#is this a weird answer?

[isawthismeme]

She’s brown and a democrat, gotta get that birth certificate, that we’ll call fake news anyway. Apparently, if you can’t win in a fight, you gotta at least try to get your opponent disqualified.

Sad and weird.

[150en]

💙 happy new years

Happy new year! As the first inbox mail of the year, here's a PET Postal doodle!

[wishfulsketching]

barking disrespectfully any time I see your Silco art U･ᴥ･U 🙏 (more please 🤲)

Well, you're so nice about it, so here's a bit uncanny, long-haired older Silco

[gascreates]

a new star

[potatounicoorn]

I think we as a society moved on way too fast from Lloyd canonically being a part of The lego movie events

[vaguely-concerned]

the strength it must have taken for illario to not immediately go full 'lmao since when have you even had a kiss hello lucanis' sibling violence mode during the café talk. inspirational. rook and lucanis really were doing all that right in front of his salad huh

[schofielded]

So TikTok is already back in the US not even 24 hours after it was closed, and I am not a fan of the phrasing of this message. “As a result of President Trump’s efforts” he’s not even in office yet, what do you mean as a result of his efforts?? Why bother turning it off before the deadline if it was just going to be turned back on practically immediately? (It’s propaganda, that’s why) (edit: this was posted the day before inauguration, January 19th)

[egophiliac]

The cut they did with the latest chapter...Malleus was straight up a HORROR VILLAIN IN THE BEST AND MOST TERRIFYING WAY EVER.

"You're 'awake', aren't you, Shroud?" CHILLS LITERAL CHILLS

now, let's be fair to Malleus, he started out very politely! a dainty little knock on Idia's door. graciously allow a couple of minutes to give him a chance to realize that his rebellion is futile and all shall succumb in the end. then, when that doesn't work, a firmer but still unquestionably mannerly knock. then just straight-up haunting his shit

honestly, there was a surprising amount of Twst trying out just a little bit of horror movie in this one! like. you're having a nice cup of tea one minute and then it turns into Alice in Wonderland Does The Cube. everything's red for some reason. your friend's mom is actually a mass of giant shrieking arms rising from the depths to drown you in an ocean of chamomile. this is all a precursor to being hunted as the most dangerous game throughout a labyrinth by dopplegangers of your best friends. what's going on, Twst. are you okay.

[ahhrenata]

@xxfiction-is-my-realityxx here it is!!i love the idea! steve and robin are too cute 🧡

[crrtite]

Ooooch i need more simon groveling, he deserves that 😈

I looooove humbling him hehe, og post + add on drabble here!

cw: Simon is a tad bit unhealthily obsessed with reader, character growth…?, yearning if I’ve ever seen it, reader standing on business but Simon doesn’t even gaf, he wants that cookie so effing bad.

It's been weeks since he's heard you say more than two sentences to him.

He's always been a man who keeps his composure. It's a big part of the 'Ghost' persona, known for his stoic nature and unreadable demeanor. Nothing can phase a man like Ghost, that's what makes him so dangerous.

Simon, however.

His mind is a mess. His own brain at war with itself. He’s used to actual war, the mental and physical toll it takes. It’s what he’s built himself for.

But you? You’re something he couldn’t have prepared himself for even if he tried.

It’s taken him a hell of a long time to come to terms with the fact that he’s obsessed with taken a liking to you. He’s never had a serious relationship before, off-putting by nature and preferring to spend his time alone.

He’s still been watching you, analyzing every detail about you and every interaction you have as well. He knows he’s obsessing over you, but can’t find it in himself to care. He hasn’t wanted anything this bad in a long time.

The issue, however, is you. You haven’t paid him any mind since the day he walked out mid (one sided on your part) conversation. You’ve got self respect, and he loves admires that about you. But fuck, he misses you so bad. He beat himself up a bit, mentally berating himself for being such a prick to you. He’s come to terms with the fact he fucked up, which took him forever.

His next obstacle is deciding what to do with these intense, all consuming feelings he has toward you.

He decides that he needs you, and will get you to at least acknowledge his loyalty to you, no matter how long it takes. And in his own way, starts to show it. Finds himself wanting to be sweet to you, speak softer and handle you with care. However, he’s quite literally never been gentle with anything in his life, that innocent compassion repressed because all he’s known since childhood was how to conceal.

He starts trying to make your life easier, viewing it as his commitment to being better for you. And this doesn’t go unnoticed, not by you. You’ve always been clever, he thinks. You don’t seem affected by his gestures, usually waving him off with a ‘thank you, L.t’ and that sweet, charming smile that he took for granted. He knows he’s a fool, that he was wrong, and he’s sorry. He’s out of his element, putting himself out on a limb. But he’s willing for you, the object of his desire and the cause of his inner torment.

His ever-burning infatuation doesn’t seem like it will be dwindling any time soon. He’s never been a religious man, but he’s praying that you’ll see him internally begging for you to come back to him.

[rakiah]

Is it bad to say that Odysseus!Leona really looks a lot like scar now with a beard?Btw loving the Au❤️

Btw i thought epel was gonna be Telemachus

-🌻anon

Oh not at all! On the contrary <3 Thank you so much!!

And in fact, there are two Telemachus (っ˘ω˘ς

Because why not.

[ew-selfish-art]

DPxDC Au: Normally when Danny vandalizes ancient cave walls and historic places on his 'favor' missions for Clockwork, he gets sent back to erase them. But no, apparently this time, when Danny added his actual phone number into some painting, he's not allowed to go back and fix it. Ugh.

...

Tim has had the painting of Bruce professionally reviewed a few times since the old Bat was retrieved from the time stream. He's not entirely sure how the painting still exists, he's not even sure that it matters any more... But one day Tim catches something new in the painting.

It was small, and it could've just been the light at first but... Is that a phone number in the background?? It looks like black marker on the black curtains and it makes him feel feral. The family is kinder this time about how they think he's gone crazy- but each one of them admit that they can't remember a phone number ever being present.

The lab reports that the number was added over the paint- and that it's an ink based marking akin to a sharpie but like, hundreds of years old. So... It's been added recently but not at all recently enough for Tim to have an explanation.

Tim doesn't want to hear any more of his family members opinions on the matter and he certainly isn't going to just, stop investigating or something stupid like that. So, he takes the painting to the tower, gathers his team (Cassie, Kon and Bart), and they call the number in the middle of the night after a lot of planning/back-and-forth/catastrophizing.

It doesn't answer until the final ring, and the static that comes through the phone is bone chilling. A deep, monstrous groan which echoed with agony fills the room.

"I have a math test in like, three hours, who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you calling in the middle of the night?" The voice now complains, still sounding vaguely inhuman despite it's very human word choices.

"Your number is in a historical painting, we had a few questions but uh, you can call us back later?" Tim cringes as he says it but he hadn't planned on having to reply to someone trying to go back to bed. Or someone who was apparently also a teenager. (He had so, so many contingency plans for like, every kind of villain, alien or demon. lame.)

"...Ugh. might as well." The voice calls out, agreeing with a sigh that echos so deeply the team can feel it in their bones.

"Cool. Good luck on your test?" Tim offers.

"Mph." And the line hangs up.

...

Danny is at lunch with Sam and Tucker when he remembers the late night call. He'd spent the morning bitching about never getting a full night of sleep and it finally occurred to him what had happened. Of course his friends think it's hilarious that CW wouldn't let him erase his number. Of course they do.

They stop laughing when Danny calls the number back.

"Hello, this is Red Robin of Gotham. I have Superboy, Wonder girl and Impulse present with me. How did your math test go?"

[mildarka]

...concerning

[ponytailzuko]

for example, if you go into your alarm app on your phone, how many total alarms are in there?

[pricegouge]

the erotic pin up thought but imagine nikolai tattooing his favourite pic and surprising his lover with it :3

he's already been away for two weeks when you get a text from an unknown number. you don't need the contact to discern who it is, anyway. in istanbul. things are running long. don't expect me back so soon. you're not expecting a reply when you tell him not to worry, to just keep himself safe, but you're delighted when you get one anyway.

>>You too, milaya.

he messages you at least once a day, just to check in. you've never been able to contact him like this while he's been on mission before and you don't want to ruin it by being too needy but the temptation of your phone lays heavy in your pocket all week. you'd hate to interfere but he makes it hard when he keeps up a slow, steady means of communication. you wonder about the mission, don't dare ask. it seems unlikely that he'd let himself be so distracted if it were something high stakes, though. it's possible he's been relegated to glorified taxi while bigger pieces make their moves and you can't help but sympathize when you picture him waiting around, dining in the quaint kind of cafes he'd never really seemed to find an appreciation for - at least, not on his own. he was always happy enough to take you but it had always been very clear where his interest lied, dark eyes trained on you even as he ordered. observant, filing away each little reaction he could pull from you with savory dishes and select deserts. you flatter yourself, imagining his patience breaking, just a little more each day, just enough to text you, earlier and earlier each day until two weeks have come and gone and you've basically fallen into a constant rapport.

you ask for pictures of the city and he obliges, little peeks into the life he's living while away. yet more evidence this is some bizarrely political mission he doesn't really need to be present for. you note when he moves locales a few times but he tactfully avoids telling you his location again. he stops sending you pictures altogether when you start guessing correctly.

so you start sending him pictures instead. they start out innocent enough, testing the limits of what you're allowed to say on this line. he shows gives no intent to stop you when you show him the view from the summit of a local hike, nor even when you snap a picture outside a local restaurant, its logo left carelessly in frame. he only tells you to enjoy, doubles down when you send a selfie with your cheeks stuffed full of spanakopita.

you start to think he deserves a reward, being on the clock for nearly a month straight and still finding the time to check in with you.

his hangar is a sacred place, one you rarely enter without his accompaniment. too many expensive tools, machinery pulled apart with all its fragile bits exposed. you're always afraid to touch, afraid to break. nik had told you once that every item there was made of sterner stuff, that you couldn't hurt a swashplate if you climbed up on it. funny how you might be taking him up on the offer now.

(you wouldn't know really, the knowledge about what a swashplate even was having gone in one ear and right out the other. not your fault when he looked that good, jumpsuit folded down to reveal a sweaty, clingy tank top, wiry hair visible through the thin ribbed material.)

but you're getting ahead of yourself.

the tarp kicks up a mess when you pull it free, concrete dust having settled in nik's absence. it sends you into a sneezing fit and you curse, smudging your makeup as you try to wipe away the moisture collecting on your lash line. you decide to roll with it when you catch a glimpse of yourself in some nearby chrome, see the kind of effect it brings to your overall look.

your makeup is classic, a bright lip and exaggerated liner. even a painted on beauty mark to really knock it home. the outfit was harder to settle on, your every instinct telling you nik always appreciated when you looked your finest, all dolled up in expensive labels he'd bought for you. but ultimately you'd decided what was good for the goose was good for the gander, pilfering from his closet until you'd found what you were looking for, the exact same outfit which drove you mad.

nik's a big man, his jumpsuit made to reflect that. it drapes away from your waist when you let it hang but it's nothing that a clever safety pin corset can't fix, the top of the suit left to hang over it, hiding it away. long legs are easier to remedy, hems tucked into a pair of hiking boots you hadn't cared about in years, now painted to look the part with the same gear grease you'd smeared all over yourself, tasteful swipes meant to accentuate your soft curves, here on display under the dirty tank top you'd sworn you'd told him to get rid of, now tied tight around your waist to show off your chest. and now with your smudged makeup you think you've finally got it right, the look exactly what you'd been going for when you'd first got the notion in your head.

with the stage already set, the photoshoot goes easily enough. the poses are almost instinctual, the big wrench you wield almost natural in your hands as you lean provocatively over the engine block, tits to squished you doubt he'll ever even notice the size isn't right for the bolts in front of you. you try a couple of different styles, positions which are obviously designed with aesthetics in mind interspersed with more competent looking ones, even though it makes you feel ridiculous when you think of how obvious it will be to him that you don't know what you're doing.

you just have to remember how little he's going to mind it, all told.

editing isn't your strong suit. you're racked with doubt all the while, hyperfocused on every little flaw you spot. it gets easier when you remember the whole shoot is meant to be quite grimy and in the end you settle on a decent collection. you even remember to upload them to a file sharing site to avoid compression, sending him the link with a wink and a warning not to open in front of his comrades.

he calls you naughty immediately, but it's long hours before he can properly respond, a call that wakes you up in the middle of the night so he can pant and moan in your ear about how much he wants to bend you over that engine, peel his suit off of you and eat your cunt from the back. it's the first time you've heard his voice in weeks and the low rumble of it conspires with the slickness in your panties which never fully righted itself after your little photoshoot, the anticipation of his reaction keeping you primed for him. you come together before trading quiet reassurances. how much you miss each other, how you can't wait to see him again. he makes a vague promise to be home soon and you're still so sated that the twinge of loneliness feels like nothing really.

you think that's the end of it. that maybe he'll request more, at most. but then you wake up days later with a furnace at your back and a hairy arm draped over your side. it's still early, the sun not even up yet. you should let him sleep but you can't help rolling within the age of his arm and planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. even in the low light you can see how haggard and hollow he looks, run ragged for too long. his beard is overgrown, the short stubble he usually keeps filling out into a decent beard.

really it's unfair how handsome he looks even now.

"go back to sleep."

you huff a laugh and press another kiss to him. lower now that you know he's awake. above his cupid's bow, your own lips drawn tight with your smile. "but it's morning."

"can't be," he counters, voice thick with exhaustion. "i only just fell asleep."

you hum, distracted as you trace the wrinkles of his forehead. was that one always there? was it new? "maybe it's not wherever you were," you concede. "where were you, by the way?"

"where wasn't i?" he sighs as he rolls away, a great puff of air that cuts through the easiness of the morning, reminds you of what exactly he's likely returned from. the culmination of the mission, even the easy one it seemed to be. he was rarely ever trotted out for emissary visits, after all.

but you don't want to think about all that so you follow him as he rolls, laying yourself across his chest to keep him grounded as you rub against his far shoulder. "well you're home now and my vote's for sleeping in."

his chest rumbles beneath you, a quiet laugh you can feel more so than you can hear. he takes your hand in his and presses a kiss to your fingers before setting it back down in favor of reaching much lower to pull you more properly onto him. your grip shifts from his shoulder to his bicep and you pause when you feel the edge of a bandage there, worry settling low in your belly as you trace the edges of it. "you're hurt?" you demand, but you don't give him a chance to respond before sitting up and leaning across him to turn the lamp on.

it takes you a moment to make sense of what you're looking at, the bandage you'd felt before nothing more than four haphazard lines of tape holding a square of black plastic against his skin. he laughs at your confusion, thumbing the furrow between your brows away as he also sits up, pulling you onto his lap as he reassures you he's not hurt.

"what's that then?" you ask, afraid to peel the edges up and see for yourself.

he's chuckling as he does it for you, the wrap pulling away to reveal the neat black lines and bold color of a traditional tattoo, a plump little pinup in a barely-hanging-on mechanic's jumpsuit, her cartoonishly circular tits squeezed between her own arms as she leaned confidently over simplified engine block. it's good work from what you can tell. his bicep is a big canvas, the tattoo itself appropriately sized, leaving the artist enough room for minute details, smudges of brown oil accentuating your curves and a wry smile below demure lids.

still.

"you didn't," you scoff, too blown away to even know if you're actually mad or not. you don't think you are, but what if he -

what if -

"well it was either this or i get you airbrushed on the side of the blackhawk, but you are mine, and i do not want just anyone to see you like that."

[show-tunes]

Genuine question what version of this guy do you think is more of a hear me out