#this is rough yall

[katetheworm]

guysssss I'm replaying mass effect andromeda again (third time) and I'm trying not to romance jaal again (for the third time) and instead go for vetra but omg i just met jaal again and idk if I can do it

[tahitiwoke]

@newsworth “It was him,” Chris fixated on the Rorschach pattern of blood and bone, what wasn’t crushed of the skull. Very little was left of the mirror on the wall. The glass which didn’t shatter and tangle itself into the killing wound, fell around the body, almost like a fairy circle. “The death threats. He said it right to me, right here. He said,” His back straightened and he spoke with cold objectivity, as though he was still addressing the press corps. “I’m going to strip that self righteous bitch of all the laurels she ever tricked this country into putting on her neck. I’m not going to stop until she comes begging me to pardon her, on her knees.” His face feels hot. He turns to Phil then, and they share the same dead look of disgust as they had the first time they heard these words read aloud by Claire’s head of security. “And I will enjoy fucking her—“ The vulgarity trips his tongue but only for a moment, because see’s Coulson’s face turn to one of understanding. “Fucking her dead mouth with the barrel of my .22, after I put a bullet in her head and finish what was started in Dallas.” He clears his throat and turns back to the body of Senator Cassidy. “So. I made a choice.”

phil remembers hating her.

you don't scare me. and i happen to think, at least some of the time -- you're full of shit. he remembers the burning humiliation of being forced into agreeing to be frank's whipping boy, and acting as though it was the greatest favour she could have done for him. he remembers hating her smug smile and cruel glare and how every word that slithered out of her mouth was the call of the snake, take a bite, see how good it tastes.

( i was one of the most powerful people in the american government; even the cia was kissing my ass. he had to sell his apartment, for god sake, the humiliating kiss goodbye to his eight million dollar penthouse in favour of a boxed up townhouse on the shittier side of logan circle that's had scaffolding around it for nine months. he's still trying to get the roof leak fixed. he fucking hates d.c.)

even now it's there, somewhere under his skin, like an ulcer that might heal if he would just leave it alone but the taste and shape is all different -- he hates to leave her, hates the scars on her mind and body, hates the airplane crash of frank which marks the open field of her heart. he hates her mother.

he knows how to hate. he's really very good at it.

another thing he's good at: covering up murders.

very purposefully, he will not let his mind linger on the visceral images chris has planted in his head. fucking her dead mouth. it clashes too brightly, too delicately, too easily with the image he has of her on her knees, or crawling up the bed to him, and that old familiar roll of nauseas comes rearing up in a jack knife. he won't vomit, but he wants to; phil breathes deep. turns to chris.

" how long between this and calling me has it been? " for long moment, it's like chris has only just realised he's there -- but the answer comes and it's short enough, fast enough, that phil has a pretty decent window before he has to think about coagulation. time to get to work. he looks back down at the body -- the fat fuck won't be too hard to move and there's no way he isn't packing that .22 somewhere in his desk. suicide is so easy to fake, it almost makes him sad.

" christopher, i need you to listen to me very carefully, because as of right now we're on a clock. " he waits for the urgent nod and then phil begins to unlace his shoes. " you and i are going to swap clothes. you're going to go out to my car and you're going to get me a a small black duffel that's under the trunk false shelf, in the spare wheel well. come back and take the keys. " he removes his tie and shirt and sets them very carefully on the back of a nearby chair, then unbuckles his belt. "you're going to drive my car to mt. vernon square, then go to the white house via chinatown. on the intersection of sixth street and indiana, run the red light. it hasn't been replaced yet, it takes a snapshot of the plate but not the driver. "

phil takes off his pants and sets them aside with his shoes and socks. " put those on. once you run the light, park in the garage and go to your office. when you get there, you're going to fire someone - i don't care who, i don't care how, but it's got to be fucking big. messy. draw attention. then go straight to claire and get her out of the oval, make sure every body sees her and you together. you understand? "

a shaky nod. a confused frown, like he's cataloguing it all in precise exact steps and phil is... almost proud. certianly pleased.

( in another life, chris might be another agent on his roster. a wave of nostalgia and longing comes back to him, hits him like seeing a picture of your dead mother from the eighties. he loves this. he misses this. )

phil scrolls his phone for a moment while chris changes and hits call when landing on the one he's looking for. " -- nora, honey, hi! how're you doing?... oh that's great! i'm proud of you kiddo. " chris looks at him like he's skinning a rabbit in the middle of a preschool lunch table. " -- you know, i was calling to see if could make a last minute dinner? in say..." he looks at the body, the mirror, the wall. " ... an hour? " nora, over the found, squeals and says absolutely. chris mouths an hour? " great i'll see you then. "

with his contingency in place, he waits for chris to disappear in his only slightly oversized suit and shoes, coming back with his go bag -- it's a little dusty, a little old school, but it'll do for tonight. it takes him less than forty-eight seconds to dress. not his personal best, natasha would tut, but he's out of practice. when he looks over at chris, they lock eyes and phil sees chris seeing him for the first time. " you're one sinister motherfucker, you know that? "

phil pulls his gloves a little tighter and grins. " well, that's why you called me and not the cops. what's the plan. " chris rattles it back with perfect recall and phil, satisfied, turns back to the scene. (tragic, a senator so tormented by his own malicious thoughts, takes his own life to spare the risk of actually trying to kill the president. what a sad end to a good man's life. he can almost see claire on cnn now lamenting this loss and blah, blah, blah. phil cricks his neck. )

as chris goes to leave, he stops at the door. " what do i tell her? if she asks where you are? "

there's a beat. and god, he can't help but laugh a little as he steps carefully around the glass, gloved hands slipping under the armpits of a very heavy, very dead man in the earliest stages of decomposition. " -- tell her i'm spatchcocking a chicken. "

[harleyyquinnsgf]

dick grayson definitely listened to chappell roan’s casual after finding out that roy was dating jason and he cried to himself in his bed while watching bad rom coms. everyone in the manor could hear it and the next day, dick was perfectly fine and no one has ever brought it up since

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

---------------

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[1caru]

downfall cuddles for anyone who needs them right now

[gardening--tools]

happy birthday, jude! you haven't even killed a man, yet!

[timethehobo]

Take your vitamin Emmy to prepare for a new week.

[whorrorbvby]

Happy titty Wednesday** 🤣

technically 2 days late but can you forgive me for a gif 🙏🏻

[sweetsouthernthing94]

I’ve learned that my canon and I don’t get along. So phone pics it is

[habken]

I had a really good walk for anyone wondering

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

he likes trying to be smooth but he's too much of a simp not to melt before he finishes a sentence

get smooched, idiot

[midoristeashop]

HAPPY SNOGGLETOG MERRY CHRISTMAS HAPPY HOLIDAYS!! :D

Any hijack fic with a dancing scene is an immediate certified banger for me like common the boys are dancing and in love and enjoying life and not caring about responsibilities and

ALSO I’m working on a full illustration for rotg cuz it’s about time and it’s Jack Frost Santa season so I offer wips as gifts <3

(First one is a screen cap study, second is the actual draft tee hee)

K love y’all and enjoy your holidays!

[hinamie]

doodles

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Redraw of my first post on this blog. Oh how far we've come B'*)

[Now with it's own redraw!]

[arom-antix]

And so @viktuuri-week starts!

Day 1: Music

I was in one hell of a time crunch to make all the illustrations because I procrastinated UuU But I took most of these works as opportunities to experiment a bit with some ideas so I had fun.

Credit to TheMoonChild on Musescore.com for the arrangement of Yuri On Ice used.

[harbingersglory]

Hello, could I have transfem Signora x fem!reader smut? Any scenario is fine, just need dom Signora railing me 😩

{☆} characters la signora {☆} notes drabble, fem reader, sub reader, dom la signora, transfem la signora {☆} warnings 18+ content, restraints, temperature play, face fucking, degradation, pet play

There's a moment of silence that lingers for far too long, the cold nipping at your exposed skin until you feel shivers wrack your body. You squirm instinctively, seeking out the fading warmth of the thick furs laid out beneath you, yet finding nothing but the cold that chills you to your bones. You can't even see, your eyes covered by black fabric, silk tying your arms together behind your back.

It's almost torturous waiting like this. Your knees sink further into the fur as you lean your weight forward slightly, exhaling a shaky breath. You begin to wonder if Signora left you there– maybe you'd annoyed her earlier and she was punishing you. You hoped not. She wasn't known for being lenient when it came to punishments.

But the brush of her fingers along your jawline squashed that fear, your breath hitching as her thumb glided over your throat, the heat of her skin making you shudder. The contrast of the cold room, of your freezing body, to the unnatural heat that simmers beneath her skin is immense– your knees would have definitely buckled if you hadn't been kneeling already.

"Did you think I'd left you here all alone? You're shaking like a dog." The soft, biting lilt was nothing more than a murmur, but for you it was impossible not to hear the pleased tone beneath the roughness of her voice. Your heart leaps into your throat when her fingers trace back up along your jawline, lifting your head and tilting it back just enough to be uncomfortable.

You open your mouth to speak, but your words are silenced by her thumb slipping past your lips instead– you don't fight back, even though the sudden intrusion catches you off guard enough you almost bite her finger instead. You almost consider doing it anyway, but she's so rarely in a good mood it feels rude to spoil it.

"Pets don't speak until they're told," She chides, pressing down on your tongue slightly and laughing at the way you almost choke in surprise. "And I don't remember giving you permission."

You can only manage a garbled whine in response, your face burning in embarrassment– but it's quickly silenced by the click of her tongue and the creak of the old chair you know sits by the fireplace, her thumb sliding out between your lips to drag you closer. Close enough to feel the rush of heat across your skin as your cheek is pressed against her thigh, her hands resting on the back of your head. You can't see it, but you sure can imagine the smug smile that must be tugging at her lips right about now.

"Let's see about fixing your little disobedient streak, darling." She murmurs, digging her nails into your scalp and tugging you even closer, the furs beneath you doing little to prevent the ache in your knees from kneeling. But you don't complain– you know what she wants, and you want it too. "Open."

Like the dog she seems so fond of treating you as, you listen– you're not as surprised this time when her fingers fill your mouth, forcing it open even further until you can feel the saliva collecting and dribbling down your chin. She doesn't seem to mind, even laughing at how pitiful you probably look, drooling all over her fingers.

But Signora is a hard woman to satisfy, and this will hardly do anything other then work her up enough to really break you in. You can just barely hear the rustle of fabric over your heartbeat, gloved hands tugging you closer and forcing you to press right up against the edge of the chair. It's almost uncomfortable, the way the chair presses against your chest, but she always has you teetering on that fine edge.

"Perhaps you can be trained after all." Signora's voice is like a balm, the heat of her body driving away the cold and urging you impossibly closer, until you feel her hand guide you down just as her fingers slip out of your mouth again– right up until you feel her cock against your cheek. "Show me that you can be obedient, mutt, and maybe I'll let you sit on my lap."

You know she's just dangling a treat just out of reach, but you can't help but reach for it anyway.

Your tongue drags across the underside of her cock, so slow you can hear the hiss that rattles in her chest halfway between pleasure and impatience. You take your time anyway, lingering until you reach the tip and press a kiss against it. You almost wish you could see her face, but she's never been fond of expressing anything outwardly when you can see it– just the idea of her brows furrowed, of her face flush and her lip caught between her teeth..it's enough.

It's not hard to imagine it anyway when the heat grows hotter, nearly turning the room into an oven before she catches herself. You aren't stupid enough to mention it, but your smile must be enough, because a low growl makes you shiver– so you drag your tongue from the base to the tip again, revel in the way it throbs beneath your tongue. For a moment you almost have something like control, your saliva dripping down her aching cock as you lap at it like a mutt.

But you're both growing impatient– the sharp click of her nails against the chairs arms makes you shudder, urging you to lift yourself up just enough to wrap your lips around the head with a muffled groan. You consider dragging it out just a moment longer, just to see if you can get her to whine, but she knows you better then you do– before you can even blink, her hand shoves you down. You, predictably, gag. Your throat burns from the stretch, but it's not unpleasant, eased by the pleasured hiss that tumbles from her lips. Signora at least has the mercy to let you get used to it for a moment before she drags you back up, the emptiness in your throat making you whine before she's shoving her cock back down your throat. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, your own sounds of pleasure muffled and garbled as she does it again– and again.

"Finally quiet, mutt?" She laughs, but it's strained– her voice quivers slightly as she fucks your throat like your nothing but a toy to her, drool dribbling down your chin and tears staining the blindfold. "If I knew it was this easy to shut you up, I'd have done it a long time ago."

You so badly want to do something, but with your hands tied behind your back and her fucking your face so rough, so fast, you can barely even think..there's not much you can do but let her, your cunt clenching around nothing. You really hope she wasn't lying about that reward, for once. You're practically dripping on her floor while she uses you, just barely able to squeeze your thighs together for a fraction of friction.

It only serves to make you more desperate, though.

"Fuck– or maybe you're too stupid to know better. You'd just let any pretty woman with a cock use you," Her breathing was getting heavier, more strained, but her grip on your hair didn't relent. Neither did the harsh thrust of her hips, her cock constantly hammering into your throat until you felt dizzy. "You're lucky I'm even willing to train a mutt like you."

Your mind starts to feel fuzzy, the words blending together until she digs her nails into your scalp and forces you down again– and keeps you there. You nearly gag again when you feel her shudder, her cock throbbing in your mouth as her cum spills down your throat, your hands straining against the silk binding them together. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, nostrils flaring and your body tensing– you don't even realize you'd briefly lost consciousness until your find yourself on her lap, rather then on your knees, her hands brushing the strands of hair stuck to your face with sweat out of your eyes.

It's the most gentle she's been all night– and likely as gently as she will be tonight. You lean into her touch anyway, groaning softly and shuddering at the taste of her on your tongue mixed with her cock throbbing against your thigh.

"I'm not done yet, darling. Did you think I'd let you get away with a little light training?" She laughs, cupping your jaw and pressing a kiss that's far too gentle to your cheek, the warmth of her body almost suffocating– but you welcome it, like you always do.

So you nod, smiling drowsily and spreading your legs like a good pet should.