#you bitch creature

[aeriael]

The jester supreme has hijacked my brain and demanded I post. He’s taken over my life. I have so many silly little clown arts

[time-woods]

guy doesnt know what pins n needles are

( part1-2/? ?)

(start) (<next part>)

[cloud-ya]

finally beat dark gaia today, had to draw werehog about it

[ferretsarefurryappendagedsnakes]

Just a totally canon scene from Episode 6, that’s all.

[banditomojado]

Them: So you're telling me that this thing, this Weasel, a joke side character from the suicide squad movie, made your heart melt and cry real tears of pain?

Me: *battling tears* YES AND NO I'M NOT FUCKING EXAGGERATING AND NO I'M WILL NEVER RECOVER

Them: But it's so ugl...

Me: HE'S PRECIOUS AND HASN'T DONE ANYTHING WRONG GOD DAMN YOU

[teastainedprose]

Mark You Pretty (Homelander x Reader)

My brain saw this post and ran with it. Homelander bruises you. 13k words, Homelander x GN!reader (Warnings for bruising, mild Sadism/masochistic play)

The first time Homelander bruises you, it's an honest mistake. He didn't mean to grab you that hard. Not really. Sometimes Homelander forgets how delicate normal people can be. It had been a reflexive thing, snatching you about the arm just above your wrist as you reach over him to gather up the handouts from the meeting.

"Leave it," Homelander mutters with eyes still fixated on the stack of papers set before him, gloves creaking as he briefly tightens his grip on your arm before releasing you. The small gasp you make as you withdraw doesn't penetrate his concentration. He doesn't notice how you rub at your arm, expression pinching up while stepping away. You're another faceless worker bee and Homelander has no time for you. The meeting is over and you shuffle out with the other nameless non-supe Vought employees. His attention is back to the paperwork in front of him, mind buzzing on how to handle the downswing in public opinion on The Seven. You're forgotten as Homelander turns back to the task of being Homelander.

He doesn't even register that he hurt you until the next day. It's the top you're wearing that does it. Long sleeved and out of season, which draws his attention to you for the second time this week. He registers the blooming bruise peeking out from under your sleeve when you bend over to offer handouts about the table. He blinks, clocking the imprint as a mirror of his gloved grip. There's no guilt associated with this realization, simply an understanding of the connection. He did that to you. Homelander marred your pretty skin with a bloom of purple where he grabbed you. Suddenly, it's satisfaction that's coiling in his gut. He likes how you wear his mark.

For better or worse, now he notices you.

Homelander lets his eyes wander up your arm, snagging briefly on your ample chest before flicking across your face. You instantly look away, unable or unwilling to meet his gaze. Cute. He smirks as he takes you in. You're a charming enough little thing. A bit too skittish for his taste, but the bruise he left on you keeps drawing Homelander's eyes back over and over again.

For the entirety of the meeting, Homelander lets his attention wander to you while his eyes roam your form. He's shameless with the ogling and never looks away when you catch him at it. No, he's only further pleased by it. He makes sure to catch your eye as his lips curl up and part slightly, his tongue poking at the corner of his mouth. That gets a blush across your cheeks and you're quick to break eye contact. This only amuses Homelander further and galvanizes him to find further ways to unsettle you throughout the meeting. You are his distraction to make this presentation a little less dull.

The meeting ends and Homelander puts you from his mind once more as soon as you walk out the conference room doors. You're nothing but a passing amusement, something to play with at the next meeting perhaps. He's already letting the image of your blush and the bruise he left on your skin fade from his thoughts before something catches in Homelander's ear later that day as he strides down the hallway.

There are many curious sounds within Vought Tower and Homelander has heard plenty. People whispering secrets across phone lines and into ears. Muffled moans of employees sneaking off to empty conference rooms or even broom closets for salacious rendezvous. The one that catches him now? It's soft, more a quiet exhale with a moan undercutting the sound. He blinks, pausing to look towards where the sound came from. It's your office Homelander finds himself standing outside as he cocks his head to the side. He watches you as you sit at your desk, clearly not thinking yourself observed. X-ray vision lets him watch as you press two fingers into the bruise he left on you, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to hold back that noise. You moan again all the same, your enjoyment evident as your face twists into a brief flash of pleasure.

Oh, isn't that interesting?

Now Homelander's fascination with you ignites. His eyes seek yours constantly throughout every business meeting the two of you find yourselves in now. He's prone to stepping too close and invading your personal space whenever Homelander comes across you, which has jumped in frequency. He even has the gall to hook his pinky on the sleeve of your shirt one day, tugging it up enough to check if the bruise is still there. By then the purple has faded to a duller, splotchy green. His mark is almost gone and Homelander finds he doesn't like that one bit.

The second time Homelander bruises you, it is very intentional. 

He's bolder the second week. Homelander deliberately holds you back after one meeting with a flimsy excuse. Those massive doors ominously shutting close after everyone else has filed out. Now you're trapped inside the conference room with him. It makes your pulse skitter with terror, which is an utter delight to Homelander. He can smell the fear off of you. A heady scent that stirs a primal need within him because it's mingled with your arousal as well. That fact alone has a smirk on Homelander's lips as he approaches you, hands clasped behind his back and under his cape as he leisurely strolls over. Normally, such posture would be non-threatening but on Homelander it's anything but.

It's a terrifying sight yet compelling. Homelander is ever the perfect superhero in looks. Vought's true golden boy that you and countless others privately swoon over in the break room despite his reputation. yet even you have learned that Homelander isn't the squeaky clean supe he's portrayed as. The looming trial only adds further credit to the rumors that circulate about him. Still, it's thrilling, and you may be a little too into the danger Homelander represents. You can't help the anticipation coiling in your belly as you watch him stalk closer.

He traps you there against the wall, shifting as he places a palm flat against it. You stare at his chest as Homelander slides his hand down, lifting it to cup your chin to tilt your gaze up to meet his own. "Er, you wanted to talk sir?" You manage to push the words out, flushing at the tremor in your voice. He smiles and those too sharp canines flash. You shiver, eyes wide as you meet the clear blue of his gaze.

"You bruise easily, don't you?" Homelander muses, his hand on your chin shifting to stroke down your cheek before moving to your neck. Electric heat shoots up your spine from the chaste caress, the leather of his gloves smooth against your skin. His fingers curl around your throat as you feel his thumb ghost over your pulse point. Your breath hitches at the subtle threat but then he's sliding his hand down to tighten his fingers about your shoulder. Homelander digs his thumb in just below your collarbone to the point of pain as he watches you intently.

You hiss in response, eyes squeezing shut before you huff out a sound. It’s not a pained noise. An echo of the sound he’d heard by chance last week. He eases up, a knowing look on his face as you open your eyes again.The scent of your fear lesses, while your arousal fills his nostrils. You like the pain. He smirks all the wider while leaning in to ghost his lips over your cheek. 

"I didn't mean to hurt you." Homelander rumbles out, breath a hot caress against your skin. For the other day or just now? You don't know which he's apologizing for and there's not much time to ponder over that because Homelander's lips are against your own in the next breath.

His mouth against your is Homelander's sort of apology, more for him than you but you enjoy it all the same.

[numberoneredriotfan]

Bakugou being Rodydeku's #1 hater is pure comedy to me

[francy-sketches]

Rhaena and her pink barbie dragon 🎀

[kamwashere]

all these people bending over backwards to tell other people not to engage with shipping in iwtv because it's a show about abuse….

[miyoshi81194]

I AM AN ERIC HATER TILL THE DAY I DIE 🗣️🗣️🗣️

[cybertron-smash-or-pass]

G1 Warpath

[the-bat-bros]

Finally got around to watching Creature Commandos and Rick Flag Sr. has no right being THIS HOT!

That is all, have a nice day 🤤

[comicroux]

What the hell, sure

[djevelbl]

Ace Attorney crossover where, in very typical Phoenix Wright fashion, he's neglected to find out WHO IN HELL his newest client is until he's sitting right across from him at the detention center's visitation room, and he's forced to confront the fact that he's going to bat for a murderous clown who IS innocent this time around

Aka: Ace Attorney crossover, but ClownPierce is his client--

[mrsimqle]

I’ll always be there to point and laugh when people act like it’s impossible to depict black and poc in their art especially the damn sims

[oh-dameron]

Wei Wuxian dies. Lan Wangji mourns. Years pass. Trouble returns to the jianghu.

Wei Wuxian wakes up covered in blood, in a familiar array. It's Nie Huaisang's fault.

Lan Wangji finds him. They save the day. They marry and live happily. That's the end of the story, until:

Wei Wuxian dies in a night hunting accident. It was a trivial matter, easily dealt with until it very abruptly wasn't. Certainly no great battle worthy of song or fitting to end the Yiling Patriarch's second life.

Lan Wangji mourns. The grief is different this time; he's not wracked with might-have-beens and should-haves. Instead, one moment he held the whole world in his arms, the next it was torn away from him. It's shattering, how unfamiliar this pain feels when he once would have called himself accustomed to loss.

Years pass. Trouble returns to the jianghu.

The Unclean Realm is under seige, and Nie Huaisang genuinely does not know what to do. He's a strategist, certainly, but even in his youth he was never a warrior. He's been outmanouvered today, and it's long years since he could fling himself into his elder brothers' arms and wail for help.

Zewu-jun has not stirred from his mountain in a long, long time. No; instead Huaisang is left with the exceedingly cold comfort offered by Hanguanjun. The Second Jade of Lan might be frozen in the bloom of youth, but time and grief have left a flawless diamond shell around the hollow of a man. The light that lit him from the inside died with Wei Wuxian. He's where the chaos is, as ever, but if he has any ideas about how to remedy their situation he's been characteristically close-lipped about them. Huaisang is resigned to the notion that Lan Wangji might be in Qinghe more for the possibility of finding his own end than any pressing desire to help.

Well. If Hanguanjun is determined to sacrifice himself then Huaisang is determined that it's going to be in the service of saving as many Nie lives as possible. There are innocents here: disciples too young to have earned spiritual weapons, children too young to even be called disciples, healers and teachers, servants and cooks, the elderly and, and. And noncombatants, like Huaisang himself, whom nobody could rightly call innocent. There's nothing to be done to save him. That would take a miricle.

His grandchildren are here, beautiful and clever and strong. The eldest isn't a child any more, grown from a wonderfully curious toddler into a endlessly curious adult seemingly overnight, but grown or not Huaisang will see all of them out of this mess. If nothing else, Huaisang will knock them out himself, tie them to Hangaunjun and boot them out the back door while he distracts their enemies. Preferably not by sallying forth and dying pathetically. As soon as he comes up with a better idea he'll demote that one to plan B.

His study is as he left it: painting supplies and books sadly gathering dust in the corner, set aside yet again for duty and drudgrery. There is new correspondence to see to; perhaps it will bring good news. Probably not.

The door to one of the cabinets is ajar. It's an ancient, tacky thing that he keeps largely because Da-ge favoured it, and it has a tendancy to swing open unless the latch is set just so. He certainly didn't leave it that way: he hasn't survived this long in the jianghu by being careless, merely acting the part, and he always wanto to know when the contents of this particular cache are disturbed. Locks are an obvious indicator that the contents are interesting or valuable in some way, and if someone circumvented the lock to the room already, well. What could be interesting about a cupboard full of boring administrative papers in a room full of nothing else?

He nudges the door the rest of the way open, peers inside, and his heart immediately lodges in his throat. In amongst Da-ge's journals from the Sunshot campaign, the bundles of correspondence from Jin Guanyao, heavily-encoded notes on his plans for revenge written in the form of truly atrocious juvenile poetry, something is missing. A manifesto, a copy he made from the notes of a long-dead demonic cultivator, who in turn made his own copy from the notes of the Yiling Patriarch himself, seized by the Jin sect after the first seige of the Burial Mounds.

Almost nobody knows about that book and what it contains. Almost nobody has access to his study. Almost. Nie Huaisang drops his fan and sprints across the Unclean Realm to the inner family quarters. Disciples flutter as he passes, unaccustomed to seeing their elderly zongzhu stir himself beyond a saunter. An empyrean figure in white joins his wake like the trail of a comet, ghosting silently after his gasping dash.

Huaisang pauses before the door and sends a silent plea to the heavens, to his ancestors, to Da-ge and anyone who is listening that he's wrong or not too late. He pushes into the room and his knees give out, strong hands arresting his fall before he can hit the ground sobbing. There's blood, in lines and characters, the tang of resentful energy in the air, and the body laid out in the centre of it all isn't his grandchild any more.

Wei Wuxian wakes up covered in blood, in a familiar array. It's Nie Huaisang's fault.

Lan Wangji finds him.