#( i am so rusty forgive me!! )

[cherrirui-official]

Awe yeah Hitman JD art (+ semi-unrelated doodle bc I wanted to put something over the cut)

!! Blood warning for the art under the cut !!

@lemony-and-zesty HI I stumbled upon your Hitman John Dory au while looking at trolls fanart and I'm SO NORMAL abt him!!!! I just had to draw him I hope that's okay

[cos-latte]

So apparently it's Ultrakill's 4th Anniversary today so have a V1 in celebration

[mahou-goth]

“Now I know, I’m worthy of you”

[gothoffspring]

Impromptu casual date at the whiskey tango foxtrot, which is where these two met (and monica still bartends sometimes)! Riley will take any and every chance he can to practice his.... interesting stand up routines. This latest joke is definitely about how he got drunk, ended up in a fugue state and saw a unicorn. It sounds way better in my head when Riley says it okay.

If Monica can see this man, in his weed bandana, telling questionable jokes and still love him, WE HAVE A WINNER FOLKS! 💚

[versusholy]

it only takes seconds for the senator to imagine her padawan protector as the little boy he once was — perhaps, it is the easiest way of remembering him now. he seems too aged, even at just twenty. his eyes overpower everything else, &. now when she looks into them, all she can feel is his warmth. though warmth is a strange thing; it heals, but too much of it can hurt.

padme's arms rest firmly on the pillar, &. when she finally looks at the man beside her, she easily feels the weight of his burden through the littlest of things; the pace he follows her at— the kindness within his gaze— the touch of his hand on her cheek. [he is softer than he is willing to admit.]

❛❛ I MUST ADMIT — I FEEL SAFER WITH YOU CLOSE. you make things better, when i get so lonely here. when i miss my mother, when i miss the smell of my home, you are what soothes me. ❜❜

for @versusnight's anakin skywalker.

[faaun]

.

[ordyneir]

"i’ve been thinking about when i was trying to be your friend." @altarcup's aemond.

crystalline strands are ushered back in the wind, creating a spectacle for even those in the sky to see. the boy (now man) opposite creates a similar effect, as they examine each other tenderly, with nothing tender in their spheres any longer. "you were but a child when we first met. my boys; they loved you."

the lilacs pierce like daggers upon a swollen cheek, a pause made as she turns her head, and for the slightest of seconds, had their shared hatred not disputed the idea, she is almost admiring her sibling. alike in their stature, rhaenyra detests their shared blood. it seethes through her veins, it pulses through her every movement. it makes her angry. it makes her sick. "you are, ... blood, afterall."

"but now, i do not consider you, or the usurper to be anything but foes, and whilst you may be targaryen in name, your hightower blood repulses you from the throne." brows now furrowed, she steps forward, however slightly.

with her body now aligned, a sweep against her stomach is made; draped in only the richest crimson red. behind her, syrax groans in the distance. she sighs massively, hints of mere boredom infiltrating her disposition. "your allegiance could have proved useful, aemond. a great shame you are."

[shieldarchitect]

An Unusual Design Opportunity

Starter for @doctor-brucebanner

The car still smells new and Charlie wonders what the current catastrophic car death count is up to; the agent that was assigned to handling her vehicular misfortunes used to have a sign up in his workstation stating "It has been X number of days since Charlie's last car incident." She's about a half mile from the rather discreetly located fancy shmancy home of Dr. Banner - or well, The Hulk? Professor Banner? She would have to be sure to ask what he preferred to go by these days.

It was almost intimidating, having to work with one of the Avengers. Especially after all they'd done to restore humanity. S.H.I.E.L.D. apparently, recommended her specifically for this job, and she was thrilled at the opportunity to provide accessible design in a new way. She slows down as she nears the entry, parks, and gets out, slinging a messenger bag over her shoulder with her typical client introductory meeting supplies.

A quick check of her phone for missed messages as she walks up to the door gets her in proximity of the door, but she hesitates to knock, hand hovering above the surface for a few seconds. There is a little nervousness lingering in the back of her mind, and it pops to the forefront for just a few seconds, recalling seeing the man's larger greener form using her car as a type of baseball bat against the invading army of the Chitauri - surely her supervisors wouldn't have volunteered her for anything that would put her in danger. She shakes it off and finally knocks three times.

[shadowpeachyuri]

I need your c!crimeboys and sunburst duo thoughts. If possible

well, for starters, neither of them are exactly “healthy relationships”

but in seriousness it’s like. both ccrime and sunburst duo have themes of past regret/mistakes, legacy, and probably more that i can’t think of rn.

bc it’s like. the dichotomy, right? ctommy wants to be like wilbur. except, no he doesn’t. he doesn’t want to be wilbur, he wants to live his life with his friends in his nation, like he did when things were good. wait, doesn’t that sound familiar? mk wants to be like his hero the monkey king, but he doesn’t want to make the same mistakes as his mentor and friend sun wukong.

also, wilbur and wukong? they’re definitely not the same person, but i do think they fulfill a similar role for both mk and tommy- they’re trying, they want to do what’s best for mk/tommy- but they’re struggling themselves, and not asking anyone for help because they’re proud, petty bitches, and they can’t always be what mk/tommy needs them to be. (also, swk and wilbur both tend to do what They think is best (especially for mk/tommy), regardless if that’s what’s Actually the best thing to do in that situation)

[gazebobullshit]

i said your name once. in bed. @tczier

He feels kind of like a fish out of water. His mouth is working but there's no sound coming out, his eyes go wide and his thoughts smash into each other with all the grace of train cars tumbling off the tracks. "Like- Like with someone?" He manages to sputter, only to realize the alternative might be worse.

If imagining Richie saying his name in bed with someone else has his entire world shifting on its axis, the thought of Richie doing it when he's alone might actually make his heart stop. He feels his face flush with color, tugging at the collar of his polo. It feels like he's suffocating all of a sudden, mouth dry and sweat beading on his forehead.

"I'm...sorry?" It's the only thing he can think to say in this situation. He can't imagine someone thinking about him while having sex. He especially can't picture Richie doing it. Though his mind certainly makes a valiant effort to try, eyes doing their best to stay glued to Richie's face and not roam the rest of him like a starved man eyeing his favorite meal.

[softersinned-arc]

@montclair said: ❝ does the promise of war excite you? ❞

The tenderness and care of her attention is unnecessary, but she rarely acts based on necessity alone. The brush of the damp cloth over his knuckles, already healing, is gentle enough not to hurt, and Astoria can feel Baldwin's amused eyes on her. "You're trying not to laugh at me," she murmurs, low enough that only he can hear, and when she looks up at him through her eyelashes, he's wearing a crooked grin that makes her feel as though her heart might stop. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Baldwin answers at once, his tone perfectly pleasant, his expression the very picture of innocence. It only lasts a moment, though, and then the wickedness returns. He leans closer to her, voice dropping to a murmur. "It's simply odd to see you play nurse."

"What a rude thing to say," she scolds half-heartedly, and she bites back a laugh of her own.

"Apologies, wife. I must have lost track of the nurturing between the bouts of bloodshed and violent outbursts." She lets out a perfectly unladylike snort of laughter, and when she goes to dab at the blood on his knuckles again, he withdraws his hand. "No need to play the mortal. We're not being watched."

Astoria looks up at him then, lips curling up in a smile of her own, before she takes his hand again and bows her head, pressing her lips to his bloodied skin. After a beat, she gives up on all pretenses otherwise, and she licks the cooling blood from the back of his hand, her movements slow and deliberate as she drags her tongue over each knuckle. Once his hand is clean he laughs, and he shifts to cup the side of her face with a gentleness that borders on adoring.

"It's a wonder you ever convincingly played the part of a good Puritan wife," he drawls, and it's more compliment than tease, she knows. Astoria's grin only widens. He moves his hand, brushes his fingertips against the barely-visible scar on the side of her neck from his teeth. "Your hunger is particularly un-Christian."

"I have much to be hungry for, my love," Astoria reminds him sweetly, ducking her head to press a kiss to the soft underside of his wrist. "Give me your hand back. You just hit a man hard enough that you'd have broken your own bones as well as his, were you more fragile. It should at least look like it hurts."

It's rare that Astoria commands, rarer still that Baldwin obeys, but he does now. Astoria begins to wind the bandages around his hand, suspecting that he's only enjoying the chance to touch her despite the sheer volume of warmbloods around them. Bad luck, one of the humans had murmured, to have a woman on a ship, and his companion had laughed, punched him cheerfully on the shoulder, responded, Worse luck to tell him he can't have his wife with him.

There are more comfortable accommodations to be found than to sail with pirates, but the captain owed Baldwin a favor, and their arrival must not draw attention. Theirs is not a mission of peace, nor one undertaken at the family's behest: Astoria's revenge is all too personal, and Baldwin, ever the devoted husband, will follow her to the ends of the earth if she asks it of him. He'll certainly follow her to Spain to chase down a lead on her maker's location.

And if it means that, when one of the sailors eyes Astoria for too long, speaks to her with too familiar a tone, he does not hold back? So be it. They are both tense, equal parts eagerness to see justice served and unease at being so contained, and Astoria can hardly blame him for it, not when her only complaint is that she had hoped to do a bit more violence than she's been permitted. Her tongue sweeps over her lip to collect any blood she'd missed, and Baldwin takes her jaw firmly in his half-bandaged hand. So much for subtlety. The fabric falls, and she does nothing to catch it, or try and stop him; that he's tolerated any pretending at mortality is surprise enough.

"A few more days, Duellona," he says, voice soft, and she knows then with striking clarity that he's only permitted the bandaging and tending to keep her occupied for a moment, well-aware of her anxious energy and the overwhelming intensity of her need. Not for the first time, it strikes Astoria, just how lucky she is that he belongs to her as surely as she belongs to him. Who else could know her so well? Read her despite the care she puts into maintaining a mask? Who else could speak to her so gently but without pity, even while he holds her with an unyielding grip and studies the stain of blood on her lips and her tongue.

"I know." Astoria melts into the touch, closes her eyes for a moment. "Just a few more days, and then we'll know. And we'll have to wait anyway. See how connected she is, what the consequences of killing her will be..." Her voice trails off and she opens her eyes, shrugs a shoulder.

"You'll kill her," he promises sharply, "whatever the consequences. Don't forget who you are. De Clermonts are not denied."

"I won't start a war for the sake of revenge, cuore mio."

"Start a war. It is your right." Her lips curl into a slow, satisfied smile at that, and Baldwin chuckles. "Does the promise of war excite you?"

She doesn't answer, and Baldwin laughs again, louder this time. Heedless of their potential audience, she twists her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, tugs him close enough that she can press her mouth to his, let him taste the blood on her tongue himself.

[todoslosdiasdemivida]

Excerpts from the fanfiction I'll never write but occasionally feel amused enough to share:

Ramona, angrily chopping vegetables in the kitchen, muttering under her breath after an argument with Gabe.

"¿Cual es su problema? ¿Qué es mal con él? Entra, ya de mal humor, ¿y qué? ¿Quiere estar enojado conmigo? Creo que no. No hice nada. ¡Me hierve la sangre— ¡AY! ¿Por qué no cocinas tu propia cena, hm? ¿entonces que? Pinche pendejo—"

[ofhumanvoice-a]

@lwiamatka liked for a cora starter

Cora didn't have to be told that the family she had married into still largely considered the miller's daughter beneath them, however much gold she could spin. Fine, she had decided. She was not about to grovel for anyone's approval. They were the ones who would one day be down on their knees. And so as she greeted Calanthe-the wife of one of Henry's older brothers and a queen, apparently, in her own right-her manner was rather cold, although her words were friendly enough.

"A shame we are only meeting now and you were not able to make it for the wedding."

[excellentexecution]

(Very Late) Drabble for the lovely Nonnie | Bret and sick Owen.

Nose filled with snot, skin hot and sweaty to the touch, a garbage bin close to the bedside, already contaminated with the memories of breakfast. Bacon and scrambled eggs, toast with two different jams, three chocolate chip muffins, orange juice to wash it all down; the Hitman hadn't seen Owen so sick. Not since the glory days of youth, before the force of other men's boots became marred to their backs, battle wounds and scars endured. In the hours when mother and father were off to their own adventures, little mind paid to the many children still at home, caretaker and brother endearments of an alike nature. Warmth of a boyhood bed replaced by the thin sheets and rough pillows of a hotel room, shelter for the Hart Foundation, ever still were movements done the same, a skilled hand never able to forget how to tend and protect, to make better despite the aches and pains of sickness.

Away from the enemy - a rattlesnake, a dead man, a boy-toy - an endless list of names and ugly faces, Bret did what he could for Owen. Limited, with nothing more than what was carried in gym bags or discovered in the shared bathroom of five, first was the arrival of a cooled towel to the forehead. Soaked through with chilled faucet water; numbed the flesh that worked against it, rung out the cloth in tight twists and pulls, until only the excess returned to the sink bowl, dripped in scattered droplets. Onto the burning skin in gentle delivery, delicate in its placement, tanned fingers brushing back wetted strands of blonde, waves of sunshine gold. Drawn from forehead to cheek, brown eyes ever attuned and watchful, the color of Owen measured as if he were something far more precious than a faction partner. Beloved more than words could properly say; love unchanged, years spent apart unable to destroy it, the malicious intent of powers beyond their control.

Blankets of the bed tucked in tighter around his body, for all the cold that the Rocket suffered, so, too, was his heat combated with. Shivers and shakes in duel conflict; one moment frozen, another overcome by fever. Additional comfort brought in the form of additional blankets, those of Bret's bed and Davey's, the air conditioner encouraged to its lowest temperature, the button pressed as many times as was allowed, the machine and her fans pushed to their maximum effort. All about the room replaced, the familiar brush of Calgary. Winter nights spent in the outside, beneath the stars, diamonds bright in the skies, the crisp winds. Medication of over-the-counter variety offered via opened hand, the palm that was known too well, into Owen's mouth did two bitter pills go, swallowed with the assistance of bottled drink, green and packed of electrolytes, orange label pressed into by weary fingertips, the bend of knuckles around.

Served almost to boil, room service requested soup eventually found its post within Owen's lap, the hold of his hands around a dull cup, cushioned by several pillows stacked in size order. White and plain ceramic - three types of vegetables bobbing in dark broth, irregular shreds of pale chicken - accompanied by silver spoon. What could be eaten done so, what the stomach gave permission to savor, Owen raised his flag of truce only after the sixth rise of his hand, silver dipped into a lump of carrot but never returned to chapped lips. Peachy and dry, the swipe of a tongue across them barely an impact, Bret took the cup, left it to rest on the bedside table, adjusted the blankets over exhausted shoulders once the rest of the body found its preferred position. So used, so beaten, by more than just the brutal ambush of a common-cold, his gaze lingered over Owen, listened to the way of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest.

Distant from Alberta, there was more than a hotel room striving for the safekeeping of Owen. Mind that never slept, anxiety that dared not to seek rest nor personal peace; sat nearest his bed in an empty seat, worried touch traveled from forehead to cheek, point of the jaw to the side of the neck. Embraced so softly, the pressure of fingertips hardly noticeable on the skin, the caress of thumb over the slender slopes and roughened edges. Decades unable to shatter the bond there - years dedicated, unable to learn nor know anything else - a kiss to the temple from the Hitman's lips, as Owen snored and the boys of the Foundation found trouble in the lobby. Davey making friends with the staff, the Anvil sharing his favorite jokes, the Loose Cannon bound for the first sign of chaos and antics.

Soldier assigned to the small space of a hotel room, committed was the Hitman. Never to stray, never to leave; stationed at the bed of his brother, warm and sunny, in smile and eyes, their hands joined together as the war of affliction continued on. Victory upon the horizon.

___

[forebodes]

ㅤalan often wonders, not about which parts of himself he left behind in the lake, but what he managed to salvage.  what little scraps of his old self he managed to bring back.  hero or villain?  good or evil?  light or dark?  it’s all become so jumbled in his head as of late, the remnants of the late dr. hartman’s claws still digging painfully into his shoulders, coaxing words still whispered into his ear. 

ㅤthere are times when he feels like the darkness’ influence has become less of a lingering touch and more of a gripping vise with each moment of self - doubt he allows himself, like it’s waiting to grow exponentially every time he shuts his eyes, ready to seep through his teeth at every smile.

ㅤaching fingers, caked with dirt and blood, unfold and grip the papers as he stares at the printed words with an intensity comparable only to seeking answers from biblical text.  in a way, they did serve as a guide, paving a path he’d written but had yet to traverse; every event was unfamiliar, yet unfolded exactly as he’d described.  written readiness had become his shield, his one saving grace against the darkness waiting to devour him. 

ㅤhe'd been certain that this was where the page had been leading them, but the eerie silence stretching along the desolate street didn't bode well. normally, there was a sign. where did the issue lie — within the conceptualization of his writing, or his dwindling understanding of himself?

@survivall : ' soo... back to square one. '

ㅤfrustration is evident on his features, even beyond the ever-present weariness, as he turns to jordan with a sigh. " yeah. back to square one. "

[helldustedstories]

@bescmar asked: 🃏+ what is something i should be aware of that is avoiding my attention. [Balam]

Send me 🃏+ a question for the cards! // Accepting

There's part of Stolas that isn't sure why Balam is having him do a reading for her when she knows so much more about the past and the future than he does, but he's always had a soft spot for her, even when he wasn't allowed to see her for a time.

So he's more than happy to hand his deck to her for her to shuffle as she considers her question, putting her intention and thoughts into it before handing it back to the much smaller Goetia. He takes a moment to spread the cards out before carefully setting three cards in front of him on the table to represent past, present, and future.

He turns the first card over, to reveal the Two of Cups, reversed. "Reversed like this, the Two of Cups means separation. A past relationship dissolved, and there were hurt feelings on both sides when secrets were revealed."

The next card to be turned is Strength, also reversed. "With Strength in this position, reversed like this could mean that difficult emotions are arising. It can be hard to face them straight on, and you might want to dismiss them or run away from them rather than confronting them, which can give them more power over you."

The final card is Justice, also in the reversed position. He has a moment to think that it's interesting that all of her cards were reversed before he's looking down at the last one, considering his words. "With Justice here, along with the other cards, it seems like a situation you're facing, one you thought would be simple, may actually be more complex. You may need to dig deeper to uncover the truth of what's happening, to find those who you can lean on and support you through this. But if you stand fast and hold on to your beliefs, even if it's rough, you should come out on the other side."

Which did less to answer her question and more to alert her to circumstances that might help with that answer. The cards didn't reveal everything, after all; just showed a path that might offer some guidance.