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does the 69 button have a name or are we all calling it the 69 button.

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Thanks for the tag Sunnie <3

Whoever sees it can do it ✨️

tag game! take this uquiz to find out what pastry you are and then go to pinterest and type your name + cafe

no pressure tagging: @luvrodite @teddybeartoji @julymusings @ananashart @avampirescholar @batchilla @batsycline69 @sanguineterrain @janybabyy

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Jason after crashing at Roy’s place after a rough night patrolling

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Superman desperately scanning the street during a fight to find the most morally acceptable car to throw at his opponent, knowing that not everybody has insurance, and loss of transportation can ruin a life -

A wave of incredible relief washes over him as he spots the hard geometric lines and silver paintless sheen of a Cybertruck.

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okay so. when Will thinks back to the stab ™️ he actually doesn't just remembers it, he fantasizes a different thing.

here's him when getting stab (clean face):

here's him after hannibal leaves (bloody face):

here's what he imagined:

(blood dried face)

almost like Hannibal came back and held him after everything happened

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You've given us Clark and Grayson, but would you consider Jay and Wonderwoman???

:,D

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happy 10th anniversary of this episode to those who celebrate! 🥳🎉

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redraw that got out of hand of that one scene from perfect blue

Keep reading

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“Every woman who sleeps with Sam dies”. Well, all of Dean’s boyfriends are dead too.

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BOTH OF HIS BLOODIED PALMS cradle your cheeks. you have no control over how your head lowers weakly against his efforts to lift it back up.

his hands are warm and slippery. you’ve never felt this type of warmth before. it’s comforting, but it shouldn’t be.

he had first cradled your body from behind, after you found yourself heaving as you inched yourself backward against an ottoman in the living room

he soothed your startled reaction with the familiar reassurance of his voice

and you gripped his forearm as you sobbed into it, shivering, “where were you?”

you had just witnessed your friends picked off one by one, yet you never saw josh

you see him now though, and everything makes sense

when you finally came down from your tears, and the blurriness dissipated, you knew you recognized that color

the crimson on his hands as he pulled his arm back from around you, to turn you around

and briefly you spotted it trailing under his flannel. a different one from when you first arrived, too.

he turned you around. and a slither of moonshine glistened on the mask discarded upon the surface behind him. you shivered.

and with the absence of tears you watched your fingers quietly roll up his sleeves, all-knowing.

and he knew too, that you knew. all this time. maybe that’s why he didn’t even bother to scrub the evidence because,

“you wouldn’t have stopped me,”

he says, as he holds your face in his hands. and you bite your quivering lip with all the sadness in your sweet wilting face

and you shake your head lulling forward, falling and falling into the void

your head falls into his chest, and he holds you there with his face buried into your hair

palms and nails and skin evident of what he’s done

eyes blown and distant you just couldn’t bare to face any longer

and the lump in your throat nestles a permanent spot, as the night replays over and over in your mind

the room vibrates with a grim ghostly feeling, dawn is to rise soon.

“don’t be mad at me, please.” you can hear the sincere pout in his soft words

“i’m sorry,” he begins to whisper over, and over.

uh huh yes this is like if he seriously just went batshit crazy with a fat vendetta and genuinely murked everyone…right

listening to crazy sexy by the weeknd and it channeled in me the urge to spit out whatever this is…don’t let the name of the song fool you LMFAO it’s the instrumental

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jason todd has a file (scrapbook) of your relationship. receipts and business cards for every restaurant and cafe you meet at. detailed notes on your coffee or tea order, which iteration of his tortilla soup you liked best and how sweet you like your pie. a list of books you’ve read and not read yet. he collects it all, neatly tucked away between the cardboard covers of a handmade notebook he found at a market. maybe it’s sentimental. it’s definitely practical. jason might not have started out as a contingency maker but he sure is now. dying will do that to you. scratch that. dying and coming back to lost time, lost years, lost identities will do that to you.

it makes his skin crawl sometimes, memory chewing up a black hole in his head. jason came back. maybe not all of him at first, but everyone is pretty damn sure that he’s been pieced back together. jason isn’t. sometimes he’ll reach for a memory, a thought, a word only for it to simply not be there. the world goes fuzzy with the panic and the effort, snapping back into focus when someone will say or do something that brings the memory crashing into him. jason knows that most of him came back. he’s just not so sure it all came back to him.

his afterlife has somehow ended up here, in a shared apartment for two and an alias on shared tax forms. he can’t quite pinpoint all the steps that led him to you but he wouldn’t change it for anything. but whatever those steps were — the first date, first kiss, first hand held — he wants to remember them. jason can’t tuck them away between his ribs and count on them to stay safe there. his life has proven they won’t. so he scribbles down addresses and pastes in old flyers, prints out pictures and okay, so sue him, he decorates with washi tape. just because he’s trying to stave off the heartbreak of his own traitorous body doesn’t mean it can’t be whimsical and practical. maybe one day he’ll trust himself enough to not cling to this so badly. maybe it’ll be passed down as evidence that even jason todd, the prodigal son himself, was capable of loving someone. one day.

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🦔

This is Charles. He wants to go on a journey around tumblr. could you show him around?

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Proposal for new fandom etiquette:

If you read a fic because it was linked/recced somewhere, you leave a comment saying "came from XXX" and that comment doesn't need to include anything else.

Because when all of a sudden there's a lot of activity on one particular fic I WANNA KNOW WHY!!!!!

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Hey Doll

Frank Castle x reader

synopsis: four different time frank greats you like you're the only thing that matters

vibes: fluff, angst, comfort

warnings: suggestive, injuries/blood/suggested violence, (vaguely mentioned) reader is attacked, alcohol, language

words: 1.48k

notes: i love this one and hope you will too!

“Hey doll,” he says cheekily. 

You roll your eyes as Frank Castle slides into the booth across from you. “Hi Frank.”

He rests his elbows on the table and looks at you with a lazy grin. “Did you find the place okay?”

Scoffing, you cross your arms and slouch in your seat. “Frank, I work here.” You motion down at your attire: the required restaurant t-shirt and a pair of jeans. 

He snickers, leaning back and manspreading. You glance down before jerking your eyes back up. The grin on his face just grows; of course he caught you looking. “How was your shift?” he asks, sincerely. 

You groan. “Fine. Lots of rude customers, the usual.”

“Need me to beat anyone up?”

Your eyes widen at the seriousness on his face. “No, don’t go assaulting people for me.”

Alyssa, one of your co-workers, interrupts to get your orders. She departs with a wink. You flush, and Frank notices. He leans close, too close, and you can feel his breath against your face. “Are you scared of me?”

Determined not to let him know the effect he has on you, Exhibit A being the growing wet splotch in your painties, you lean even closer. “Why?” you ask seductively. “Do you want me to be?”

“Damn,” you barely hear him breathe before he’s moving back again. He shifts in his seat as you settle against the seatback. 

“Here you go,” Alyssa says, putting down your sodas and meals. Frank picks up a fry and fiddles with it. 

“How was your shift?” you ask quietly once Alyssa’s gone. You’re one of the few in-the-know when it comes to Frank’s “job”, although he wished to keep you as far from the business as he could.

“Fine,” he mimics you. “Lots of rude customers, the usual.”

“Are you hurt at all?” you ask, concern flooding your face when he rolls he shoulders.

Frank shakes his head. “Just tired, is all.” He stares at you softly. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“I know, I know,” you say, hands flying up dramatically. “You’re a big man; you can take care of yourself.”

Frank dips the fry in a big pool of ketchup. “Damn straight.”

You laugh. “Careful, Frank Castle,” you say, leaning forward again and plucking the fry before he can eat it. “Or I might just fall in love with you.”

“Hey doll,” he says tiredly. 

You look up from the book on your lap, breaking out into a smile. “Hey Frankie.”

The door shuts behind him as he kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his combat vest. The Punisher just finished another job. Frank Castle just came home to you. 

Finally comfortable and relieved from the weight of his armor, Frank moves to lock his guns away, always leaving a single pistol on his person. He plops down on the couch next to you with a huff.

“Look at me,” you say, putting your book to the side. Frank turns his puppy dog eyes your way, and you brush the hair from his face. He’s nursing a fresh black eye, you note, and his nose might be broken again. Your eyes drag down, checking for other injuries. “Anything serious?” you ask, standing to get the first aid kit in the bedroom’s bathroom. 

“Nah.” Frank follows you, looking down at the blood on his clothes. “Blood’s not mine.” He stands patiently as you gently pull his shirt over his head and help him slide out of his pants, leading him to sit on the bed. You nod, silent as you kneel beside him. Frank shifts so his body’s angled towards you. His body is beginning to bruise, but you don’t see any stab wounds or bullet holes. 

Frank looks up as you place everything down and leave, staring at the doorway until you come back with a bottle of whiskey. “For the pain,” you say, handing it to him and returning to your spot on the bed.

“Thanks” he grunts, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig, gulping graciously. 

You take the hand towel you recently wet in the sink and wipe away the surrounding around his nose. He has a cut on his forehead; you clean around that too. 

“Does it need stitches?” he asks, head cocked to keep his nose from bleeding any more.

You touch the skin around the cut, and Frank curses. “Yeah,” you say sympathetically. 

“Don’t fuck it up this time,” he says, but there’s no malice in his tone.

You snatch the bottle out of his grip and take a sip. “Don’t squirm, and I’ll try my best.”

“Hey doll,” he says carefully. 

You’re laying in bed, back turned to him and the doorway, curled into a ball with the sheets pulled all the way up to your chin. You don’t turn as the bed shifts and Frank sits behind you. There’s shuffling, and then his hand - hesitantly, faintly - rests on your side. You sniff.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t know why, but you weren’t expecting him to apologize. He was so adamant about being right three hours ago, shouting about how you “just didn’t understand” his way of living and storming out without his phone. You don’t know why, but you didn’t expect him to give in.

“I’m sorry I’m such an asshole,” he continues, and his hand begins to rub small circles when you don’t pull away. “I shouldn’t have said those things - shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

You move into his touch - just barely, but he notices. “But you did.”

He nods. “I just - Christ, sweetheart, can you look at me?”

You hesitate. Your eyes are red from crying, and you know Frank will spiral when he realizes he made you cry. 

Frank senses this hesitation. “Please?” he pleads, and his voice cracks. 

You give in instantly, turning onto your other side so you’re looking at each other. Frank moves his hand to cradle your cheek, and you see that his eyes mirror your own: they glisten with tears  both shed and unshed. 

“Jesus, doll,” he says, letting go of you and rubbing a hand over his face. “I made you cry. I promised I’d never hurt you, and I made you cry.”

“Hey,” you snap, sitting up and taking his face in your hands. Your faces are mere centimeters apart; you can hear his heartbeat as it beats out of his chest. “I forgive you.”

Frank looks away from you, tilting his head to get out of your hold. “But I-”

“No,” you cut him off sharply, shaking him gently. “I hurt you too. So we’re even, okay?” You slide back down until your head is resting upon a pillow and pat the mattress next to you. “Just lay down and cuddle me.”

Frank's eyes are hazy with guilt and regret, but a shroud of love and relief begins to erase the worry in his expression. He shifts to rest beside you, and you instantly move into his arms. 

His breath hitches as he presses his face into your hair. 

“I forgive you,” you whisper, nuzzling closer.

And he believes you.

“Hey doll,” he says sadly.

You begin to lift your head, but Frank is quick to stop you. “Hey,” he says, easing you back down, “don’t do that. You’ll tear your stitches.”

That’s when you feel it: a sharp, throbbing pain against your skull. Your right arm is hooked with monitors; you move your left to feel your head. “Did they…shave my hair?”

Frank nods. He’s in a chair next to the hospital bed, leaning forward so much the back chair legs are off the ground. 

“What happened?” you ask groggily, letting your arm drop. 

Frank puts his hand over yours. “You got jumped. I found you in the parking garage.”

You start to piece it together. “I got hit in the head.”

He nods. “Did you see him? The guy who did it?” Mixed with the worry in his expression is anger, hatred, for the man who hurt you. 

You shake your head, groaning at the pain it causes. “But there were security cameras, right?”

“You don’t worry about that, sweet thing,” he says, patting your hand. “I’ll find him. Make him pay for hurting my girl.”

You smile weakly. “I’m thirsty.”

Frank nods rapidly and moves a water bottle into your peripheral. It has a long, purple straw sticking out, and Frank maneuvers it so you can tuck the straw between your lips. You take several savory gulps before letting him take it away. 

“How’s the pain?” he asks, setting the bottle down.

You shrug. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’ll see if they can give you more morphine.”

You smile, and Frank pauses, tilting his head at you in confusion. “What?”

“I just love you,” you say, moving your hands so you're holding his. You squeeze.

He squeezes back. 

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happy pride month to destiel. who just became canon again