reblonks

[reblonks]

old man logan old man logan !!! “i love you, i swear it, but not enough to watch another western.”

title; not another western (Logan Howlett x fem!reader)

prompts; “i love you, i swear it, but not enough to watch another western.” — from three hundred assorted dialogue prompts

warnings; established relationship, old man!logan, they call each other baby, allusions to sex, minors do not interact!!!, some grinding, but that’s it? (308 words)

one year masterlist | main masterlist

— come celebrate my one year!!

you were curled into Logan’s side, the tv remote in his free hand as he flicked between channels. 

it was a simple thing, a moment that had become a nightly routine. cuddling while Logan chose out a movie, maybe even more if he noticed you got too bored from the movie. 

tonight, no different. 

your eyes watched as he put on another old western movie, a frown painting itself across your face while you sat up next to him. 

“i love you, i swear it, but not enough to watch another western”

his eyebrows knitted together as you spoke, his left hand sitting firmly on your lower back as he looked between you and the movie. 

“what’s wrong with a western?”

you gave him a look, one that told of your displeasure without even having to say the words. 

Logan chuckled, smirk breaking out on his handsome face as he shook his head. 

“really baby?”

his hand moved to your hip, squeezing slightly. his touch sent a warmth through your body, something only he managed to do. 

“really baby, they’re just… boring”

he chuckled again, his hands helping to move you into his lap while you grabbed at his shoulders to support yourself. 

Logan watched you watch him,  your eyes soft but his had a gleam of something else in them, something you knew all too well. 

“well what’d you want to do then?”

his smirk deepened at the way your eyes lit up, a chuckle toppling from his lips at the subtle rock of your hips against his. 

“something a little more.. interesting”

the innuendo was obvious in your words, and Logan couldn’t help but be intrigued, he always was when you were in the mood. 

he watched you move against him again, his voice dropping as he spoke. 

“yeah you want it baby? have at it”

reblogs are highly appreciated !

[reblonks]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

[reblonks]

(id in alt)

jason todd for @jasontoddsbookmark via @dcforgaza ! requests close in less than 24hrs, get in on it before it's over!

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hmm johnny… very (gurgle gurgle choke)… interesting

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Superman "Pumpkin Spicy" variant cover by Tom Reilly

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haiiaiaiiihihihiii! have you ever drawn Roy, and if not, do you plan to? Luv your art style <3

HIII!! Not as much as i’d like, but there’s some of my drawings of him!! thank u so much!!<3

[reblonks]

Self-indulgent request: Could I get a typical domestic morning while married to Soldier 76? Thank you ❤️

Mornings with Soldier 76

Pairing: Soldier 76 x GN!Reader Warning(s): Mentions of nudity but nothing descript Word Count: 994 Account Navigation

The bed creaked next to you before you felt the mattress shift. You groan as you push yourself up to see what the disturbance was. Lips pressed against your temple, a quiet ‘shhhh’ following. 

“Just me,” Soldier whispers, urging you to lay back down, which you happily did. 

“That time already?” You mumble, your words slurring together ever so slightly. You hear a quiet laugh before a hand was stroking your head, urging you back to sleep. 

“You’ve got time. It’s still dark outside. Go back to bed, honey.”

You grumble in response as you nestle back into bed, happy to get a couple more hours of sleep. 

By the time you woke back up, the sun was peeking through your blinds, casting a pretty yellowish orange light along your walls. You rub sleep from your eyes, yawning as you push yourself up and out of bed. The faint smell of coffee hung in the air as you walked into the living room. 

You smile as you enter the kitchen. He left enough for you to have a cup. You poor the rest into a #1 one husband mug Jack had gotten you when you first got married- he’d found it amusing- and add your cream and sugar. 

A sigh left you as you leaned against the kitchen counter. Jack wouldn’t be back for a little longer. His morning workout normally stretches for a few hours.It still amazes you how active he is at his age. But you suppose being a super soldier probably has something to do with it. 

You glance at the clock above the stove. 7:30 AM. You could probably start breakfast. He’ll probably be back around the time it’s done. 

You were right. As you were plating the last bits of breakfast, the door unlocked. You heard him let out a sigh as he walked in. Lips pressed against your temple as hands settled on your hips. “Good morning, Jack,” you greet, turning in his grasp so you could look at him. 

“Good morning, honey,” Jack greets, leaning into you to press a kiss against your lips. “Sorry about waking you up.”

You let out a quiet laugh, pushing your head under his chin as you hugged him. “Doesn’t bother me. And thank you for the coffee.”

Soldier huffed above you and you’re positive he rolled his eyes. You pulled back, nudging Jack towards the table. “Go sit down.”

You’d be lying if you said you were surprised Jack instead grabbed two plates and silverware before he went and sat down. You fought the urge to roll your eyes as you grabbed the food and joined him at the table. 

He enjoyed telling you about his run. The things he saw, the people he talked to. His favorite thing to bring up were deals he saw for stores the two of you frequented. It always amused you. 

Jack did the cleaning up, insisting you relax for a moment despite your rebuttals. You finally gave in when he promised he’d let you do it next time. You’re sure ‘next time’ will end the same way. 

You watch from the couch as Jack cleans up, setting the dishes in the dishwasher and starting it. It took less than 5 minutes and then he was joining you on the couch. 

“Did you shower before you left?” You ask, cozying up to him as you waited for an answer. It was a 50/50 with him. 

“Not today.”

“Good. You’re all sweaty. Come on.” You drag him off the couch. Soldier let you pull him into the bathroom without much fuss. The usual ‘I was just getting comfy’ was all the trouble he caused you. 

You turned the shower on to let it warm up before you started stripping, folding your clothes in a neat pile on the sink. Jack mirrored your actions. 

The water was warm as you stepped in. You offered your hand to Jack who took it with a quiet thank you. It was usual for the both of you to help each other wash. Jack had issues getting his back and parts of his legs. 

You were more than happy to help and he was more than willing to accept the help. Hands traced over Jack’s scars. It was one of your favorite things to do. He’d told you how he got most of them- long as he remembered them. He let out a series of quiet sighs, his muscles visibly relaxing under your hands.

Showers with Soldier always lasted maybe a little longer than they should, both of you getting out long after your fingers had pruned. Towels wrapped around your waists as you start your morning routine. 

The double sink was amazing. Neither of you crowded each other as you brushed your teeth and did the other steps of your morning routines. Jack waited for you to finish, pressing a short kiss to your lips, before you both returned to the bedroom.

You rummaged through your dresser to find an adequate outfit for the day. Jack does the same. You’d both gone with jeans and a simple t-shirt. He grabs a belt from the closet, looking it over for a couple seconds before handing it to you. 

You chuckle in response, taking it before doing the same. It had become an everyday thing. You’d both end up picking something out for the other to wear. Sometimes it was a shirt, sometimes something as small as a bracelet or necklace. Jack had admitted once it was his way of showing you were ‘bonded’ in his words. 

He helps you pull your belt through the loops of your pants, pressing chaste kisses against your lips. It has you letting out breathy laughs that he returns with low chuckles. While you do your belt, making sure it’s not too tight, Jack loops his into his own pants. 

“What’s the plan today, Soldier?” You hum, pulling him into another kiss. 

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equal opportunity voyeurism

early access + nsfw on patreon

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Reds !

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Bruce just wants smooches

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Please Care About Aquaman With Me: Everybody Has a Bad Time in the Bronze Age

Thank you for returning to my irregularly scheduled Aquaman micro-hyperfixation! Last time, I talked about the first 35-ish years of Aquahistory. Now we’re up to 1975 and comics have developed longer plotlines and gotten angstier and more melodramatic - and major characters are fair game to be killed off. Gwen Stacy died in 1974, but the death this post kicks off with is even more shocking.

CW: Child death, comic book sexism.

The very short version of the setup is that Black Manta has captured Arthur, Garth, and Aquababy. He puts Aquababy in a glass ball full of air (instead of water), which he will suffocate in after a few minutes, and Arthur and Garth in an arena to fight to the death. Once one of them dies, he’ll fill Aquababy’s prison with water.

So just to make this absolutely clear: to save his biological son, Arthur will have to kill or be killed by his foster son.

He doesn’t hesitate for a second.

I know we talk about Bruce being a bad dad all the time, but at least when Ra’s al Ghul tried to make him chose whether Tim or Damian would die, he offered himself instead. Arthur had that option here! And yet.

The look on Garth’s face here absolutely kills me and this is the comic that made me start going feral over the Aquafam. Of course absolutely zero time is spent on his emotional reaction to this, but the only father he’s ever known not only just tried to kill him - he made it clear that he doesn’t actually consider Garth his child. “That’s my son up there! My son!!” THAT’S YOUR SON DOWN HERE TOO, ARTHUR. The fact that he calls him “Minnow” while he does it (one of his two long-running nicknames for Garth, the other being “Tadpole”) makes it hurt even worse.

I think this moment, too, is why Arthur and Garth basically never refer to each other as father and son. On paper, they have a similar relationship to Bruce and Dick and Roy and Ollie, who acknowledge their father-son dynamics all the time. But despite Garth saying Arthur’s like a father to him in his very first appearance, after this, they just…don’t say those words. Arthur is Garth’s liege and his friend, but he is not his father.

(Mera is still his mom. He loves Mera so much.)

But wait! It gets worse!

Keep reading

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DONATION UPDATE!

We have tallied up our current donations. In just three days, we've received ~$2000 USD!!

A huge thank you from our staff team—we've blown our milestone out of the water. That's three times as much as how much we got in Round 1 Day 3 of DCG4G!

We appreciate all of those who are contributing to this event, and we're happy we can help more families in Gaza thanks to everyone's support.

Donations are STILL OPEN until June 14th, so donate now!!!!

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jaime reyes doodles!

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'caught in your gaze'

individual pieces under the cut

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apparently someone in Edinburgh has been updating the street signs for pride

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commission done for @gildui with Evie and Ghost ❤️