#( i couldn't help myself lol )
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kitab00m101 · 26 days ago
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Y'all, I just saw this little guy creeping up to me. I'm gonna go say hi!
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smartestsister · 5 months ago
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wings-n-bees · 1 year ago
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Happy (late) Halloween!
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sapphirothcrescent · 28 days ago
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Sapphire's reaction to anything Hojo does
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visage-of-hell · 8 months ago
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(Starter for @hazbinned's Blitz! Contracts had been far and few in between for weeks, when this one particular (un)Holy Grail of a bounty caught her eye. A demon putting a price on the head of a living mortal was as rare as it was lucrative ... and with as slow as work had been as of late, Visage wasn't about to pass up such an opportunity. One problem remained, though--getting to the mortal world. A thing that was easier said than done, unless one was an especially powerful hellborn demon. Even if her heritage put her a step above her pureblooded hellhound kin, it still wasn't enough to manage such a task unassisted. However ... she knew of someone who could. In an instant, her hellphone was out and she was dialing the number to the I.M.P headquarters.
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heroexxs · 1 year ago
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While Julie wasn't a huge fan of tattoos, she was more than happy to support her friend when she wanted to get one. She had no idea what this would entail, or for how long but it was one of her days off from school so she didn't mind tagging along. The shop looked a bit rough around the outside, but she had to trust that her friend knew where they were going and what they wanted to have done. The two of them sat in a consultation with the tattoo artist and Julie couldn't take her eyes off of her, that and what she was sketching up. "That's a very big picture... I mean I know that's what you want but that's a lot of space on your arm." She said with a slight chuckle. There was apart of her that was second guessing coming here but she couldn't back out now, especially when she was so confident walking through the door. "And... won't it hurt more? I'm sorry this is coming from someone who has to look away when I get my flu shot every year." She said with a small laugh. She could only imagine what the tattoo artist thought about her and hopefully she wasn't embarrassing herself too much. "But you are very talented, it's a beautiful drawing."
// @lcvewaslcst
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eeveearoace · 2 years ago
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has anyone made this before?
[Image ID: A person about to knock down a line of dominos. The first domino is labelled "a failing game producer publishing what they believed would be their final game". The final domino is labelled "marcy getting stabbed". End ID]
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the-cookies-of-darkness · 2 years ago
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Wraith: eh! close! if i was in the REAL world? yes! i'd be a ghost! which normally cores don't allow that! once broken we're meant to stay dead! no come back at all! Xaster found a way around that! me! being in this place was a... ATTEMPT! put me here! i'm more of Wraith's CODE! his model! textures! everything that makes him up! i'm what the multiverse spawned him from! Xaster put him back! to ensure Null'd NEVER get him back!
"Oh. This is some 4th wall breaking thing. Is that why everyone only hears static when we break the 4th wall?" Red Velvet asks.
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notcreative360 · 7 months ago
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Mammon: *Finds Barbatos laying down on the sofa, with a blanket on* What the fu-
MC: He found a rat in the kitchen, and came here to crash for the night without even asking..
Mammon: And you're just gonna let him!?
MC: Yes.
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bamgeut · 6 months ago
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smiley taehyun for @choiyeonjuns
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pidgydraws · 4 months ago
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🐇🌼 Welcome to Wonderland ⏰🐈
@windbreakerweek Day 1) "Garden"
am i fashionably late to this? and will i continue to roll these out WILDLY off timeline? uh~ yeah. but that's not gonna stop me >:3 i still got 7 more of these coming! lollll
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blindmagdalena · 1 year ago
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Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )
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18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory
Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.
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After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.
Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.
Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.
There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.
After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?
You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.
Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.
Truce?
You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.
Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.
Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.
Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.
You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.
Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.
If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.
You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.
No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.
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Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.
That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.
It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.
A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.
Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”
“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.
Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.
“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.
“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.
“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.
“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”
Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.
You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”
He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.
“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “
The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 
To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.
“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”
You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.
“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”
He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.
“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”
The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.
“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 
He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.
“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”
He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”
Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.
Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.
Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.
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Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.
The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.
Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.
The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.
That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.
In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.
Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 
It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.
“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 
Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.
At least that gives him something to gift you.
Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.
Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 
He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.
The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.
Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.
Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 
Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.
Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.
Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.
That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.
He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.
He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.
Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”
A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.
Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–
“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.
He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.
Christ.
So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.
No bra.
His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…
Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.
Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?
He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.
It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.
He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.
Not yet.
He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.
Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.
He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.
( chapter three )
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demonichunny · 9 months ago
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Of course this is a joke between friends, but to everyone please do not demand things like this to artists...because you're gonna end up with this:
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Draw me something for free in under 2 minutes. Full body full color with 3 characters :)
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heroexxs · 2 months ago
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it was no surprise that lila was running around another one of her art galas trying to make sure that everything was in it's perfect place. more went into these galas than others thought and if one thing was off-centered she knew it would have her spiraling. she just wanted everything to be perfect and for everyone to have a great time. everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves and more importantly, enjoying the art. when she finally had a moment to take a breath and get a drink, lila started to slowly walk around to see if any pieces caught anyone's eye. some faces were familiar and others were brand new, which was even more exciting. the more she could get her art out there she thought the better. as she took a sip of her drink she continued to walk by before stopping at one of her favorite pieces and noticing that someone else had stopped by it as well. she hadn't seen their face before so hoped that she would be able to strike up a conversation or even more sell the piece. "i have to say, this one is one of my favorites." she said with a smile as she crossed an arm over her chest. "the way the colors just come together, i think it shows so much emotion." lila said with a small chuckle and a shrug. "what do you think?"
// @ofdoycnnes
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nucrests · 1 year ago
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Dominique Beard Set
A mini beard set I originally created for my sim Dominique and hopefully others find use for it too! This mini set includes 4 curly styled beards, 2 of which include greying options. As always, have fun!
Additional information:
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DOMINIQUE CURLY BEARD (VERSION 1: REGULAR) ▪ Base Game Compatible ▪ Includes 24 EA swatches ▪ Custom thumbnails
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DOMINIQUE CURLY BEARD (VERSION 2: BIGGER) ▪ Base Game Compatible ▪ Includes 24 EA swatches ▪ Custom Thumbnails
📁:PATREON (ALWAYS FREE) | TOU | KO-FI If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting me on patreon or ko-fi. Your support will be much appreciated! 🤍
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olessan · 2 years ago
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live druid reaction
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