#oh yeah some tidbits:

[copepods]

finished my refs for the siblings! plus an alt robeless pebbles

[shikai-the-storyteller]

I'm so bad at actually remembering to recommend fics I like, but I was just reminded of "You And Me Were Built for Violence" and I wanted to take a moment and recommend it to folks if they haven't had a chance to take a look at it yet! It's a Fuga Impossivel + 2b2t crossover fic where Tazercraft are washed up on 2b2t shortly after their escape from Alcatraz and are found by none other than FitMC. It's got some great Fit/Pac content and some really good Tazercraft content. 10/10 fic! There's only two chapters so far, but they're both very satisfying and well written.

[lover-of-mine]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday!

I was tagged by @honestlydarkprincess @try-set-me-on-fire @daffi-990 @wikiangela thank you <3

Trapped in the elevator buddie are talking all sorts of shit in my docs right now so have more of them prev snippet

"She came back, you know?” Buck says after a beat and Eddie looks back at him, “I thought that meant something, and she's great, but I felt like I was forcing something to fit, so I let go, I didn't want to keep settling," he shrugs, and Eddie sighs while watching him.  "Sorry, I shouldn't-" he tries but Buck shakes his head, interrupting him. "I started it, and you're right, I cling to shit, I know that, I just," he trails off and Eddie’s face softens as he finishes the thought for him. "Didn't want to feel like you had to?"  There were many steps before Buck actually decided to end things, mostly involving him freaking out. But it all came back to the moment he realized he was helplessly in love with Eddie. Because even if he thought he could get over it easily, which he definitely doesn’t, everything about his relationship with Natalia felt just wrong enough for him to know that staying in it would be just holding on for the sake of holding on. He liked her, yes, but not nearly enough to make it worth the way he kept twisting himself into knots to make it work.  Because when he thought about it all, Buck realized that even though he and Eddie had been through hell and back, he never felt like he was forcing it. They just work.  And maybe he’s been sitting on his feelings for months now, too scared to say something because he can’t figure out if Eddie could actually feel the same, but now that he knows what it feels like, he can’t just pretend he doesn’t just for the sake of having someone.  "I know it's not gonna fall on my lap, but it shouldn't be that hard, right? The work to make it work should feel so natural you don't even realize you're doing it? To work out the good and bad and the stuff in between without making me feel like I'm ripping myself into pieces?"

no pressure tagging <3: @eddiebabygirldiaz @giddyupbuck @watchyourbuck @housewifebuck @captain-hen @bucks118

[sunhaloscarab]

ahah, you know what, i'm gonna post about my tmnt kaiju/godzilla au :)

it's called radiant beasts, and it's mostly inspired by '87 and the showa era, tho i take a lot of stuff from other incarnations too

so the turtles are like gamera x4, splinter is a king caesar-esque kaiju, and they all live on monster island. april and irma are humans who stumble across the turtles one day and form a psychic bond, allowing them to communicate.

shredder is king ghidorah, and krang is mechagodzilla! shredder is a very old storm god and the foot clan worships him like a kind of cult. karai is also a human who forms a psychic bond with shredder, and is hailed as the herald of the shredder

krang was built by the utroms to be the ultimate war machine, but went berserk upon first being activated and basically annihilated everyone. when all was said and done, he gave himself the name of krang, to define his identity. he gets shot into space and crash lands on earth, where he is found by a curious shredder. being giant kaiju, they fight at first, but eventually settle into an uneasy alliance :)

they definitely have the classic '87 gay married/divorced dynamic AHAH i just think it's really funny and charming

anyway. the tmnt have to stop shredder & krang from destroying new york!

[randomeggart]

Ring, the eldest of three

[arklay]

🖊🖊🖊🖊 for diana ofc

a fun little fact about diana is that she wears her watch with the face on the inside of her wrist

while working for umbrella (well, undercover for the rival company, that is), diana's employment was never common knowledge to the public – because why would a pharmaceutical company need a herpetologist? instead, she simply held a position as a researcher at raccoon university, and would occasionally do lectures, but for the most part she would just take the cable car underground to the nest

when diana collaborated with the connections through h.c.f. in the early 2000s, they named one of the d-type bioweapons after her

diana saw a lot of her younger self in sherry when they first met due to the similarities in their situations with their parents, and the way she behaved around both herself and albert. despite her dislike of children, she couldn't help but feel for her and even came to enjoy when she would stay over on occasion (i'd love if my brain would let me finish the rewrite of their first meeting because i touch on all of this in there and diana's thought process ough)

[quibbs126]

Hello, so our hotel has WiFi, so might as well post what I drew today

I didn’t have much time to draw today, and when I did I felt more tired than wanting to draw. I actually drew the entirety of this while waiting for dinner. I guess that’s what you get when you go out with over 20 people

I know I need to do requests, but I’ll be honest, I’ve been doing this for about a week straight, and I think by now I’m starting to feel burnout. I did work a little on them, but I wanted to draw something else instead, at least for a bit

If you wanna hear about them, so these two are from an old video game project of mine called Witch Hunt, which I made I believe about freshman year of high school (which was around four years now, christ). The plot’s pretty simple; so there’s a bunch of witches, and one amongst them, Arcana, turned against the rest, stealing their power and wanting to conquer the world, and now Glaive (the boy on the left) has to go and help the witches recover their power and stop Arcana.

You’d go around the world and find the other 12 witches (well actually 13, as there’s twins with the same element, but you can count them as one), and help them out with their problems, and go through dungeons to recover their power. In their areas, they’ve basically been shunned because the powers they’re supposed to control have now gotten out of hand. Also they wouldn’t all just be one witch, with some you’d meet multiple in the same place. As for the gameplay, you’d play as Glaive using his sword, though as you go throughout the areas you’d get a way to use at least part of the witches’ power to fight Arcana’s golems, with certain enemies being weak against certain things

I can’t deny that it’s pretty similar to Legend of Zelda. That’s probably because when I made the idea, I was watching someone talk about the old Zelda cartoon, and I think I just wanted to make something with a simple plot and characters with simple designs. I remember jotting down my ideas on a piece of scrap paper, which I still have, just not currently on my person

Now, I also had ideas for other games in the series. The first one was a prequel following the oldest witches (note I forgot to mention, so the practitioners of fire, water, earth and wind are the oldest of the group, being in their 40-50s, while the rest are around 20-30 (with the exception of Arcana, who was the youngest), and these four were basically the leaders of the group) when they were still young, seeing how they became friends and the people they are in the present day, as well as introducing a character called the Sorceress, who I may talk about if I draw her as well

The second idea I had was an alternate timeline story where instead Arcana was the protagonist and Glaive the villain, which is where the girl on the right comes in, as she’s this alternate Arcana. The story would be similar, but it would have its differences due to Arcana having a different personality (same for Glaive), as well as what order Arcana would meet the witches since she’s not starting from the same place as Glaive

There’s also be difference in how each game plays, since in the alternate Witch Hunt, Arcana isn’t a physical fighter, and rather commands her golems to fight, and in the prequel, you now have four witches to play as, with that one probably playing closer to an old school turn based RPG

All right, I think that’s everything I needed to cover with the games, let’s talk about these guys themselves

So if you notice, the two actually look pretty similar, having the same lavender hair. They’re also supposed to have the same skin tone, it’s just that since Glaive is a blacksmith, his skin’s been a bit tanned. They’re also supposed to be the same age, around 15. This isn’t because Arcana is just supposed to look like Glaive in the alternate universe, the two timelines are actually nearly identical. In both timelines, these are what the two are supposed to normally look like (they don’t look like this in the timelines they’re villains), and everything about their backstory, up until when they met the other witches, is pretty much identical in both timelines. I wanted to imply there being a secret connection between the two (that I imagine you can guess), but this wouldn’t be something we find out until some hypothetical fourth game that’s an actual sequel to the original

Also during this fourth game, we’d find out that there was more to Arcana’s corruption than just a lust for power or some resentment of the other witches, and it would eventually be revealed that she was basically corrupted/possessed by this evil entity who falsely promised her something, though I haven’t figured out the details yet. This is also what happened to Glaive in the alternate timeline

I recognize now that this plot line sounds a little similar to Dark Choco, in that it was someone who was fundamentally a good person (even if Arcana isn’t exactly outwardly that) and never meant to betray their companions, only for them to find power that corrupts them and everyone believes they betrayed them of their own will and must defeat them, only for this not to be the case and them suffer the consequences. However, I came up with this years before I saw Cookie Run, so…

But yeah, I think that’s it. I just wanted to talk about Witch Hunt. Every now and then I want to work on it, but the problem always comes from trying to design all the witches; I usually burn out by Inferno and Cobble, aka by about two. I’ve come up with some designs for the others, but never all of them. But maybe someday I’ll get all of them

Hope you like it!

[mintbees]

one of the weirder things about having posts blow up is that unintentionally the weirdest random info about me or the people around me is like... Known by a LOT of people.

with how often posts of mine got reposted and shared upwards of maybe a million people know i think jackson pollocks work sucks (which it DOES) because i posted a little 2 am ramble about it. and probably a similar amount of people know about my dads college years and have a vague idea of what he looks like. my dad does not know about that post. why tf do so many people know about my dad now.

[skelly-bean]

I love the character I’ve made for baldurs gate 3 SO. MUCH!

I feel like there is so much going on with them visually but I don’t even care they’re amazing

I also love the guardian I made a lot too - definitely put way less time into making her but I was so tired of overthinking in character creation haha

[tc4m]

holy shit a friend just found a teacher's instagram(?) account???

idk why I'm so surprised about that, considering that I think they probably just googled the teacher's name, since said teacher has a kinda funky name.

That being said, it definitely had me thinking about internet privacy and safety. Sure, the teacher made that account probably knowing that no one will find it other than. like. family members and their spouse (also holy shit they're married???), but it goes to show that googling your name can go a long way, especially if yours is a little funky.

Now that I think about it, none of my friends ever use their real name for accounts either. Maybe older people are just more confident about internet privacy?

Or maybe, it's more obvious since they don't need to worry about creepos.

I dunno, I have a sore throat, I'm typing this on an alt account since ain't know one needs to try and figure who the teacher is since I once wrote my city on my main, and shit.

[charliemwrites]

Okay so the poll results were for an OC captain, though it was close enough that I still hesitate to name him in the canon of the fic.

I’m also going to be taking my time fleshing out his character because it’s been a while since I made an OC. So please be patient while I add tidbits here and there to build his character.

Content: safe/sane/consensual sex, descriptions of scars, mentions of past torture

Nikto beats you and Nova twice out of three rounds — but that’s no surprise. The man moves like a machine. Even against two opponents he controls the battlefield like a chess master. Neither you nor Nova take it to heart, especially since he always gives you both advice at the end, helping you to improve.

He’s a great partner, a great teammate; you’re sure to show him your appreciation after sparring with a kiss to his nose-plate. His hands spasm on yours as he helps you unwind your wraps, gloved thumb sweeping over your bare palm.

“You did good today,” he says, voice rough and accent thick. He must be pissed about earlier still, when Ghost and Soap threw your matches with them.

“So did you,” you reply, squeezing his hand in return.

“Stay with me tonight?” He asks.

You damn near melt. Nikto has an open invitation to your room, but his is a sacred place, only for him unless otherwise specified. That he’s asking you to come to his tonight…

“Absolutely,” you reply, squeezing his hand. “I just need to see the captain first. Okay?”

He grunts in understanding, eyes flicking to the door the 141 left through earlier. He mutters something in Russian — some insult about goats and mothers you think.

“Yeah, exactly,” you reply, voice dropping with simmering irritation.

A good spar with him and Nova has helped ground you a bit, but it hasn’t helped the anger. You don’t spar any of your team with anger; they don’t deserve.

Luckily, you and your captain worked something out a while ago when you’re feeling a bit… aggressive.

“Cap?” You call, still holding Nikto’s hand. “Could I stop by for a nightcap later?”

His eyes flash, a sinful twist to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, babygirl. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

Over his shoulder, you see Nova arch her eyebrows and Keegan grin wicked into his water bottle. Gossip fiends.

“Showers. Now,” the cap says, slapping them both on the ass. “Double time. I need to have a word with Price still.”

—

Long after the sun has gone down, you’re standing outside your captain’s door. Take a breath. Remind yourself of your mantra. He wants you, always will, and he’s going to take care of you.

Then loosen your shoulders, unboxing all the frustration and aggression you set aside earlier. Feel it burn through you, make your hands twitch in and out of fists.

One more inhale, and then you shove the door open.

“There you are,” he rumbles. “C’mere.”

You flash your teeth, “No.”

He tilts head back and forth, cracking his neck. “Alright then.”

There’s no real fight. You’re not looking to get away or actually hurt him. And he’s not looking to actually make you submit. That’s not the point of this game.

He strides across the room and shoves you back, pins your shoulder to the wall. You grip at his forearm, nails scraping, and squirming as the hot, hard length of his body squishes you flat.

“Settle,” he orders.

“Fuck you,” you snarl back, nipping his lip.

He growls, tangling a hand in your hair and tipping your head back. Leaves a searing trail of kisses down your throat, bites a bruise into your collarbone. You wriggle and fuss all the while, safely held still and supported by his hands and body.

“Brat,” he rasps in your ear.

“I’m not,” you snap.

“Oh, yes you are, babygirl,” he replies, a mean smirk on his flushed face. “But that’s alright, I like you bad.”

He pulls you from the wall, bullies you onto the bed. You try to grab at him, get him under you. He doesn’t indulge like he normally would. Pins you on your back so that you can keep fighting, yanking at your wrists in his firm grip, pushing your hips up to grind into his as if trying to flip you both.

He slots his hips between your thighs, positions just his knees under your ass so that your back is arched, shoulders on the mattress. Limits your mobility, but that doesn’t stop you from kicking at air, making half-angry, half-desperate noises in the back of your throat.

“Gonna say please like a good girl?” He teases.

“No,” you hiss back.

He has the audacity to chuckle, which just riles you up more. (It’s supposed to). You curse as he works a hand beneath your shirt, palms at your bare breasts and pinches your nipples until they ache. You gasp like a pornstar, surprised and turned on.

“Pretty noise,” he coos. “Do it again.”

When he twists, you mewl, face immediately burning up as you renew your “efforts” to get away. All it does is make the treatment rougher than if you just laid still and took it, but that’s what you want, what feels good. A little edge to the pleasure as adrenaline and energy electrify you from head to toe.

He grinds against you, cotton of your loose shorts sticking against your soaked cunt. Christ you were turned on before you even barged in. Now you’re fucking throbbing for it.

“Gimme,” you grit out, rocking against him. Gears successfully shifted from physically taking control to just ordering him around.

“Give you what, brat?” He goads, slapping your pussy. The thin fabric muffles the sting, but it sends a white-hot ache through you that makes your eyes roll. “My cock? You think you deserve it?”

Another slap. You cry out, notice the sly look on his face when he notices that you’ve soaked through your shorts.

“Yes,” you reply, all confidence and reckless arrogance.

He yanks his underwear down to mid thigh, thick cock springing up to smack lewdly against his toned stomach. Precum smears over the pale scars there, sticks in the trail of groomed hair there.

“Yeah?” He growls. “Alright then.”

He yanks the crotch of your shorts aside (you hear stitches pop) and then he’s plunging into you. It’s too much all at once and you cry as much, knees squeezing around his tattooed ribs.

“Fuck.” His voice is shredded, so rough and low you feel it more than hear it. He lets your wrists go to grip at your ass, grinding deeper. Can feel the fat head of his cock bullying at your cervix, his favorite passtime while you adjust to the thick base of him.

“How does that feel, babygirl?” He murmurs in your ear. “You needed daddy’s cock, huh? Needed it to set you right again?”

You whimper out a curse at him, gripping at his biceps. He croons mockingly, thumb slipping between your bodies to press at your clit. Not rubbing or grinding, but just pressing. Just the right amount to make you sweat and pant, start trying to squirm to get any friction at all.

He lets you — could stop you if he wanted, or pull away entirely — but he likes winding you up like this. Likes seeing all that vicious energy turned to seeking pleasure from him.

“Fucking move,” you try to snarl, but your voice breaks midway through and comes out more pleading than you’d like.

“What was that, babydoll? Are you talking to me?” He teases, rolling his hips.

Your mouth falls open, a moan ripping from your chest, deep and needy.

“Daddy, move,” you cry, voice going up in pitch.

“There’s my brat.”

He pushes one of your knees up against your chest and slams into you. You scream and he doesn’t even try to cover your mouth, whispering filth as he tilts your hips for the best angle with his other hand. Fucks into you deep and rough, grinning at the obscenely wet noises every time he plunges into you.

Can practically feel him fucking your cervix open to get just that little bit deeper. Licks his lips when he sees the little bump in your stomach. You give as good as you get, squeezing down tight, bouncing to meet him, nails scoring lines down his back and shoulders.

“Gonna ask daddy to make you cum?” He goads.

“Earn it,” you reply.

He laughs and pulls out, flips you onto your stomach while you’re still dizzy with emptiness. Hikes your hips up and sinks into you like coming home. Your knees almost give out but that’s fine by him, he’s plenty strong enough to hold you up all on his own, using you like a noisy little toy for his own benefit.

“Fuuuuck,” you whine, feeling overwhelmed, pleasured tears gathering in your eyes. Then, in a whisper, “Daddy…”

“Feel like being good yet?” He asks. A large, rough hand circles that back of your neck and pins you face down to the mattress.

“N-no,” you whine, fight gone out of you now that you’re getting exactly what you want.

Fuck it feels so, so good. Every inch bullying you wide open and loose, so wet you’re dripping down your own thighs, wetting his ball as they slap against you. You feel split open and pinned, unable to do anything but take it, tortured stupid on ecstasy. He licks a stripe up your back before pressing you down prone, ankles locked around yours to keep you open and accessible.

“S’alright, doll, don’t need to be good to be mine.”

He’s barely pulling out halfway before ramming home now. You can barely get a breath in, the weight of him pressing whatever resistance was left right out of you.

“Daddy, daddy,” you sob. “Fuck, I wan’ it.”

“Want it, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you moan, pressing your face into your arms. Cant your hips just that little bit to get him abusing that bundle of nerves.

“Oh, right there, huh?” He coos. “Did daddy find your little sweet spot?”

A series of short, ruthless thrusts right there, making incoherent, desperate noises fall from your mouth. Before you realize it, he’s wedged a hand beneath your hips and has two fingers toying with your poor, neglected clit.

“‘M gonna… f-fuck, fuck,” you whine, writhing (or at least trying to) against him. Not sure if you’re trying to urge him on or get away. Doesn’t matter, he’s in charge, has been since the beginning. “Daddy, I wanna…”

“Whenever you want, babygirl,” he replies, voice going all warm and gooey. Your chest hitches. “Squeeze around me nice and tight. Let me feel you cum on my cock.”

Didn’t realize that was what you needed, but you fucking scream as you clench down around him, stars bursting behind your closed eyes. He fucks you through it, tapping against your g-spot again and again until you dissolve into a weak, wet whimpers.

“Daddyyyy,” you whine.

And that sets him off, flooding you with heat. He loses control for a second as his hips jerk, pounding brutally into your oversensitive, swollen pussy. Makes a few tears finally slip down, soaking into the sheets along with your drool. The sound of him groaning as he cums makes you spasm around him again, a little aftershock that milks the last of his release.

“That’s it, easy,” he groans, brushing kisses over your trembling shoulders. “Easy, doll.”

He lies over you for a few minutes, letting you feel him there. Right there with you. Breathing and recovering, holding you through the endorphin rush. When you squirm a bit, he eases off you, cock slipping out. You shiver at the feeling of his cum trickling out of you, glassy eyes fluttering.

“C’mere,” he soothes, tugging you in. Lying on his side, he hitches one of your thighs up over his hip, tucks your arms between your chests and rests his stubbly chin on your temple. You splay your fingers over his peck, over the bold, dark symbol for SpecGru. Feel his heart settling back into rhythm and sigh, snuggling in.

The hormone drop is a monster on your emotions, often leaves you shivery and lonely, a little sick in your own body. First time you did this with him ended in tears, expecting him to get up and leave. He didn’t, never has, but you both learned that as much physical contact as possible in the aftermath eases the comedown away from a total crash.

“You did so well, babygirl,” he whispers, leaving kisses everywhere he can reach without dislodging you. “Such a good girl. Even if you think you’re being bad.”

You flush, hide your face against his neck. He chuckles, honeybalm on your soul. Can feel his hand start to move, then pause as he remembers that you can’t handle that stimulation right after sex. So he just squeezes, slow and gentle, helps get you back in your body.

“I still want you,” he assures, echoing your mantra back at you. “Always will. You’re mine.”

You outline a heart shape onto his forearm, not quite able to speak yet. He recognize the feeling though and gently guides your face up to place a slow, gentle kiss to your lips.

“Love you, too, babygirl. Ready to clean up?”

You nod. He eases you up, lets you cling onto his hand as he walks you to the en suite. Fills you a glass of cool water to sip on while he gets the shower running. Turns his back while you use the restroom and wash your hands, then guides you into the hot water.

You lean into him, near boneless, as he washes you, calloused palms with soap instead of a cloth. Then sits still, hands on your hips, while you return the favor. This part is one of the most important for you, getting to freely return touch.

(Simon hardly ever let you touch, especially in the aftermath. Sure, you could scratch and grip at him during sex, but during foreplay it was all part of his dom persona that you couldn’t just touch at will. And afterwards… well. It’s not like he didn’t do aftercare. He did! But the almost formulaic warm cloth wipe down, glass of water, doze for a bit before he left was not… not ideal. Not like this.)

Your captain hums, eyes half-lidded but trained on you, while you smooth your palms over the firms planes of his muscles. Fingers tracing over tattoos and scars. Squishing and patting at the healthy layer of tissue over his stomach and thighs. Lets you nuzzle and kiss his soft cock, even though it makes his fingers twitch with oversensitivity.

Squeezes when you lace fingers together to stretch his arm out, inspecting the lines your nails carved into him.

“M’okay, baby,” he says before you can ask. “Feels good.”

You similarly assure him over the bruises on your wrists and hips, smiling and leaning up to kiss his jaw.

When the shower is over, he dries you off, playfully ruffling your hair just to kiss the pout off your lips. He dresses you in one of his shirts and a spare pair of your own joggers, found in his duffel.

You sit with him for a while longer still, enjoying how he lets himself relax once he knows you’re taken care of. He lies with his head on your chest, your fingers fluffing his hair, while the two of you watch an episode of some stupid show Keegan got the rest of the team into.

Only when it’s over does he ask if you’re ready to go to Nikto’s. If you wanted to stay, you could. Nikto would understand. But you’re looking forward to a night with your quiet Russian while the other three have a little movie night.

At the door, you kiss your captain goodnight. Hug and kiss Keegan and Nova as you pass them in the hall headed to his room. Nova makes a point of kissing one of the bruises on your wrist, while Keegan whispers that he loves you.

You pad to the first door in the hall, where Nikto has stationed himself as the team guard dog. You tap gently at the door, a pre-determined pattern to let him know who it is.

The door cracks open, one startling blue eye peering from the darkness.

“Evening, Nik,” you coo.

A hand reaches out and gently yanks you inside. And then next thing you know, you’re wrapped up in thick arms devoid of any usual covering. You feel smothered, in a good way.

“Love,” he rasps in Russian into your hair.

You hum in return. Place your palms flat on his abdomen. The muscles clench, you pause as you realize his abs, impressive as they are, feel too defined. He needs water. Taking mental note, you draw your hands carefully around, feeling the raised bumps of wicked scars. Make sure he can track exactly where and how you’re touching until your arms are wrapped around him in a return hug.

“Smell good,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” You giggle. “Showered just for you.”

He snorts, then scoops you up. You make a delighted noise, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you across the room. Of course his navigation is impeccable, even in pitch black. He lays you down on the bed, but before he can crawl up with you, you place a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re dehydrated.”

He makes an annoyed noise, sounds like he’s about to protest. You shush him with a quick peck to his chest.

“Get a glass please? I could use some water myself.”

Which has him instantly moving. You politely turn away as the bathroom light flicks on, the water runs. Can hear him chug two entire glasses before he fills it one final time. The light turns off again. The bed dips as he returns, presses the cool edge gently to your cheek.

“Thank you,” you murmur, sipping about a quarter of it to appease him before he sets aside for you on a bedside table.

And then he gets what he really wants, stripping you down and tucking you in like a nesting bird. Practically on top of you while you’re still reeling from how much skin you can feel. Even during intimacy, he tends to stay clothed or mostly clothed. But right now all you can feel is a pair of underwear against your bare ass. Everywhere else it’s miles of warm skin, uncovered muscle and texture of scars.

“This is nice,” you coo. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

You wiggle around until you’re chest to chest. Start with his hands. Kiss each smooth fingertip, prints flayed off. Then his palms, the divots from nails driving through. Flip them over to kiss his scarred knuckles, smile at the way he twitches, flexing them outward like he’s trying not to close his hand.

“Okay?” You ask.

“Yes.”

You kiss his wrists, his forearms, to his collarbone. You’ve peeked a blue-black tattoo there before. Stars and the start of something that might be religious. Spend a little extra time there, tongue peeking out. He shifts; you take it as a sign of discomfort and move on.

“Here next,” he says when you dip to go to his chest.

He guides your face up his neck, where you press long (but chaste) kisses until you bump his jaw. And realize that’s all skin too.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Can I…?”

“Yes.”

You feather your lips along his fresh-shaved jaw, the nicked scars on his chin. Then up, ignoring the wicked scar along his cheek. Breathe against his temple, feeling dizzy with the trust he’s showing you.

“I love you,” you whisper, continuing along to his nose, twice broken and poorly set each time. A line over one nostril where a piercing was ripped out. He makes a noise in his throat, think he might be having trouble speaking again. Don’t mind.

He lets you get down to his mouth, where a particularly twisted scar warps part of his upper lip away from his teeth. You think that if you saw it in the light, his canine would be visible. His lower lip is uneven too, like a misaligned seam.

You don’t pay any special attention to any of it, focused more on reacquainting yourself with how your mouth fits with his. He doesn’t lead, doesn’t rush or pull or press. But there’s tension all along his body, everywhere you touch. You don’t ask for more than a chaste kiss, and when you pull away, you tilt your forehead gently against his.

“Still okay?” You ask.

“Still okay.”

[clockwayswrites]

Masked Tidbit: A Threat

“Sorry to intrude,” Clark said politely. They weren’t the bashful words of a Midwest raised man though, this was Superman speaking through and through. There was an undercurrent of worry under those words.

Bruce and Diana looked about ready for war.

Dick stood to face the trio and, while obviously confused about what was going on, the rest of the Titans followed suit. Phantom stayed floating in the air, but sat upright.

“There’s been a threat made against Phantom,” B said, direct to the point as always.

“Phantom?” Gar asked incredulously.

They thought that Phantom could hardly be hurt. Dick knew better. Dick had seen Phantom bleed red. His hands had been coated in that blood. He took an unconscious half step in front of Phantom, as if somehow he could protect the other from the danger; a danger that Dick didn’t even know yet.

Bruce’s eyes tracked the movement. Dick couldn’t see Bruce’s eyes behind the lenses of the cowl, of course, but he knew.

Bruce hadn’t agreed about letting such a complete unknown as Phantom join the Titans, but this was Dick’s team, not his, so he really didn’t have a say in it. Still, it had been a near argument and a long lecture on accountability. It was a little cute how much Bruce worried, and how bad he was as showing it in a normal way. By this point Phantom might still be almost as much of an unknown, but there was no denying that he had proved his metal and loyalty a hundred times over. Dick thought that Bruce had even come to appreciate Phantom’s presence on the team.

And he had honored Dick’s order not to look into Phantom.

Or Dick thought he had. This brought up a lot of questions.

“Bruce Wayne was approached in Gotham,” B explained, as if sensing Dick’s question and potential anger.

“By who?” Dick asked since it seemed Phantom wasn’t going to. He always tried to have as little interaction with the Justice League as possible.

“Doctors Jackson and Madison Fenton.”

Phantom’s feet hit the floor. “Oh. That’s… you don’t have to worry about them.”

“They seemed rather assured that they could hurt you,” Diana said, her tone both soothing and commanding in that way she had.

With how close they were standing together, Dick could feel the motion as Phantom shrugged. “I mean, yeah, they can. But they’ve never managed to that seriously.”

Dick twisted enough to send a pointed look at Phantom. “What do you call not that seriously?”

Gashes weren’t serious, barely being able to stand wasn’t serious, broken ribs and bed rest wasn’t serious; Dick didn’t really trust Phantom in this.

“I mean, I’m still—” Phantom paused with a frown before continuing oddly. “I’m still around.”

What ever that pause was about made Bruce twitch which was very concerning.

“They want to rip you apart molecule by molecule,” Bruce growled.

Gar made a wounded sounding noise at that and Cyborg outright flinched.

“And that’s not an exaggeration,” Clark said, arms crossed. “That’s a direct quote.”

Clark must have been there as, well, Clark. Dick ran through everything that had been going on in Gotham that might have Clark there. It was better than letting himself dwell on those words. Two charity events. There was some sort of conference, Tim had talked about going to look for tech…

Phantom leaned forward just slightly and Dick naturally leaned back.

“Yeah, that’s just how they are about me. They’ve never captured me, at least not long enough to actually do that. They’re mostly just talk.”

“Son,” Clark said seriously. Phantom almost jerked at the word; Dick pressed more firmly back against him. “If they’re able to hurt you, then that is not just talk.”

“They’re just misguided,” Phantom almost pleaded.

“A misguided rogue is still a rogue,” B insisted with the certainty of a man who dealt with that constantly. He might as well fired a shot for how Phantom flinched and moved further behind Dick. Of course B noticed. “We’ll continue this in a conference room.”

Phantom’s “N’s coming with” overlapped with Dick’s own “I’m coming too.”

B rearguard them for a long, still moment before he nodded and swept off with a sweep of his cape.

Dick couldn’t do anything but follow.

---

AN: You didn't think the Fentons would let go of Phantom being a hero that easily, right? And before there's any doubt, B is 100% trying to protect Phantom here and aware (maybe even more than Dick) how important Phantom is to his son.

You can find the other parts and ao3 link for the first chapter here.

[the-witchhunter]

DP x DC Half Demon

So there’s this interesting little tidbit about souls/ghosts/spirits in DC, or more specifically Hellblazer. So, particularly evil, bad, or wicked souls will eventually turn into demons. That is one of the ways that demons are made

I think one could even argue that some of Danny’s rogues are actually demons or at least becoming one. For example Spectra’s true form is a living shadow person that feeds off the misery of others. Undergrowth and Vortex also could be demons or even gods turned demons much the way Nergal is in Hellblazer

But let’s take a moment to talk about Vlad. He’s pretty shitty and wicked. He’s manipulative, uses his powers to to totally screw over those that oppose him, is really sexually creepy towards Maddie, and his worst sin, is a capitalist

Let’s also take a look at his ghost form:

Glowing red eyes, skin not remotely a human color, and straight up has fangs… some traits that seem kind of traditionally demonic

And what effect did his ghost half have when Danny’s fused with it to make Dan(Dark Danny)?

Inhuman skin color, glowing red eyes, fangs, forked tongue, fire for hair, and oh yeah, turned him completely evil

Vlad’s ghost half has just fully turned or has started to turn Demonic

So I think it’d just be really funny if he got splashed with Holy Water and started writhing on the floor for a bit much to his and everyone else’s confusion

Or him dumping a bucket of it on Danny and is confused when all that does is leave Danny angry and wet, much like a cat.

[peachhoneii]

Rio and Jefferson pulled the most wholesome “This boy did not just bring home a white girl” I’ve ever seen in a movie pertaining to an interracial romance that included a white woman/girl. Because they’re absolutely kind and respectful to Gwen, but they were not expecting a white girl. I cackled at Rio’s “I bet she doesn’t speak Spanish.” Like MA’AM.

I know a significant part of it was them learning to let Miles go and accepting he’s growing up, but another part was they genuinely didn’t expect him bringing home a white girl. That definitely caught them off guard because they didn’t see that coming at all. I love their reactions to it bc it’s similar to how my parents responded to my brother’s white gf.

“Oh, she just said my first name.” Yeah, felt that on an instinctual level. Grew up in the South, Mr. and Mrs. always came first, but this isn’t a race thing because Ganke does the same thing, which neither Rio or Jefferson appreciate. Feel this is just a generational gap sort of thing.

A tidbit about Miles. I really, really appreciate the film including his lowkey attraction to Margo Kess. Gwen and Miles are my preferred ship, but this was a nice touch where you saw Miles and Margo vibe with each other, albeit briefly. There were some sparks. In his escape, Margo hesitated when she could’ve stopped Miles and eventually turns on Miguel, realizing that while his motives may be noble, his methods are not.

There are other small, subtle nuanced concerning race and depiction of race that I genuinely respect the film for depicting so seamlessly. When Rio corrected the guidance counselor on her immigration status, “I’m from Puerto Rico. I’m from here.” But she slowly accepts the line if it means helping Miles’ succeed.

Also the contrast between Miles and 42-Miles hairstyles. That is so POIGNANT to me. Miles is such an open, caring boy and his hair reflects that bountiful spirit he has. It’s thick and open and free. 42-Miles has been damaged by the world so extensively that he’s closed off emotionally and his hair, tight, coiled braids, reflect the coldness he lives in and has become.

[elvensorceress]

not quite tuesday tidbit teases

it's probably tuesday somewhere and this just popped in my head and I wanted to share. what do you think? do we want more?

tagging if any of you want to share something 😘 @hippolotamus @eddiebabygirldiaz @messyhairdiaz @rainbow-nerdss @tizniz @spotsandsocks @daffi-990 @monsterrae1 @diazsdimples @watchyourbuck @wh0re-behavi0r @911onabc @chaosandwolves @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @rogerzsteven @epicbuddieficrecs @bekkachaos @fiona-fififi @wikiangela @exhuastedpigeon @the-likesofus @hoodie-buck @lover-of-mine @mikereads @jesuiscenseedormir @lemonzestywrites 💕

It’s just after midnight and Buck is going to bed. 

He’s been saying this for a couple hours but YouTube had too many AItA videos and Instagram had those gorgeously edited food recipe posts and he doesn’t even want to talk about the doomscrolling of TikTok. But he had a day off and it was supposed to be with Tommy so they could take the weekend and go somewhere fun and romantic, but then Tommy had to work. Buck could’ve gone in with the rest of A shift. But it was nice to have some alone time for himself so he took time for himself. 

His phone goes off with a call five seconds after he’s gotten into bed. It’s a number he doesn’t know. So he could ignore it. Or wait until they’ve left a message. But who would call at this hour for no reason? Or for scamming, telemarketing reasons? 

So Buck answers. 

“Buckley?” The man on the other end says. He sounds vaguely familiar but not enough that Buck came put a name or face with a voice. 

“Uh, yeah? Who is this?” 

“Mehta. Captain Mehta. Of the 133.”

“Oh, hey,” Buck says, automatically friendly and smiling. That makes sense now. “What’s up? Why the— why are you calling?” Why would he call in the middle of the night?

Why does anyone call in the middle of the night.

“Buckley,” he says and it sounds… it sounds… it sounds like…

They have him now. They’ll take care of him. Why don’t we get you cleaned up. He’s in good hands. They’ll rush him to surgery. You don’t have to worry. Let’s get you cleaned up. 

Lets get you cleaned up.

Buck can’t breathe. His whole body is cold. Frozen. 

He tries to get out of bed. He tries, but just slides to the floor beside it. He doesn’t make it any further.

“Buckley, there was a helicopter crash. Your team, our team we went to rescue the pilot. Your, uh, sorry, I don’t know what you call him, but your boyfriend? Life partner? He—”

Oh god. No. No, that’s not. That’s not happening. That is not what is happening right now. This can’t be a, Tommy is dead and I’m letting you know. It can’t be that. It’s not. They were going to—

They were supposed to have a romantic trip together. Wine tasting and some kind of museum Tommy thought Buck would love and maybe a visit to a hot springs up north and they were going to watch the sunset and the sunrise and—

And he can’t be dead. He can’t be.

“He’s alive,” Mehta says. “We’re at Cedars-Sinai. He’s alive, but. It doesn’t look good. He’s in the ICU now. He’s critical.”

Buck pushes himself up. Has to. He has to be there. 

He barely remembers to thank Mehta or even end the call before he switches off his phone and runs out the door. 

~

The drive is a blur. The drive is probably very illegal and he doesn’t know how he doesn’t crash, but he doesn’t have time to wait for an Uber or for anyone else. He runs as fast as possible to the ER lobby, and almost runs directly into Chimney. 

Not almost. Buck crashes into him and almost knocks them both to the floor but that almost actually is an almost because Chim somehow steadies them both. 

He’s pale. Shaken up. His eyes are red. He’s been crying. 

“Chim,” Buck says as broken as he feels. “Chim, where— where is he? What happened? How did this happen? Please tell me he’s okay. He can’t be dying, right? That can’t be happening?”

Chim opens his mouth and grips Buck’s arms tighter, still trying to steady him. “Buck, we— we don’t know yet. It was bad, but he’s tough. You know that. He could be fine.”

Buck lets out a broken whimper and backs away from him. “No. He is fine. He’s fine and this isn’t happening. I just— Chim, I just found him. I can’t lose him already.” 

There’s a flash of something on Chimney’s face but there’s movement around Buck, too. Other people. Bobby, he’s pretty sure. And Hen. They would be here. They would try to comfort him. But they don’t need to because it’s fine. Everything is fine and this isn’t happening. 

It can’t be happening. 

He can’t be dying.

There’s more movement and it’s all blurry, probably filtered through tears, but then everything stops. The world stops. 

Tommy is right in front of him. Whole, alive, real, a little rumpled and there are bloody scratches and bandages on his face and around his arm. But he’s here. He’s fine.

Buck slams into him, throws his arms around him, and sobs as he clutches him. 

“Baby,” Tommy says softly as he hugs Buck tightly, cradling him, comforting him, and Buck can breathe. He’s not frozen. Everything is okay. They were all wrong. Buck knew they were wrong. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Tommy tells him and holds him tighter. 

Buck pulls back just to look at him. “No, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He takes a deep breath and smiles because Tommy is fine. He’s right here and everything is good. Buck touches Tommy’s battered face and caresses him gently. He’s bruised and also pale, and very soggy. It’s been stormy tonight. Another reason why Buck wasn’t all that eager to go out in it. “They told me—  fuck, they scared me. I thought— I thought I lost you. I was so scared. I don’t want to lose you. He told me—Mehta, Captain Mehta— he called and told me there was a helicopter crash and my boyfriend was in the ICU and he’s critical and it didn’t look good, and I can’t— god, I can’t. Tommy, I—”

Tommy’s face isn’t good. It’s pale. Bad. Not smiling. Not relieved. It falls and he can’t even hide the devastation on it. He looks like guilt and death, and his mouth moves but nothing comes out. “Evan,” he finally says, barely says. It’s too quiet, too broken. “Evan…”

No. No, Buck doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want to throw up right now. And he just might. His heart is rabbit speed lightning and his legs don’t exist anymore and there’s an awful blackhole of apocalyptic world-ending destruction swirling and growing in his stomach. 

Someone takes his arm. Someone needs his attention. He’s moved from Tommy’s arms because there is no safety or comfort anymore. There’s no relief. There’s no happily ever after, nothing will ever be okay. 

Buck knows why Mehta said what he said. He knows who isn’t here. He knows who would have come to him and immediately comforted him. 

He knows. 

He knows what this is now. It can’t be that. It can’t. Buck doesn’t know anything.

Hen tells him. She holds his arm and says calmly even if it’s broken. Everything is broken. They’re all broken. “Buck. It’s Eddie.”

No. No, it isn’t. It isn’t that either. Buck really can’t take that. It was bad enough, unimaginable enough the other way. It can’t be this. 

He’s already done this. They did this before. More than once. Forty plus feet of cruel earth and a whirling burst of metal and blood all over him. 

Eddie’s blood was all over him. 

“The helicopter went down and got stuck on the cliffs. He went in so he could pull Tommy out, and we got Tommy out,” Hen tells him, every word a knife stabbing through both of them. All of them. 

“He saved me,” Tommy says, quiet and full of regret. “He saved me and went down with it. They thought it was stable enough. It wasn’t. They got him out after. But…”

Buck collapses to his knees on the floor and holds his head in his own hands as if he can somehow hold himself together when there’s no holding himself together. 

It’s Eddie.

It’s Eddie it’s Eddie it’s Eddie. 

Buck shatters like flimsy glass and sobs in all the pieces that are ripped out of him. What about Chris? What about Abuela? What about Eddie’s parents and sisters and friends and everyone else who loves him?

What about Buck? They can’t be BuckandEddie without Eddie. 

“I need to see him,” Buck suddenly says to the closest person who will listen. “I need to be with him. Please. Please.”

There’s arguing that happens. Bobby yells at someone. Hen, Chim, and Tommy stay around him like a protective guard. Until someone finally agrees. He’s not in surgery, they can’t take him to surgery yet. He’s not stable enough. But he’s on a ventilator, life support. They warn him and Buck doesn’t care. He knows how bad these things can be. He’s lived through several. 

They give him five minutes. 

They’ll have to drag him out with an armed guard if they think Buck will agree to only that. But at least it’s something. 

It’s something. 

Eddie is mostly covered. Blankets, wires, tubes, IV lines, bandages. He’s paler than all of them. Slightly blue-purple, cyanotic. They tell him a few things but Buck can’t hear them. He just wants to be with Eddie. 

Buck sits beside him and rests a shaking hand over Eddie’s hand, under the blankets where it’s trying to be warm. Buck would give anything to keep him warm, and alive. 

Eddie needs to stay alive. He needs to. 

Buck rests his forehead on the side of the bed near their joined hands. He would say something if he had the capacity to form words and sentences. The only thing in his head right now is, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.

And that’s probably all he can say. All that really matters. 

Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please, don’t ever leave me.

(read now on AO3)

[popponn]

summary: tidbits of them (and you), in no particular order. (aka, random headcanons of the boys in a relationship)

notes: bullet hcs is hard for me because i like paragraphs way too much, but i really like reading and writing short stuffs too. think of this as a stretching and a break, nothing serious, also i wanna try this format too ehe. warning: none, just fluff of bllk boys as bfs. written with post canon/pro au in mind. reader's gender unspecified.

character: isagi, rin, sae, bachira, chigiri, kaiser.

yoichi likes to wake up earlier than you. there is a certain feeling of seeing you under the dim light of dawn, bundled in a blanket and facing towards him. his eyes are still heavy, of course, but looking at your face—you could be drooling, snoring, or squishing it against the pillow—and all of sudden his brain is fuzzy mush full of cotton. it's a bit embarrassing, but having that routine every morning really makes him ready for anything.

rin is the type of person who never uses emojis when he chats. actually, you are lucky if you get a reply that is more than five words. but if you are creative enough, you might get a heart or sad face emoji from him. middle finger, if you are unlucky. don't screenshot it or spread the heart emoji to his teammates though. baby boy has a reputation to keep.

sae will honestly let you do anything you want, most of the times. might judge you loudly through a silent stare, yes—but if anyone tried to do anything funny or, god forbid, hurt you, the question is whether it was worth angering him or not. the answer is always no, by the way, this guy is pretty brutal in his wording already. getting him pissed with you involved is just asking for a mental scarring.

meguru has this habit of leaving a trace of you or himself in each other belongings. his shoes? oh, yeah one of the shoes' shoelaces actually belongs to yours, he switched it the moment you bought it. your phone case? look at that, his sign and photos! he also got yours in his by the way—will show it off daily and speaks to it after a prolonged vitamin u deficiency.

hyoma is proud and shameless enough to demand you help him style his hair every day. you are bad at it? don't worry he is patient when it comes to you, you will learn. and if you somehow figure out this is some scheme to get you to play with his hair every day, standing behind him while he quietly etches every detail of your face to his memory—no you don't.

michael whenever he just wakes up is the most honest, most dearest mihya. as in go, ask him to say 'i love you' three times with no reason or anything at all, and as long as you use a sweet tone he will do it, no question asked. might throw a hissy fit once his brain fully kicks in though, so record it so it will be worth it at least.