#late at night idk

[danyayeni2]

(TW MENTION OF KYS. Yes Mercutio is an eldritch horror + my oc)

please don't put me into RetJ i will turn my favorites into a demon that needs to be exterminated under all costs (Demon Hunter/Mandela Catalogue(?) AU)

[frownyalfred]

using “Agent A” as Alfred’s code name and using “B” for Batman’s shortened name in the field suggests there’s a world where “Agent A” is shortened to “A” and everyone in Gotham and on the Watchtower is terrified of him. because they’ve met B. and if this is B??

[multiversal-pudding]

A fun Danny Phantom idea:

One of those “mediums tormented by the fact they can’t turn Off the ability to see ghosts” types moves to Amity, and for the most part, it’s great! Like yeah maybe there’s still ghosts everywhere, but now they can react normally, because finally for once in their life everyone else sees the ghosts too. Granted, judging from what everyone else says it sounds like they’re seeing significantly tamer humanoid proper-manifestations than the near-incomprehensible masses of emotion, spectral energy, and whatever that particular spirit’s associated with they’re used to seeing, but eh- between how jaded they are to seeing stuff like that after all these years and the fact that in practice the response of “GTFO” tends to be applicable regardless of whether you’re dealing with a poltergheist in overalls who likes hucking boxes at people, a giant robot guy who’s yelling about world domination, or reality breaking fever dream vomit, it’s not too big a deal

…There’s just ooooone little problem

Which is that when people look at the Fenton’s youngest kid and when people see local town hero/cryptid The Phantom, clearly everyone ELSE is seeing two different people/entities, but in their case, all they see is the same wild plasma-lightning living tear in reality either way, and they’re afraid if they mix the two “identities” up they’re either A) gonna fuck up some poor kid’s life/put him and those around him in danger, B) piss off a very powerful spirit whose repeatedly proven why that’s a very bad idea, or C) both-

(Bonus points if it’s some completely mundane guy like Ted the Bus Driver/ the county deputy in training/ some poor janitor who’d be reasonably expected to come in contact with either one fairly frequently-)

[atlas-on-earth]

one of my favorite ship dynamics is weird bear x crazy twink

[triona-tribblescore]

Started making Angel's birthday art, had a breakdown, Bon appetite! His birthdays before he joined the hotel probably weren't the best :<

[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."

[bluewolfangel01]

I headcanon that if the brothers are reminiscing about the old days back up in the celestial realm Mc and Satan will hold hands

Mc, or my Mc specifically, has a slight issue with their self image after og lesson 16 and when in a dark place they feel like they're nothing other than a Lilith copy

Mc doesnt hate Lilith btw ( it's mainly the brothers' fault)

Also sometimes feels excluded/sad cause they weren't around for the brothers' angel days

We've seen Satan have issues as well about feeling excluded when the brother bring up the angel days

Although he saw some things through Luci's eyes, he didn't see everything

So Mc and Satan will hold hands as a way to say "You're not alone, I'm here for you even if it feels like they arent."

[high-voltage-rat]

I think it's fascinating that the quotes:

"Have you forgotten sir, we were at war? A fight with an alien race for the very survival of our species. I feel I must remind you that it is an undeniable, and may I say fundamental quality of man, that when faced with extinction, every alternative is preferable."

"When you spend every day fighting a war, you to demonize your attackers. To you, they're evil, they're subhuman. Because if they weren't, what would that make you? What I'm trying to say... is I've been afraid to see you for what you really are. You're our brothers. Our sisters. And the things we've done to one another are unforgivable."

"These guys want to use us, take us away from our families, and send us all over the dad-gum galaxy just to test if their agents are ready for the big fight? Well... guess I'm interested in showin' em exactly what a big fight is all about! So I'm not ordering you to go. I ain't even asking. You do what you gotta do, Private."

came from the same series whose standard fare is lines like:

"What in the hell are you two doing?" / "We're being executed by our own men, sir." / "Cut it out."

"I only drink the blood of my enemies, and the occasional strawberry yoohoo."

"You always said I could sleep when I’m dead, Sarge, and guess what? I am dead. This purgatory is about to become purga-snore-y, yawn!"

...and both categories manage to be a poignant statement about the nature of war and what it does to the people in it.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

give me some whiskey and ill draw The Most Thing i can come up with

bonus:

[lihhelsing]

Steve who keeps using famous rockstar Eddie Munson’s DMs as a place to store notes for himself (grocery lists and to-dos) because he knows Eddie will never see any of that.

Until the day he does see it and asks if Steve remembered to buy onions. It turns out Eddie’s been reading Steve’s lists for months

[pixlokita]

Would generic bully be willing to help a bunny out

In a way-

[frownyalfred]

really good Jason Todd art makes me think “god damn he looks like Bruce” I don’t make the rules

[scienceismygirlfriend]

who is your oldest blorbo, by which i mean: which of your blorbos was created the longest time ago? mine's probably archie goodwin (1934)

[sgt-tombstone]

I’m so tempted to write a shifter fic where Ghost is a big cat (I’m thinking black panther or something similar) shifter… but he doesn’t know it

He thinks that he’s not a shifter at all because he only shifts in his sleep and even when he’s startled awake, he shifts back in a split second, before his brain can even register not being human

It makes him a fantastic sniper, because he has better vision than a human, even if he doesn’t realize it. It gives him excellent hearing, but he doesn’t know that it’s better than everyone else’s (at least, not to a suspicious degree). His eyes flash in the dark, but he’s never seen it because he avoids mirrors like the plague. He thinks that his fast reflexes are just army trained instead of innate. He has a strong prey drive, but he reasons that it’s just his job as a CT operative; they hunt for a living. He genuinely does not know that he’s a shifter, and the rest of the 141 refuse to tell him (Price because having a big cat prowling around base would be worse than Ghost already is… Soap and Gaz because they have a three-year-long bet to see how long it’ll take him to figure it out)

Soap is some sort of dog shifter (because I’m basic like that) and Ghost makes fun of him all the time, both for being a shifter and for being a stereotype of his animal self. Gaz always dies laughing and Ghost can tell that Soap is holding back laughter too, but he can never figure out why…

[spideyhexx]

1 am thoughts with kit;

nsfw

gwayne hightower

How much more dishonorable can he get?

Gwayne's lips are already locked to yours, what's the harm in your hand caressing the front of his breeches? Or letting his hips push into your touch? His hand gripping to your waist in an effort to keep you close to him while his thoughts scream to push you away.

He tries to voice it aloud, "I cannot be doing this," his words rushed and sloppy against your lips while you simply moan, tugging on the ties of his trousers.

His words do not hold any weight and he knows it. Gwayne knows you know it. Because he urges your hand down his pants, where you hold the heat of him, heavy in your hand and aching for a touch.

You're too wicked good at it, he thinks. He almost wants to name call you. Ask if you've whored yourself for others, but Gwayne does not want the answer to that. Instead, he revels in the quick strokes you give his cock, his head dropping to your shoulder so he does not look you in the eye.

"Quite worked up," you jest, only to get a strangled moan in response from him. He preens against you, his hips looking for more, so you give it. A small squeeze to his cock and a thumb over his leaking tip and you feel Gwayne's fingers dig tighter into your waist.

"This is just my hand, sir," you whisper to him, and he lets out a scoffed breath, but you speak before he can, "this is just my hand, my cunt wrapped around your cock would much tighter. Wetter. Could fuck you so hard, Gwayne, just ask me."

Your last words border on begging, though you never were one to beg. But Gwayne's kisses and his eagerness despite his inner turmoil were throughly soaking you. His cock heavy, big in your hand only made you more needy to have it stuffed inside of you.

He cannot respond to your words, mouth parted and finally looking at you. Your eyes are pleading with him and your hand fastens its pace. All he can do is moan and lean his head back down.

Cowardly. Too cowardly to give in. You push your pleas aside for now.

And when he cums, he cums hard, making a mess of himself and your hand, biting to your shoulder on instinct to stay quiet. He's too embarrassed, utterly baffled that eh gave into you and how good it felt to give in.

When you take your hand away, his senses snap into him and he fixes up his trousers despite the mess, his eyes glued to your hand, where some of his release lingers. He wants to tell you to stop when you lick it off, eyes locked to his. But Gwayne still cannot speak, until he clears his throat, "thank you. Don't speak on this."

You give him a look, but a smile etches onto your lips, "Never."

[liltaireissocute]

HE IS HOLDING A CAT.