#if you want to filter

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

in desperate need of a superhero who has every conceivable superpower...but isn't "overpowered" bc they're mediocre at everything. flight? i mean yeah they can fly. with all the grace of a drunken butterfly, bumping into multiple surfaces in the process, but yeah technically they're flying. super strength? sure with super butterfingers built-in, but it counts. laser eyes but their aim's for shit. they've saved the world as many times as they've endangered it by making a bad situation worse. the "good guys" and "bad guys" are equally apprehensive of having this person on their team

[technically-human]

Everyone at G.U.N. is freaking out because Stone suddenly vanished.

[fae-and-night]

sooo

[bluuscreen]

seen some other people draw stone as a goat and thought i’d take a crack at doing my own design

[belobogindustries]

PHAETHON

[crowberri]

"a motion-blurred photo of you as a kid"

looks just as stupid unblurred

[wormspoodle]

back in the stupid building again

[dino-my-knee]

the quote is, of course, about the morphine and nothing else

[uncanny-tranny]

This might seem like an "old man yells at cloud" situation, but it's just wild growing up and being told how dangerous distracted driving is - how, at highway speeds, you can traverse the length of a football field (100 yards, 91 meters) in a matter of seconds - how one split second sending a text while driving could result in a potential fatal crash, and then getting on the road as a driver and being surrounded by billboards. Their entire purpose is to catch one's attention, so they're lining major roads, which tend to be highways. How is it that you're told how important it is to never be distracted while driving, but still being advertised to?

At best, this type of advertising is an eyesore to pedestrians and motorists and a general waste of electricity to light it, and at worst, it is an active danger considering they are there to advertise and therefore, must catch people's attention.

I'm not even against advertising in theory, but this particular mode bothers me so much and I hate how pervasive it is - especially in large cities or highways.

[mamawasatesttube]

the whole "jason rules crime alley and none of the other bats are allowed there!!1!" thing is so funny like. tim LITERALLY lives in the theater where bruce's parents died,

[anpiels]

a specific genre of image i really enjoy + random aa guys i hope everypony enjoys

[bearoutofmind]

3 more days to Karakasa Netflix release but it feels like a month....

[theloveinc]

jason todd x reader - really just wanted to say he's the type to start feeding you stuff when you're taking too long to finish. it turned into this. 1.5k+ ish.

(warnings: eating dessert (being spoon fed), pet names, gn!reader, lots of teasing, + sex mentioned! edited but will double check in a bit!)

It’s not that Jason Todd is jealous. It’s not.

He’s been jealous before (plenty, he has to admit). He’ll be jealous again (could be as soon as next week, if not as early as tomorrow, if Dick so much as texts you to ask for Jason’s location). He knows this as well as he knows anything—as well as he knows that he’ll keep kissing you before you drift off to sleep every single night he’s lucky enough to go to bed with you. That Roy will keep being, or doing…whatever it is that makes him so specifically Roy. That B will keep disappointing him, even despite the slow and half-ineffective effort he makes by managing to locate whatever burner number Jason is currently using and leaving unnecessary updates on whatever mission Jason has most recently declined being part of.

It’s something else that itches at him. Something that burns with that same fire, creases his brow low over his eyes, and pulls his mouth into a pout you’ll tease him for later. It’s impatience. It’s the fact that it’s forty-five minutes past three PM (pee em), the latest you said you’d be home by, which means you’re a whole hour and fifteen behind schedule… still sat at the same outdoor café table you ordered lunch at with your best friend…four hours ago.

(Jason hadn’t meant to come. Hadn’t actually been invited. But the thought of French toast, egg scrambles with peppers, and looking at you in your cute date clothes was too much for him not to at least ask.

It's not a real excuse, he knows that. But what can he say, really, when he normally works the graveyard shift at Vigilante Incorporated, full time. Which he’s sure is what you were also thinking when you said yes.)

He likes your best friend. Not because he’s inclined to in any specific way (they’re nice in the way most people are nice, pleasant, if not a little boring and unworthy by his refined standards), but because he likes what you like, and especially things that make you happy.

But Jason also likes being home (on floor in front of the couch, shoulders between your legs while you absentmindedly pick at his hair and he cleans his gun, the both of you pretending not to be invested in whatever adult cartoon Roy most recently recommended. In fact, when you’d promised you’d be home by three, it was so that you could have dinner made by six, a shower together (and maybe just a tiny bit of sex) by eight, so he could head out for his scheduled patrol by nine.

(And be home by five am, so he could kiss you at least one more time before you had to leave for work.)

He could go on.

Not to mention, Jason burns; turns red as rust and Manhattan clam chowder when left in the sun too long (a phenomenon that remains unnamed yet oddly frequent among Gotham natives), which is simply just to say, in this little suburb an hour outside the city (when you aren’t going 90 in the carpool lane on a motorcycle), it’s all finally catching up to him. He can feel the pink on his cheeks.

In front of him, your dessert sweats. Fresh mascarpone cream seeping from between the now leaning, three-tier stack of biscuits, layered with the start of summer’s blackberries and drizzled with syrup. Still, you chatter away, the afternoon sun glinting off the spoon near your plate, as if to call attention to the fact that you haven’t even noticed.

“Eat with me!” it calls, and then as if to mock Jason’s poor sense of humor, “this whole thing is mildly irritating and definitely a waste of your time!”

He can’t take it anymore (you’d responded to the text he’d sent from the men’s room an hour ago, promising you’d pack it up as soon as you finished the food, but he knows now was silly of him to assume you’d be able to get anything in your mouth when you were that wrapped up in talking) and his body moves on its own: he picks up the spoon, leans across the table, and cuts through the top layer of your cakes without any care for decorum…or chivalry. The cream oozes, some of the syrup dripping down the side, and still, you don’t react.

“Honey,” he says, flat and low and grumpy, the only warning you get before he’s holding the bite up, inches from your lips. “Don’t let it melt.”

You blink. Your conversation stutters, falters, then dies completely as your eyes find his, and then the spoon.

“Oh,” you say, a little surprised, a little soft. Then, you smile, and Jason curses himself for ever being annoyed in the first place. “Thanks, baby.”

You take the bite graciously, tugging the spoon from his hands gently to finish off the bite. You wipe the corners of your lips, then lean in to give him the briefest of pecks, one that leaves his mouth sticky and warm with melting sugar. It’s almost enough to distract him from the fact he’s trying to lure you home… but you’re pulling away before he even has the time to fully close his eyes and enjoy it (as much as he’s eager to) and the spoon is set down in it’s original spot.

“Sorry,” you giggle to your friend, though your embarrassment is only half genuine, much to his relief.

He has to resist the urge to groan. And to make a sour face. And to express his frustration by scooping up a wad of whip cream and swiping it across your cheek (which is what he’d do if you were in private, not that he even needs the excuse to lick sweetness right off your face).

He gives it two minutes before he’s pressing another bite your way. Again, there’s no warning, no teasing, no words before there’s a heaping spoon of blackberries and cream mere centimeters from your mouth and his deep, blue eyes are narrowed in that particular, Jason Todd way, telling you: either you eat this, or… you eat this.

He thinks, at the very least, you’re finally picking up on the hint, as when you accept the bite, you roll your eyes and give him a playful glare. Jason doesn’t let you escape with the spoon however, this time pulling it from your mouth to let it rest between his forefingers as a clear reminder: you are going to finish this dessert, say goodbye, and go home… even if he has to be by his hand that it happens.

If you were a much more cruel partner than the one that you are, you’d offer back something biting, tease Jason, make a show of savoring the treat, and maybe even share a taste by exchanging tongue with him (as you sometimes do when you’re alone and eating something sweet)… instead, however, you offer him your hand under the table, fingers brushing the topside of his knuckles in a quiet, deliberate, and (most importantly) sweet way he will never admit makes him tender immediately.

Interlinked, your thumb starts to smooth over the scars that wrap around his skin, soothing any raw scabs in a wordless apology and a promise all at once. You don’t need to say anything, even though you still can’t, not really, not unless you want risk offending your friend. He knows you’ll apologize to him later, the way you always save the more intimate and vulnerable parts of your relationship, the parts you’re both still learning how to navigate, for when you’re alone together.

Jason exhales, something caught between relief and satisfied resignation. He’s happy to wait now that he knows he won’t really have to, so long as you let him keep this up.

You finish dessert slowly but obediently, taking the bites when he offers them, unabashedly disregarding the awkwardness that begins to fester without even needing to end your conversation. Though polite enough not to comment (as you’ve probably already mentioned to them Jason’s tendencies as a partner on the days he’s not desperate enough to tag along), your friend seems to pick up on the shift too, wrapping up the conversation with a glance at their phone and money for their portion and a tip passed your way. They excuse themselves with a hug and a cheerful goodbye that Jason barely manages to acknowledge in kind (though he does, again, for your sake).

Once they’re gone, the sudden silence is filled by the scraping of the fork against the soggy crumbs of your plate. Jason feeds you the spoon of syrup and mush one last time, and you can help but to giggle, a hand over your mouth as you chew, finally acknowledging the impatience that led to this whole scheme.

“Somewhere you trying to go, handsome?”

He scoffs lightly, trying but failing to seem unbothered when he begins roughly stacking your plates, “we have plans, might I remind you?”

“Oh?” you peer at him, failing to hide the sarcasm in your voice, “I had no idea. Really.”

“You said we’d be home,” he emphasizes with his dark eyebrows raised, “by three. Guess what? It’s four.”

(Jason is more of a homebody than he likes to admit, or at least, a stickler for getting his own way, which right now, includes taking both of your bodies home.)

You smile at him for real this time—genuinely, warmly, in a way that reaches something sore and soft behind his ribs.

“Yeah,” you peer at him, “But snuggling doesn’t exactly prompt rushing, does it?”

He gives you his flattest look, unamused, and even you have to admit, justified.

“My poor baby,” you laugh, standing and brushing crumbs from your clothes before reaching to gently brush Jason’s bangs out of his eyes. “I’m teasing. Let’s go snuggle.”

He ignores the sappy jab (really, the truth) and stands, too. He throws down a fat wad on cash on the check and reaches for your bag before you can, slinging it over his shoulder. You pull on the strap (see: attempt to make him relinquish the needless favor), but he’s already stomping back to his bike before you can even start another silly spat.

It’s not that Jason is jealous. It’s not.

He just wants you home—even if it means he has to feed you cake to get you there.

[frownyalfred]

gently grabs you by the chin hey. if an author selects “chose not to use archive warnings” on a fic, they’re allowed. even if you don’t like it or disagree.

[star-trekster]

Have you ever danced with the devil

In the pale moonlight?

[spoopdeedoop]

i like these guys a lot (alt ver. with a filter under the cut)