressed, and being very brave about it; he’s just not so sure he’s the one at blame for getting lost on his way to the bathroom, he really feels like there’s a lot bigger forces at play here to blame for sure. It was almost bound to happen, who builds multiple intersecting hallways in a grid pattern and expects a guest to then find their own way around? Especially when so few of the rooms are truly restrooms, which isn’t really anyone’s fault either- gods and ghosts are just built differently. Natural variation, all well and good and an important aspect of a happy, thriving, biologically diverse population. Genetic diversity was great until it left you stranded in the middle of Hades’s palace looking for the proper place to freshen up.

So by scientific reasoning then, genetic diversity had gotten him here in the first place. So really all of this was biology's fault. It was usually biology's fault. Just look at the Krebs Cycle.

(One day he’d be able to hold biology accountable he was sure, but for now the sins of biological difference had him scrubbing his hands three times in the sink and he still felt like there was something on him. Thanks for this one, Dad.)

Unfortunately for Will at this moment, there were no skeleton butlers or spectrely maids to turn to for help with his struggle of finding his way back to the formal dining room when he was done either. So there he was, standing at a four way intersection of the halls in Hades’s palace trying to figure out which direction he had come from.

Apparently, Apollo’s ability to orientate his brain like a compass only worked when the sun was visible to Will. Unfortunately, in a disastrous combination of events, his ability to estimate time was also severely reliant upon the sun. So you know, not only was he lost in an unfamiliar place but he also was struggling to figure out where he had come from and how long he had been wandering. Maybe it was 5 minutes, maybe 30, maybe it had been 3 days - probably not the last one as Will didn't feel like laying in bed for 16 hours, nor did he feel particularly dehydrated. But he also wasn't quite sure. What no sunlight does to a motherfucker, huh. Damn.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. It’s all going to be fine. (In spirit of Nico, Will tacks a “probably” on the end).

(It helps, some.)

Just as the thought passes and Will starts looking around like he is in a game of clue for possible solutions out of his current predicament and back towards finding some undead to talk to to reorientate himself he hears the steady tap-tap of something walking towards him. Knowing that The Furies and The Fates both reside within Hades domain erases any initial comfort Will may have had at his initial "Well at least it's bipedal" thoughts. He hasn't yet had the opportunity to meet any of The Furies or Fates, and for all intents and purposes he had truly been advised not to.

"I was wondering where I might find you lost at," the voice is soft and light, but not in an airy or high pitched manner, but something warm and steady.

“M'lady," Will spins around to address her properly, she chuckles fondly at him.

"Had you found your way to a bathroom yet?" She has one eyebrow raised, a party trick Will's muscles are incapable of performing despite Cecil's insistence he just isn't trying hard enough.

“I was just trying to find my way back.”

"Ah, well then, follow me," she fists her hands into the soft petal-pink folds of her dress, and spins around to face the direction she'd just come from.

He hesitates for a moment, though he's not sure why.

(That is a lie, he hesitates because she smells like a gentle breeze wafting into the Apollo cabin, she smells like the gentle embrace of tall grasses in the field outside his Ma's house, she moves like a gentle stream freshly thawed flowing down the mountainside- and he is enamored by it instantly.)

"C'mon Apollopoulos don't worry," her smile is sharp, all teeth and stark in the moody lighting of the hall, "I don't usually bite."

It is absolutely the wink that does him in. His face feels all weird and warm and there's a feeling in his stomach, warm and tingling, "Of course, thank you, Lady Persephone."

He follows her.

[Part 2]

[imaginarycyberpunk2023]

OC: Vinnie Gallo

Happy Thirsty Thursday

[moraygrotto]

also while im chatting about this. i think a definite preference for me is that i dislike scenarios abt burping in public, tummy noises in public, etc. bc thats just too realistic for me & i don't like the nonconsenting strangers aspect, but i still love the idea of being able to conceal kink stuff in public like the post i just reblogged abt public vore digestion was 💯

[updownlately]

It deserves to be said mate. Your writing is good and the things you come up with are great as well. The way you turn songs into a fic is talent tbh. I tried but i failed 😂

But seriously take all the compliments you get because you deserve them 🥰🫶🏻

seriously means more than you'll ever know! genuinely thank you so much! glad i got people out here willing to read what i put out so shout out to y'all for motivating me!

but again, thank you 🥹🫶

[dxsole]

account team: okay, so the client approved the flat mockup of the site--we’re good to start working on this website...

me: cool! great! I’m on it! :D

account team: ...also if you could please finish the whole site this week because the budget only covers this year...

account team: ...also also you’ll be workin next week, right? The time we as a company all decided to take collective time off? You’ll be working then?

me:

[yvningshowers]

The IMMEDIATE brain rot hit me of Aizawa in the gym???

His fighting style leads me to believe that he probably does a loooot of calisthenics work- but his opponents tend to be HEAVY mfs, there's no way he doesn't weight lift. My brain is........ sausage......

[nyan-bynary]

Absolutely a huge fan of mixing more fluid (spit) into other fluid (blood) it is very visceral it itches the depths of my brain

[theglizzardwizard]

After all that shit I'm STILL going to upload a bunch of stuff that will inevitably get ripped off (but they'll have to file the numbers off lest they get accused of biting my shit)

[akai-anna]

*sweats nervously* ok, lately a lot of cool ppl followed me, nothing to worry about, at all, just keep cool and act natural

[gloomwitchwrites]

There was this tiktok trend where kids and their mums would pull a prank on their dads by telling their mums to shut up...141 with a teenage son who tries it?

Anon, I am very aware of this prank. If mom is in on it, I consider it all in good fun, but omg, these guys would be absolutely stressed if they heard their teenage son tell mom to "shut up." Heads would absolutely roll over that!

Price is certainly old enough to have a teenage son on the older side. I would even say the same for Ghost. Gaz is old enough for a younger teenage son. With Soap's age...that's stretching it. BUT SUSPEND DISBELIEF Y'ALL. I'm aging Gaz and Soap up a bit for this one.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Presented in two double drabbles and two triple drabbles.

Task Force 141 x Female Reader (w/ children)

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, pranks, domestic, dad!141, brief suggestive themes, marriage

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Ugh. Shut up, Mum.”

There is a brief pause between mum and when the television remote hurtles across the room. Your son doesn’t duck in time, the hard plastic hitting his shoulder before bouncing onto the kitchen island with a loud clack.

Before your son turns, Kyle’s baseball cap with the Union Jack, soars through the air like a frisbee. This one your son manages to avoid, but it’s quickly followed by a slipper. It flies past his head, and you catch it out of the air before it makes contact with the front of the microwave.

You and your eldest son turn in Kyle’s direction as he manifests in the kitchen entryway, the other slipper in hand, poised to launch it at the first sign of any movement.

“Wanna repeat yourself, mate?” Kyle appears calm and poised, but you notice the subtle tension in his jaw.

“It was a joke, Dad! Promise!”

Kyle’s arm holding the slipper starts to rise.

“Kyle,” you say. His gaze flicks to you. “Just a joke. No harm. I was in on it.”

His shoulders immediately sag. Kyle shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. Heading for the fridge, he opens it up, grabbing a can of his favorite beer.

Kyle sets the beer down on the island, pointing the slipper at you and then his son. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out, just an exasperated huff.

Kyle snatches up the television remote and sticks it into the pocket of his grey sweatpants. Keeping hold of the shoe in one hand, and his beer in the other, he gives the two of you his back, heading into the living room.

“No one bother me until the game is over,” he says over his shoulder. “And someone bring me my bloody slipper!”

John Price

"Fucking hell, Mum. Shut it."

John is up and out of his seat so fast you hardly see him move. He strides over to his son, yanking him off the stool by the scruff of his shirt.

"John! It's a prank!" you say quickly, reaching for his arm.

The boy is dangling in the air, toes just shy of touching the ground. "A prank?" asks John skeptically.

"Mum is in on it. Promise."

John sighs heavily and slowly lowers his son to the ground. The moment his feet touch ground, he tries to step away, but John holds firm, keeping his eldest child immobile. He leans forward a bit. Lowers his voice.

"Prank or no, you never talk to your mother, your sisters, or any woman in that manner again. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy." John releases his son. "The lawn needs trimmed."

"Yes, sir."

Your son scurries away. It isn't until the door to the garage opens and shuts that John moves toward you. His arm drapes over your waist, hand landing firmly on your ass, squeezing hard.

"You're coming with me."

"To do what?"

He presses his lips to your ear. "For a different sort of punishment."

John "Soap" MacTavish

"You’re off your head, lad.”

With Johnny’s cold tone comes a tension to your son’s shoulders. He becomes rigid, sliding down into his chair like he can escape from his father by cowering underneath the table. Johnny comes around the corner, a bit of sweat on his brow. He's been building furniture all day for the nursery.

"Want to repeat that for me?" asks Johnny.

Your son’s voice cracks. "It was just a prank, Dad."

"It was what?" Johnny strides forward.

"It's a prank. I'm in on it. Promise," you say, attempting to soothe Johnny’s anger.

Johnny crosses his arms over your chest. "Is it?" He glances between the two of you and sighs, muttering, “Am pure done in.”

He disappears down the hall, returning with a stack of instructional manuals, dropping them into his son’s lap. "You're building furniture."

"But I—"

“You right scunner. C’mon.” Johnny yanks his son out of the chair, the stack of instructional manuals goes flying. Your son reaches for them all, desperately clasping them against his chest.

“Johnny," you call out, walking around the counter to intervene.

He glances over his shoulder, frown gown, sly smirk on his face. “Deal with you later."

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Oi, Mum. Shut it.”

Your son is a wonderful actor. You’ll give him that. Even you almost believe him. Not that he would—he’d never—but his delivery reminds you of a completely pissed football fan ready to throw a punch at a member of the rival team.

He should consider theater.

Simon, your husband, is watching a rugby match in the living room. The television is on but at a low volume.

Within seconds of the words leaving your son’s mouth, Simon appears like a phantom guardian in the entryway. In one he holds the remote like a weapon. The other arm cradles his infant daughter. She looks like a small bean. Slightly curved as she snuggles closer against Simon’s chest as she sleeps.

He's not looking at you. He's staring at his son, gaze intense and full of fire.

You’ve seen that look before.

Mission abort.

"He's joking, Simon. It's just a prank,” you soothe, knowing you need to get ahead of this.

Not that Simon would hurt you or his son, but he rarely takes any shit. This prank was a gamble, and you’re completely regretting it.

"Don't mean it, Dad."

Simon just stares for a long minute. His daughter squirms and that is when he glances down, severing the connection. Observing her must change something in him, because his gaze returns to the two of you, and there is a calmness now.

Sighing heavily, Simon shakes his head, completely exasperated. The eye roll is so apparent it’s like a shout.

In the moment he was pissed—livid. But now he’s over it, more annoyed and unamused than actually mad.

Turning on his heel, daughter still cradled in one arm, Simon returns to his recliner, settling back into the soft cushions to finish watching his rugby match.

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