#torch press

[the-not-so-silent-back-up]

So I just realised something that makes me really excited for "Avengers: Doomsday". So because of Johnny Storm and Peter Parker these two will probably/ hopefully interact;

I mean it would totally make sense to put the two british boys together for Interviews

[sharkzippo]

thinking about e-20051 st john and his 1-sided beef with johnny storm

[edwardos]

[sorcerous-caress]

Hnng wanna be a helpless human lost in the dark with no light source and a cute elf (preferably drow) comes to guide me and make me cling to them as we walk.

[torchiiko]

if i was rich i wouldnt have ym model entirely rerigged i think id probably just have someone do the mask so that it functions the way it does in my mind. id set up the art however it needed to be set up i just yearn to be able to use my mask

[sevenheaven7011]

I have never been more conflicted about an episodes message in my life

[sw5w]

You!

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:10:36

[getupthestairs]

it was today i found out my phone torch has brightness settings! wild shit!!

[dykexenomorph]

the beef between me and this woman is unreal. (it's one sided. why does she hate my guts)

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ plug!gojo doesn't give a damn about drugs. not even a little. but he does give a damn about the prettiest girl in the world, so there he is, being financially irresponsible and buying up every stash he can get his hands on.

it all starts when he overhears you're looking for a new connection, his expert stalking skills finally paying off for something other than knowing your favorite brand of tampons.

apparently, your old dealer was getting greedy with those prices. for the most part, though, gojo just needs a pathetic excuse to get you in his orbit.

lovesick as fuck and utterly hopeless with money, gojo only deals to you. why would he sell to anyone else when he's blowing his cash for you in the first place?

you roll up to his messy dorm once a week, needing your fix. and every time, he insists you stay longer, for a smoke sesh. "just one blunt," he purrs, that predatory gleam in his baby blues. "it's on me, sugar. 's good shit."

gojo's always been a man of his word — it really is always the good shit. besides, who are you to say no to free pot?

so, you sprawl on his tangled sheets, a flimsy blanket barely covering your bodies, pillows shoved haphazardly behind your backs. you watch him expertly roll the joint, and for a guy who supposedly doesn't partake, he sure handles it better than you ever could.

gojo flicks his lighter, the tip glowing orange as he torches the end, letting the first sweet scent of cannabis fill the air. he always lets you take the first hit. it is for you, after all.

your eyes glaze over, a low, satisfied moan escaping your lips. oh, and another thing?

these smoking sessions have a nasty habit of devolving into raw, sweaty fucking. if blowing his entire paycheck to get you high is the price of admission to that sweet, tight pussy, then so be it. gojo is a willing fool.

gojo's never had sex with you sober, but even high, it feels amazing, like he's in heaven. his hips roll languidly against yours, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix, with every thrust.

your eyes, red from the high, squeeze shut, back arching. no matter how many times he has forced his length into your snug cunt, you're still suffocating him, clenching by all means.

he presses a sloppy kiss to your calf, legs thrown over his shoulders. you're bent in a cruel mating press, but it's not as if you have the energy to protest.

he places the blunt between your swollen, from kissing, lips. "inhale," gojo commands, eyes trained on you, as you attempt to take a drag, but your breath hitches, too fucked-out.

he snorts, tapping it twice against your mouth. "sugar, try again."

he can't let all this go to waste, right?

[infocrazebyrepwoop]

Two Buses Torched Near National Press Club in Dhaka

On Tuesday at 8:25pm, two Trans Silva Paribahan buses were set ablaze in front of the National Press Club in Dhaka. Eyewitnesses reported that the buses were torched near the metro rail station following the explosion of several cocktails. Fortunately, there were no casualties as the buses were empty at the time. Police arrived at the scene shortly after the fire started, but no arrests have been…

[torchsart]

new pfp!!! man ive been meaning to redraw this foreverrs i love how it came out!! i finally have a consistent outfit for my sona too!!

i actually drew bottom teeth for once too Wow (they look Epic)

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Alt Rock to the Rescue

[Inspired by this art]

"...Alright, I might have an idea," John Constantine, who was seemingly busy texting someone for the past ten - or twenty, no one really counted - minutes, puts his phone away and snaps his head up.

The room falls silent. Superman blinks in surprise, Diana frowns slightly, and Batman's mouth is pressed into a thin, stubborn line. Flash recovers first.

"You have an idea?" He huffs a short, disbelieving laugh, "No offense, but I'm not sure a magic trick can help us against, you know, an alien fleet." He gestures to one of the screens on the wall, where said fleet is approaching Earth on live.

The rest of the Leaguers present don't exactly agree with him, at least not verbally, but the mood in the room shifts from tense, anxious alarm to an almost palpable annoyance. To be honest, no one was even sure why or how John Constantine of all people ended up in the meeting. It's not like JLD could actually help with an ongoing, massive invasion that was about to happen in less than three- Correction, less than two and a half hours. Besides, it's John Constantine. The man that never shows up unless outright bullied into submission.

The magician winces briefly and starts rummaging through his pockets under the weight of everyone's attention.

"I said I might," he amends gruffly, getting a cigarette out of one of his pockets and sticking it in his mouth but not lighting it. Seems like it wasn't what he was looking for, though, because after that, the man keeps going through the various places on his coat, patting himself down. "I know someone who can deal with it. Granted, I already owe him a great deal, but he won't say no," he pauses and grimaces, "At least I hope he won't."

"I do not think it would be wise to call upon gods in our situation," Diana tries carefully, but John pays her little mind.

"Or demons," Green Arrow adds, crossing his arms on his chest, "I'm not selling my soul to get rid of some rocket ships or whatever they are."

Now, that makes the magician bark a laugh. Or, maybe it's the piece of lime green paper - a sticky note, actually - that he finally finds in the depths of his pockets.

"Oh, your soul's gonna stay where it is."

"Constantine-" Batman starts, but John cuts him off instantly.

"Mine will stay wherever it is as well," he reassures the man, "It's not that kind of entity." And with that, he promptly sets the green note on fire - green fire - and uses it as a lighter for his cigarette.

The next moment after the note is reduced to ash, there's a shift in the air in front of him, and, before any of the heroes have a split second to react, there are two people floating in the middle of the room, backs pressed to each other.

Two teenagers, to be exact. A girl and a boy, both of them so pale that their skin looks gray, and both dressed in grunge, like they just came from a rock concert. Yet, that's where the 'normal' parts of their looks end - the boy's hair is so white it looks blinding, and moves in the air slowly, undeterred by gravity, and the girl's hair is neon blue, her ponytail flickering up like a flaming torch.

The boy nearly topples over as the girl leans her back on him harder and kicks her feet up slightly. The movement is awkward, like both of them were taken by surprise by the sudden relocation, and maybe the guess about the rock concert was not so far from reality; there are drumsticks in the boy's hands, and the girl is holding an electric guitar in her hands.

"The fuck?.." The boy asks no one in particular, as the girl makes an annoyed groan and straightens up, still floating in the air. Her guitar makes an aborted sound. Meanwhile, the boy's eyes land on Constantine, and his whole face scrunches in disgust, "John, for the love of Ancients, I was in the middle of something."

The girl takes a look around while her friend is busy expressing his annoyance and elbows him in the side, "Oi, look, it's the whole Comic Con in the flesh here."

Green Arrow sputters. Flash makes a wordless but very offended sound. The floating boy looks around, taking stock of faces in the room, and the disgust on his face morphs into exasperation.

He turns back to Constantine, "Really? I thought I told you I want no part in your furry parade."

"Alien invasion," the magician decidedly doesn't address any of that, instead pointing his finger to the screen behind him. "Thought you ought to know," he adds, a bit of sarcasm bleeding into his tone.

"Ooh, is it my turn to be your world saving buddy, Phantom?" The girl perks up, turning around and draping herself over the boy's shoulders with a giddy laugh. Her guitar shifts to hang in the air on her side all by itself.

The boy - Phantom - rolls his eyes. Bright green, glowing eyes that definitely don't belong to a human being.

"If I had a nickel every time I had to save the world, I'd probably be able to buy myself my own guitar," he grumbles and looks back to Constantine. "Do I, like, have to? Right now? You know, I don't get paid for this bullshit, and the studio we rented for rehearsal has an hourly rate, so if we can postpone this for about an hour and a half, that'd be real nice."

"The fleet is only two hours away from Earth," Batman supplies suddenly, and, when both floating kids turn to look at him, adds, "I can pay for your next rehearsal. Or a few of them." Evidently, Phantom's comment about nickels struck a nerve. Or, maybe, the man just likes throwing money at any teenager he encounters. Who knows.

The boy blinks, taken aback by the proposition. But the girl grins, sharp and wicked, and shoves her drummer - if the drumsticks are to tell - in the side again.

"Hey, free studio. Better than the last time."

That snaps Phantom out of his stupor, and he groans, "Don't remind me." With a weary sigh, he runs a hand through his hair and leans back in the air, almost like reclining on it. "Okay, fine, sure. Do you want them, like, away from Earth- um, this is Earth, right?" He turns to Superman, surprisingly, looking for confirmation, and the man nods, thrown off guard. The boy nods back and continues, "Or you want them blasted into oblivion, or what?"

"Whatever suits your mood, kid," John waves his hand at the screen as if making a welcoming gesture, "But all the aliens gotta go."

Unexpectedly, that makes the girl's grin even wider, and she reaches for her guitar, floating around Phantom and looking him in the face. The look she gives him speaks of mischief, and the boy seems to understand what she's implying before she as much as opens her mouth.

"Ember, no," he pounts a drumstick at her.

"Ember, yes," she wiggles her eyebrows, "Come on, your wail is boring as fuck as it is, why not spice it up?"

"I'm not wailing," Phantom scrunches his nose, "My throat will hurt for weeks."

Ember runs her fingers over the strings of her guitar, and it makes a comparatively quiet, vibrating sound. A few cords shoot out of the bottom of her instrument, like ones used to plug an electric guitar to an amp. She raises her eyebrows, still looking at Phantom, a silent conversation between them.

Then, the boy huffs and rolls his eyes, twirling a drumstick in his fingers.

"Fine."

The cords fly at him like snakes, aiming at his neck. None of the Leaguers watching the encounter get to say even a word as the metal pins insert themselves into the boy's neck, acting like some twisted kind of collar. Phantom doesn't even flinch.

Ember's guitar, on the other hand, reacts to the connection quite violently: it makes a high-pitched sound all on its own and then changes color from black and blue to white and green, with lightning bolts instead of flames for design. The girl's ponytail flares up higher as she softly murmurs in delight.

Then, she turns to the people around them and smirks, "Which way is the evil alien fleet?"

Flash wordlessly points his finger to the right and up. The girl nods in satisfaction, turning in the air so her guitar is facing that way.

"You might want to cover your ears," Phantom advises, a sly smile on his face and a glimmer of anticipation to his eyes. John Constantine follows that direction immediately, and, taking his move as the best course of action, the other heroes follow as well. Except Batman, who only narrows his eyes and looks at both teens in the air apprehensively. Phantom shrugs, "Or don't, I don't hold any responsibility for your shattered eardrums."

"Pick up where we left off, then," Ember tells him, and the boy blinks:

"Wait, I thought you'd just-"

[For some wholesome experience, put your headphones in and listen to 'KULT' by Jisaiah, grandson, and Steve Aoki]

But the girl has already started a tune, nodding her head to the rhythm of it and slowly picking up the pace. Phantom huffs, but doesn't protest any further, floating up as much as the cords allow him and spinning a drumstick in his hand.

"Maybe I should join a cult

At least they'll tell me it's not my fault

That the world's a fucking circus

That my life feels fucking worthless," he spits the words out with a sneer, slowly rotating in the air until he is hanging upside down. His eyes are closed, and his voice becomes more and more staticky with every new sound. The volume of Ember's guitar gets up, higher and higher, until the walls and the floor of the room around them start to vibrate.

Then, Ember's voice joins Phantom's, and the boy brings his drumsticks down on thin air, mimicking the moves. Only, even with the actual drums not there, the air around him ripples like they are, and they all can hear the beat.

"Maybe I should join a cult

At least they'll tell me it's not my fault

When it all comes crashing down

We'll see who's laughing," both kids pause, just for a beat, and Ember uses that split second to spin the volume knob to the max before strumming her guitar in one wide, sharp move.

"NOW!"

The sound wave is not only palpable, it's visible. A wave of toxic green ripples through the air, knocking everyone present - sans the two kids in the air - to the ground, and goes beyond. The screens on the walls flicker and turn off, sending sparks in the air, and the comms give off loud, screeching noises, and-

The following silence feels almost deafening.

Batman, unsurprisingly, is the first one to stand back on his feet and see a few of the screens come back online.

Just in time to see that same green wave of... sound? energy? power?.. decimate the entire fleet like a wet cloth over a chalkboard. One moment, the spaceships were there, and the next they are gone, wiped out of existence.

Ember laughs, leaning back and almost doing a backflip in the air.

"That was nice, dipshit!" She shoves Phantom in the shoulder, and the boy snorts, plucking the cords out of his skin and grinning.

"Yeah," he agrees with a smile, not even looking at the screens around, "Maybe we should try rehearsing in space next time. Sing to the stars and all that crap."

"Sing to the stars?" Ember raises her eyebrows mockingly as the rest of the heroes scramble to their feet, bemoaning their ringing ears. "Na-ah," she clicks her tongue and turns to Batman, "You still up for paying for our studio?"

The man just grunts in a semblance of affirmation.

"Sweet," the girl grins and offers Phantom a hand for a high five, which he returns instantly. "Cheers to the world being saved once again!"

The boy just rolls his eyes and turns to Constantine, "Next time, be a dear and text me before summoning, or I'm going to sell your soul to Morpheus, and who knows what he'll do with you."

John Constantine grimaces. "I did," he offers grudgingly.

But both unearthly teenagers are already gone without a trace.

[Edit: I want everyone to know there's ART now!!!]

[Edit 2: There's more art!!!]

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Can I request a Telemachus x reader smut? Specifically after the slaughter of the suitors while Odysseus and Penelope reunite. Hehe thank you!!

A/n: YES! He's such a cutie.

Warnings: p in v , telemachus is covered in blood, telemachus dirty talks ( this man letting out his years of frustrations on you 👀)

The halls of your home still reek of blood and vengeance. The air is heavy with smoke from overturned torches, and the cries of dying men still echo faintly in the walls. But it’s over now.

Odysseus has reclaimed his throne. Penelope has wept and clung to him like a woman reborn.

And Telemachus?

He finds you in the shadows of the corridor, just past the carnage.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but his voice is low, almost trembling. You can see the red on his hands—some of it is his, most of it not. There’s a storm behind his eyes. Too much death. Too many years. Too much waiting.

“I stayed,” you say, stepping closer. “For you.”

His breath catches. For a moment, you think he’ll walk away, disappear into the dark to let his parents have their story.

But instead, he reaches for you like a man who’s finally allowed to feel. His mouth is on yours before you can say another word, and his hands are rough and trembling, pulling you flush against him.

It’s frantic. Desperate. He backs you into the wall of the hallway, the cold stone against your spine making you gasp—and that sound drives him wild.

“Say my name,” he growls against your throat.

“Telemachus,” you breathe, your fingers sliding under the hem of his tunic, feeling the muscles still tight with adrenaline. “I thought I lost you.”

“You’ll never lose me.” He grips your thigh, lifting it around his waist. “Not now. Not ever.”

His armor is half-undone, and he fumbles with your clothes like he’s afraid this is a dream, like you might vanish with the dawn. But the heat of your skin against his is real, and when he finally thrusts into you, it’s with all the pent-up rage and longing of a man who’s waited his whole life to be seen as more than a boy.

The corridor is silent now, save for the soft sound of your bodies meeting, your stifled moans, and his whispered promises in your ear.

“You’re mine,” he says, over and over, voice breaking. “Mine.”

And when it’s over, you’re still pressed against the stone, breathless, trembling, and utterly wrecked—in the best way.

You’re still pinned against the cold stone wall, your heart thudding wildly in your chest. Telemachus’ hands are everywhere—rough with blood and battle, claiming you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You waited for me,” he murmurs against your neck, voice low and dark. “Now I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

His words make your knees buckle, but he’s already hoisting you up—your legs wrapped tight around his waist as he carries you into one of the unused rooms off the corridor. The door slams shut behind you, and he sets you down only long enough to rip the bloodied tunic from his chest. You drink him in—his broad shoulders, the scars, the raw power in his frame. He catches your gaze and smirks.

“See something you like?” he taunts.

You don’t answer—you just slide your hands down his chest, grazing the line of dark hair below his navel, before sinking to your knees.

He hisses through his teeth as you take him into your mouth—he’s already hard, thick and pulsing in your hands, and the way he growls your name as his head tips back has heat pooling between your thighs.

But he doesn’t let you finish.

“Not like this,” he growls, dragging you back to your feet. “I need to feel you.”

He strips you bare, not gently, but reverently—like he’s unwrapping a gift meant only for him. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch, and then he bends you over the table behind you, one hand pressing into your lower back.

“You have no idea how long I’ve imagined this,” he whispers into your ear, lining himself up at your entrance. “How many nights I stroked myself thinking of how you’d sound when I finally—”

He thrusts in, deep and hard, cutting off his own sentence and drawing a loud cry from your lips.

He fucks you like a man possessed—deep, relentless, his hips slamming into you with wild rhythm. One hand wraps in your hair, tugging your head back so he can bite your neck, your shoulder. Marking you.

The table creaks beneath you. Your moans echo in the dim room, along with his grunts and filthy praise.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “So good for me. You’re mine. Gods, you’re mine.”

Your climax builds fast—sharp and burning—and when it hits, you shatter, calling out his name like a prayer. He’s not far behind, pulling you flush against him as he spills inside you with a deep groan, holding you through it like you’re something precious he almost lost.

After, he presses kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your lips—softer now, but no less possessive.

“We’ll clean the blood tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Tonight, I’m not letting you leave this bed.”

And he doesn’t.

He takes you again. And again.

Until you’re too sore to move, too drunk on him to care,Your thighs are trembling. You’ve already come twice, and your body feels spent, marked, owned.

But Telemachus isn’t finished with you.

He’s sprawled beside you now, chest slick with sweat, hand lazily tracing circles over your thigh as he watches you catch your breath. There’s a smirk tugging at his lips—like he’s not done proving something.

“You look ruined,” he murmurs, voice rough from growling your name for the last hour. “But I think you’ve got more in you.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers between your legs, brushing your oversensitive core. Your hips jerk, and he laughs low in his throat, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“What’s the matter, little one? Too much for you?”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

“No,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good girl.”

The tone shifts.

Suddenly, his hand is around your throat—not tight, but firm. Dominant. He pushes you back into the pillows, hovering over you like a predator. His other hand slides down your body, spreading your thighs apart once more.

“You want more?” he growls, voice dripping with sin. “Then open those legs for your prince like the needy little thing you are.”

Your breath catches. You obey.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice like silk and smoke. “Such a pretty little slut. All mine.”

And then he’s inside you again.

This time, it’s rougher. More controlled. His hand stays on your throat, his thumb brushing your pulse while he ruts into you with long, punishing thrusts.

You cry out—half moan, half sob—and he loves it.

“Gods, listen to you,” he pants. “So fucking loud for me. You want the whole palace to know how desperate you are? How wet you get for your prince’s cock?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please—please don’t stop—”

He growls and fucks you harder.

“Of course you like this. Filthy little thing. You like being used, don’t you?”

You can’t even form words anymore. Your nails rake down his back, and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours as your walls flutter around him.

“Come for me,” he growls. “One more. I want to feel you fall apart."

And gods—you do.

You scream his name as your body clamps down on him, spasming with a white-hot rush that steals the air from your lungs. He follows with a snarl, biting down on your shoulder as he spills into you, deep and possessive.

When it’s over, you’re both gasping. Shaking.

He doesn’t move for a long moment—just holds you close, forehead still resting against yours.

Then his hands soften.

He eases out of you, cradling your body with almost reverent care. He grabs a cloth and cleans between your thighs, kissing your hip as he does.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs. His voice is tender now, barely above a whisper. “My perfect girl. My goddess.”

You can barely keep your eyes open as he wraps you in his arms, pulling a blanket over the two of you. His lips brush your forehead, your cheek, your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Sleep, sweet thing. I’ll protect you now. Always.”

And you do—drifting off to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, knowing you’re safe.

Loved. Owned.

[torchiiko]

gotta pull out the usb mouse for rigging

[glutenfreedragonpotion]

Life is doing silly things