#man. 🧍

[moe-broey]

Huh. I. Actually don't know how I feel about Peony's new outfit/look. Especially as the number #1 defender of stupid or questionable outfits for whatever reason that may be. Impractical, over the top, outrageous, sexualized, I can excuse it all for the sake of whimsey and silliness and serving cunt.

But like..... man I really don't know how I feel about it. I can see what they're going for??? Like, I can sort of see what direction they're taking for Peony to look like that???

Like I don't even think I hate it it's just. If you asked me to design an Ascended Peony I would have taken a completely different direction that's more in line with her established color pallet. I DO think it's really compelling that her pallet Has Changed, I think that's significant and I want to know more.

I do like that they gave her a giant axe. That's fucking awesome LMFAOOO

[maxtism]

me watching f1: i dont fw ferrari ill never fw ferrari ferrari is my worstie #mclaren #redbullracing #williams

me watching wec:

[starcatching]

SEONGHWA TOWARDS THE LIGHT: WILL TO POWER Finale in Seoul 250323

[m340700]

err r rr

[coulson-is-an-avenger]

favorite fanfic trope in the whole entire world is when john has a spooky monstrous form and is self conscious about it because he wants so badly to be human and then arthur lester, 1930s ex catholic 'straight' hardened detective gets to realize with utter clarity: "oh FUCK im into that"

[sculien]

EMILY PRENTISS & AARON HOTCHNER CRIMINAL MINDS 3.02

[moshaeu]

an older vaniper wip that i’m bringing out because i needed something to post for fom rambling purposes LMAOO

[innielove]

Hyunjin 💥 Chk Chk Boom (240808)

[driftsart]

[toddsmind-neilssoul]

Why he lookin like he in the twilight saga

[dubiousanon]

Hear me out on this 🙏 KakaNaru edition

AU where Naruto, single as can fucking be, decides he's ready for a kid. Not being in a relationship, he has absolutely no way to get one and would never ask someone to carry one for him— this leaves him with one option.

Throw in a modified sexy jutsu here, a little Kurama powers there, a seal or two, and boomshakalaka. He's ready to carry it himself! Great! Now he just needs someone to put one in him and he's like, totally set!

Who does he know who doesn't have any complicated clan affiliations, who has no known health problems, decent chakra reserves, is strong, relatively attractive, smart, marginally stable, fully functioning, and who he trusts?

Enter Kakashi who, as a bonus, happens to be head over heels for him at the time. Not that Naruto knows that.

[astrobei]

prompt for @stonathanweek’s first stonathan sunday: “who protects you, though?”

“Dude,” Steve says. “This can’t be good for you.”

Jonathan peels his eyes open to register two separate things, at more or less the same time. One: Steve Harrington, standing over him with his arms crossed, hip popped, and one of his muddied white sneakers tapping disapprovingly on the ground in near-perfect time to the ticking of Jonathan’s wristwatch. Two: the fact that Jonathan has had to peel his eyes open at all, which can only mean one thing.

He fell asleep.

His stomach drops.

Not good, he thinks, because falling asleep means his reflexes are sluggish now, which means it takes him a few extra seconds to process what Steve is even saying. And this means that Steve has had enough time to notice that Jonathan has woken up, and manages to frown even more, getting in an additional “Dude,” before Jonathan manages to frown, blink, and rub his eyes. Not good, because sluggish reflexes defeat the point. Not good, because—

He reaches an arm out, skimming over the hay-covered ground, frantic, frantic, until his fingers close around his gun and he sighs in relief. Secondary sensations to take note of: the twinge in his neck as he rolls it out, the ache settling in between the knobs of his spine, inelastic tension coiling taut in his shoulders, and Steve’s laser-focused stare burning a hole right through Jonathan’s head.

“What?” he insists, trying to play it off, but it comes out hoarse, sleep-rough, and Steve was here before Jonathan opened his eyes at all, so it’s probably not even worth trying. Still, there’s a look in Steve’s eyes that Jonathan doesn’t love, soft in all the wrong ways, that immediately has his hackles raising. When Steve doesn’t say anything — just lets that weird look in his eyes get even more goopy around the edges — Jonathan sits up straighter against the barn door, frowns, and repeats himself. “What?”

He expects Steve to— well, he doesn’t really know what, actually. Steve’s been surprising him these last few months, which always makes him think about the thing Nancy had said when they’d gotten back to Hawkins — about how Steve changed, in the week he and Nancy had spent fighting monsters together in Jonathan’s absence. Enough for her to go on the defensive when Jonathan asked about him, anyway.

Jonathan doesn’t know about all that. He’s known men like Steve before Steve, and he’ll know men like Steve after him. But where he would have expected the Steve of two years ago to scoff, maybe, to roll his eyes and make some offhand comment about how like shit Jonathan looks right now, the Steve of today does none of those things.

Today-Steve holds his hands out, and gestures for the gun. “Give me that.”

“What?” Instinctively, Jonathan clutches it closer to his body. “No. Why?”

“Because,” Steve says, and then he’s kneeling to the floor, dirt and hay and God-knows-what caking up along his kneecaps, another streak of mud along the sides of those white tennis shoes. Jonathan braces himself for it — you look like shit, you’re gonna take someone out with that thing — but Steve just says, “It’s three in the morning. What the hell are you doing?”

“Keeping watch,” Jonathan says, blinking even more forcefully, as if this will clear away the rest of the disorientation lingering there, in the minute creases of his eyelids, the insides of his mouth, the cracks between his molars. It doesn’t do much to help; he finishes blinking and his eyes are on their way to closing again, stinging against the chill of the night breeze.

“Yeah, no shit,” Steve says, both louder than Jonathan expects him to, and — well, more blatantly than Jonathan expects him to. It startles him just enough to make him look over sideways, at where Steve’s silhouette is illuminated by the porch light they installed by the barn door. He’s not sure what he expects to find there, but it isn’t this: Steve’s eyes simultaneously wide with concern and brows furrowed in what seems like confusion. Jonathan opens his mouth to say something, maybe to defend himself, or say hey, man, what the fuck? when Steve seems to realize how it came off and winces before correcting course. “I mean,” he says, quieter now. “I know, you keep— I see you come out here every night, and you don’t come back in until everyone else is starting to wake up again.”

The hey, man, what the fuck? that had been forming on Jonathan’s mouth makes another attempt to make itself heard, but it’s late, he’s tired, there’s a comfortable breeze blowing through the clearing, and in the end, it comes out without any bite. “What?”

It’s Steve’s turn to blink now, long and slow, like he’s realizing that Jonathan’s not doing a very good job at processing what he’s saying. “Go to sleep,” Steve says slowly, over-enunciating now, like a little bit of sleep deprivation automatically means Jonathan’s fucking stupid now. “Seriously,” Steve says, intonation picking up again, falling back into a normal pitch and speed. “How long has it been since you got a good night’s rest?”

“Not that long,” Jonathan says, but it’s probably undercut somewhat by the yawn that sneaks out around it.

Steve makes a disapproving noise, low in his throat, like he didn’t even really mean to, and Jonathan feels himself exhale in response, exasperated and exhausted, two counts turning into three, into six, seven, eight.

He wants to tell Steve that it’s not his first rodeo. That he’s used to this, a routine that comes to him almost easier than breathing: sitting awake in the dark, heart racing and ears straight for the first indication of a noise of distress. Waiting for the sharp creaking of floorboards, a jolt in the bedsprings, a sudden pause in the snores that had previously been floating their way down the hall. The quiet tap of knuckles against his door, a pair of small hands shaking him awake. The thing about the weed, later, is that it helped him fall asleep, but it didn’t help him stay that way. Left him lurching awake at two, three in the morning, heart pounding and sweating through the sheets, waking up again a few hours later feeling like he hadn’t slept at all.

He knows Will doesn’t sleep much these days. He knows Will sleeps even worse when they’ve had a close call, when the threat of something creeping up on them in the night is marginally more real than it normally feels. Steve pulls his knees up towards his chest, like he has no intention of leaving anytime soon, and Jonathan grips the pistol harder in his hand. “It’s fine,” he says. “I have to— someone has to—”

Watch them, he thinks. Protect them. Jonathan’s learned to sleep light, tread light, dream light. Guard up and bearing down.

“Okay?” Steve says, like Jonathan is simultaneously stating the obvious and also missing the obvious, something bright and glaring, right in his face. He puts a hand out again, and Jonathan hesitates; Steve glances down at the gun, raises his eyebrows again, waggles his fingers, and just for a second, Jonathan gets it — the thing Nancy had seen in him, that change. Something vulnerable and open in his expression, the early morning hour, the hair that’s falling into his face instead of standing coiffed up around it. Jonathan hesitates, and Steve says, “Jonathan, I— you think I don’t know you come out here every day?”

Jonathan opens his mouth. Lets it close. No, he hadn’t known that. “It’s not,” he tries again, and then just, “no one else is keeping watch in there.”

It might be the exhaustion, or maybe the idea of Will or Mike or Robin or Nancy sitting up in their sleeping bags, awake, waiting for something to crawl out from the shadows and reach its long claws until the door, but his voice cracks there, wobbling on the precipice of the last syllable in a way that’s nothing short of mortifying.

“I know,” Steve says, too soft and quiet for the easy target Jonathan is making of himself, and then there’s a hand wrapping around his pistol, pulling it gently out of Jonathan’s grasp. “But, like— shit, dude— what about you? Who protects you?”

An unwelcome, panicked laugh bursts out of him, too sudden and too loud for the early morning silence, but Jonathan can’t help it. He’s seen Steve in action, the way Will’s friends follow him around like ducklings in a row. Him and Robin, bodies angled towards each other, tittering away in the corner. Years ago, the idea of Steve protecting anyone would have made Jonathan throw his head back in laughter. Now, his limbs feel heavy, and there’s something open and warm in Steve’s eyes, wide and brown and dark in the dim lighting of the barn’s lanterns, and Jonathan’s fingers are brushing the palm of Steve’s hand as he passes the gun over. He thinks about that stupid baseball bat, the nails he and Nancy had hammered into it, the sound of the wood splintering around the rusty metal, and blurts out, “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, like he’s surprised, like he wasn’t expecting Jonathan to take this so lightheartedly. “Do you?” he replies.

Jonathan shrugs. “Enough,” he says.

Steve’s lips tilt upwards. “Enough,” he echoes in response. He turns the gun over, holds it up. Squints into the distance and pretends to shoot.

Jonathan’s eyelids are drooping again, but he glances along the firm line of Steve’s hands, thumb and index finger lined up along the trigger, and is reminded of it again: Steve’s changed. How his hands used to be so fidgety, rapping against their front door, twirling that stupid bat back and forth. How they’re steady now. Jonathan heard about Max, heard Lucas and Dustin tell Mike and Will about that day at the cemetery, Steve’s arms around her after she fell twenty feet out of the sky.

Steve lowers the gun, bumps Jonathan’s shoulders with his. “We can stay out here,” he says. Wary, like he thinks Jonathan’s going to put up a fight, even after laying his weapon down. “If that helps.”

It does help. “Okay,” Jonathan says.

“Okay,” Steve parrots.

Sleep still doesn’t come easy. Jonathan has a sneaking suspicion that it never will, for him. But for the first time in months, Jonathan tips his head back against the splintered walls of the barn, weather-worn and chipped red paint, and lets himself try to get there.

[maxy-flare]

Did some 007n7 designs if he ws a killa

Lmao

[rainbow-sunshine-unicorn]

Just remembered that the canonical reason Anthony had no comeback while Kate was calling his horsemanship deficient and saying all he has to offer is a pretty smile

Was because he was too busy being enamoured by the way she smells

[seb-boo]

Sebastian Vettel on Multi 21 and his relationship with Mark Webber.

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

Wanna know why I don't like Peter B.?

Because when Gwen was actively forced into homelessness in front of him, he literally didn't help at all. And then it gets framed on JESS.

Gwen asks for help. And Peter says this:

Jess asks him to stop talking.

And from this moment forward, Peter makes no effort whatsoever to help Gwen.

Mind you. This is AFTER Miles' escape. After the whole 'shocked Peter' gif. Peter knows Miguel is willing to get violent.

But that line is his only attempt to help.

Even as he watches Gwen be fully restrained and physically forced into the machine. He stands there and watches.

He doesn't try to web her. He doesn't try to stop the machine or talk to Miguel. He stands there in silence. Watching Gwen get sent home to a universe he knows she is homeless in.

And the movie just lets him. Despite the fact he's known Gwen longer than anybody in this room.

Instead, Jess is the only mentor at fault. We're told to blame her.

During this scene we never pan to Peter, standing there literally motionless as Gwen gets dragged away. He's not panicking, or trying to talk Miguel out of it. We're just expected to absolve him of blame.

It's Jess' fault. Jess is her 'failed mentor' - despite the fact that Peter has known Gwen longer, is shown to have a better relationship with her, and we're given no reason as to why he wasn't her mentor to begin with.

Jess says this, and we're supposed to judge her for it. While Peter said nothing at all. At most he made a joke and then shut up when he was told.

Jess might've believed she couldn't help Gwen - but what was Peter's excuse? Standing there and watching this happen? He doesn't feel the need to do anything, say anything, or even leave the room.

For him, watching this is fine. And Gwen NEVER confronts him about it.

We're not supposed to blame Peter for letting Miles and Gwen down, repeatedly.

Even when Gwen is being physically forced into homelessness in front of him.

We're told to blame the black woman when the white man who has known Gwen longer literally stands beside Jess motionless.

Had Hobie not left Gwen the watch - We're left to assume that Peter would've just... let her be homeless in her dimension.

He watched her get sent home, said nothing, then went home to his wife and kid to ponder whether or not he was a bad mentor.

Not if Gwen was okay. Or whether he should go check on her????

That's NOT OKAY???!!!! THAT'S TERRIBLE!!!!!!! And this is the man we're supposed to be routing for? This, the dude who shows NO signs he was even gonna go and check on Gwen? The dude who lets child abuse go down in front of him TWICE and he just stands there blinking? That's our Peter Parker?

And I'm supposed to be thrilled to have him on the team??? Despite the fact Gwen had to come TO HIM. NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND???? Gwen doesn't see a problem with that?????

I'm supposed to be happy he's here? Forreal???

Oh joy. Thank you so much, Humbling Reality Spider-man. We love you.

I hate Peter B. ALL MY HOBIES HATE PETER B. (Not a typo)