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at the end of the day, a white man is always just a white man

Ilya meeting Shane's parents must be insane for them like. Mr Ilya "The Terminator" Rozanov, terror on ice and menace in bed, politely stands there. Your very shy son admonishes him for using the word "lovers" and Russia's Greatest Rage Machine just takes it.

You ask when this started and Mister Dickhead makes sure Shane is accurate about when they started this. How dare you stave off half a year of us, Shane?

You ask if they talked to Scott Hunter and Ra Ra Rasputin says that he, famous asshole extraordinaire went to talk to Patron Saint of Hockey Gays to offer him congratulations.

You ask if he has no loyalty to Boston and Mr Fucking Fuck San Francisco is like. Nyet

Your son is having a panic attack and Miike Snow Genghis Khan calls them "boyfriends" and it's your own extremely shy and sensitive and loving son that is like MY WHAT

rukki-lill

i really needed Shane in Ilya’s Ottawa jersey. exactly in this position

inspired by this awesome fic by theprinceandagcd on ao3!!!!

darlinglovedoe

Omega!Robby who starts scenting Dennis almost as soon as he sees him walk into the hospital. Omega scent isn’t as strong as when alphas do it and Dennis is still so young he doesn’t even notice the older man is doing it.

Alpha!Dennis who shivers when the older omega puts a hand on him. His dick gets hard whenever he gets just the slightest whiff of him: woody and bourbon.

They walk circles around each other like dogs just meeting for the first time and alpha!Jack thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world when he’s fucking into Robby and the omega is just moaning out the young alphas name instead of Jack’s.

the-jason-todd-impreganator

"Batman birthed all his Robin's" but Dick gaslit himself (and othere) into believing it was true to some extent.

—

Dick, eight years old, staring a reporter in the eye: What?

Reporter: Rumor has it that Bruce Wayne and Batman have been seen together.

Dick: Well DUH!

Dick: Batman gave birth to me :)

Bruce, choking on his drink in the background:

—

noodlesstarghost

Man, this was an epiphany, A CALL OF THE ART, I have no idea if anyone else has done this but it popped into my head at 4am in the middle of the flu of my life, and I needed to make it real, my chemical romance has been the only thing keeping me alive this month lmao

Sherlock x OC

Background: early spring so it is still kinda of cold but also kinda of warm with rain on occasion. John is in his 30s while Sherlock is in his mid-20s. OC is in their mid-20s and American

The day had been one of those indecisive London afternoons—half drizzle, half sunshine, the air carrying that damp chill that made coats too heavy and sweaters too light. John had been in one of his talkative moods after lunch, Sherlock tolerating him with the same patience one might grant a dripping tap.

When John opened the door to 221B, he was grinning. Never a good sign.

“Sherlock, this is Tessa Monroe. Met her on the way to lunch. Poor girl had to sit through me rattling on about our morning, and somehow she didn’t run away screaming.”

Tessa stepped in behind him, brushing damp hair back from her face, her posture betraying both curiosity and caution. Sherlock barely looked at her before speaking.

“Your right leg overcompensates for the left—too consistent for clumsiness, too recent for adaptation. Surgery. The shoes—laces drawn tight, offering support. Not vanity, not fashion. Purpose. Sweater instead of coat. Not forgetfulness—London weather forces adaptation quickly. You misjudged it, which places you nearer my age than John’s. You stood to his right because you’re naturally protective of your weaker side. Right-handed, though…” his gaze sharpened, “ink along the side of your left palm. Ambidextrous. Brothers, I’d wager—rough bruises, tolerated, not feared. Shower this morning. Not vanity, not routine. You had training. But not military, not artistic, not professional. University, holiday. A student.”

Sherlock stepped back, smug. “How close am I?”

Tessa blinked. Then laughed, quick and sharp.

“Okay—so this is what you do. You just… announce people’s lives at them. John wasn’t exaggerating.” She shook her head, eyes narrowing just a little. “Right. You got the injury correct. Tibia in two places, fibula in one. But you made it sound like I tripped over a shoelace—wasn’t quite that graceful.”

She shifted her weight, deliberate. “Shoes? Yes, support. Age? Twenty. Ambidextrous? Almost. I write with both, but prefer my left. And standing here—” she gestured to the floorboard behind John, where the staircase waited like a trap, “—was pure self-preservation. I’m not about to stand with a staircase at my back, thank you. As for the shower, yeah, I did take one this morning. Not because I’m vain. Because I actually did something before lunch. Not that you’d guess that.”

John smirked at her tone. Sherlock, predictably, looked unimpressed.

“You say training, yet your physique doesn’t carry the obvious hallmarks of professional effort. Which means unremarkable. And your… structural vulnerability speaks for itself. Overweight. Which explains why a fall on stairs caused such catastrophic damage.”

The air in the flat tightened like a rope.

Tessa’s smile vanished, but she didn’t go quietly. She drew herself up, chin tilting, voice low and edged.

“You know, for someone with a brain like a scalpel, you cut without thinking about the bleeding.” She flicked her gaze to John, forcing brightness into her voice. “Lovely meeting you, Johnny. Next time we run into each other, maybe I’ll actually give you my number. But not tonight.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a second, silence. Then John’s fist collided with Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock staggered, hand snapping to his cheek. “What the hell was that for?”

“That,” John snapped, “was for calling a young woman fat!”

“She is. Clearly doesn’t exercise—”

“You don’t know anything,” John barked, fury sharp now. “That shower wasn’t routine. She hates mornings. She took one because she had training. And yeah, she carries some weight—she’s also strong enough to drown you in the Thames without breaking a sweat. She’s not a stick figure like the women you fumble around with, Sherlock. She’s powerful. And you just insulted her.”

Sherlock blinked, processing. The math didn’t add up.

And then the door opened again.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice, sharp and irritated, sliced into the silence. He swept in, umbrella clicking on the floorboards. “Do you want to tell me why Tessa Monroe just ran past me in tears?”

John turned, incredulous. “You know her?”

Mycroft gave him a withering look. “Good lord, do neither of you read? Or watch anything beyond crime scenes? Tessa Monroe is a world-class American water polo player. She was expected to make the Olympics until her accident. She’s been all over the news. And my dear brother has just insulted an international athlete in his living room.”

John rounded on Sherlock, jaw tight.

“Congratulations, Sherlock. You’ve officially outdone yourself.”

#bbc sherlock #john watson #sherlock holmes #original character #sherlock fandom #mycroft holmes #greg lestrade #sally donovan #london #water polo #American

Medic!Character x MWII

Part 2

Pit didn’t stir again for the rest of the debrief. Price wrapped things up in record time, ignoring the way the men kept darting glances at the bundled figure under the table.

When the meeting adjourned, Gaz hung back, still rubbing at his neck like he’d been violated. “I swear she nearly dislocated my head checking my pupils.”

Soap leaned over, grinning. “Aye, but she did it fast. You blinked and she’d already decided whether or not to amputate. That’s impressive.”

“She thought you were dying,” Ghost said flatly. “Because you shouted like an idiot.”

“Testing the theory,” Gaz muttered, still sulky.

Price took his cigar out of his mouth and jabbed it toward the table. “She’s yours now. Play nice.” Then he walked out, leaving the four of them staring at the blanket lump like it might sprout legs.

For a while, no one moved. Then Soap crouched down, curiosity getting the better of him. “Oi, Pit, was it? That your callsign?”

No answer. Just a faint shift under the fabric, like she was burrowing deeper.

Soap smirked. “You know, most people get a room before nappin’ on the job. You plannin’ on makin’ that table your permanent residence?”

A muffled voice came from under the blanket. “It’s dark. It’s quiet. It works.”

König, looming in the back, tilted his head. His accent softened his words. “Like a bunker.”

“Exactly,” Pit mumbled.

Soap’s grin widened. “Alright, Bunker Medic. But tell me—how the hell did you sneak in here without any of us noticing? Ghost here prides himself on bein’ the shadow in the room.”

Ghost glared, but Pit’s quiet reply cut in before he could speak.

“I was here first. You all just don’t pay attention.”

That earned her a sharp laugh from Gaz. “Cheeky, I’ll give you that.”

Finally, Pit shoved the blanket down and sat up properly. She had sharp eyes, the kind that catalogued everything in a glance—each of them, their posture, their weapons, their tells. Her dark hair was mussed from sleep, but there was nothing lazy about the way she held herself now.

“Look,” she said, brushing herself off, “I don’t care if you like me or not. I’m here because Price says you keep getting yourselves shot to hell. My job is making sure you don’t bleed out before exfil. You don’t need to trust me yet. Just don’t get in my way when I work.”

For once, Soap was at a loss for words. He exchanged a look with Gaz, who raised his brows.

Ghost crossed his arms, tone dry as bone. “You talk big for someone who nests under tables.”

Pit met his gaze without flinching. “Better under a table than six feet under it.”

That shut him up. Even Ghost’s eyes flickered with the faintest hint of respect behind the mask.

Soap clapped his hands, grin returning in full force. “Aye, I like her already. Bunker Medic it is.”

König shifted closer, voice low but genuine. “You were fast. Quicker than I’ve ever seen. That could save lives.”

Pit gave him a small shrug, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was fighting a smile. “That’s the point.”

For the first time since she appeared, the room felt lighter. Not quite comfortable yet—but the tension had shifted. She wasn’t just a stranger anymore. She was theirs.

#simon ghost riley #ghost #john soap mactavish #soapghost #soap call of duty #konig call of duty

Medic!Character X MWII

Part 2

*Set after the whole mission with Graves. Konig is in this because I say so. Character is an American from the midwest and a woman. Established Ghost x Soap x Konig*

The briefing room still smelled faintly of burnt coffee and gun oil. Ghost trailed in behind Soap and Gaz, already bracing himself for yet another pointless meeting. Price had been calling them in every other day lately, and if this was just another lecture about Soap’s last stunt with the C4, Ghost was going to strangle him with his own detonator cord.

Soap plopped down in a chair with his usual grin, boots kicked up on the table like he owned the place. König lingered in the back, massive frame half in shadow, quiet as ever.

Price stood at the head of the room, arms folded, cigar in hand. His expression gave away nothing, but Ghost caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Price was hiding something.

“Right then,” Price started, voice gravelly. “This one’ll be short. As you’re all aware, Laswell and I have been hunting down a medic for the Task Force. You lot get into too many scraps, and frankly I’m sick of the paperwork.” His eyes flicked deliberately toward Soap.

Soap lifted his hands in mock innocence. “What? That last explosion wasn’t even my fault.”

Ghost grunted. Of course it wasn’t.

Price ignored him. “We’ve found someone. Callsign Pit. Twenty-six. From the States. Navy Special Warfare Operator First Class. Combat medic training, eight years’ service, over two hundred confirmed field saves. Formerly DEVGRU, Foxtrot Team. Recently transferred after losing her CO and unit on a botched op.”

The room went quiet. Even Soap straightened a little at that.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz muttered. “Sounds like a prodigy.”

Soap leaned forward, skeptical grin returning. “Aye, but paper doesn’t mean much in the field. How do we know she’s actually any good?”

Before Price could reply, Laswell’s voice crackled from the comm screen. Calm, amused. “Well… someone could always call for a medic. See what happens.”

Ghost turned his head toward her. “That’s ridiculous.”

Gaz smirked. “I mean… might as well test it.” He drew in a dramatic breath and shouted, “MEDIC!”

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Soap smirked, already opening his mouth to gloat—when the entire holo-table jolted violently. A flurry of blankets and limbs burst from underneath it, knocking over a chair.

A woman in a crumpled hoodie and duty boots appeared like a storm, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to her face. She dropped to her knees in front of Gaz before he could blink.

“Where does it hurt?” she demanded, voice brisk. Her hands flew over him, tilting his head, checking his pupils, pressing along his ribs and arms with practiced precision. “Any dizziness? Pain? Trouble breathing? Say something.”

Gaz sputtered, caught between shock and protest. “I—I’m fine! Bloody hell, I’m fine, it was just—”

But Pit was already halfway through a trauma assessment, muttering under her breath as she checked his pulse. Satisfied after another ten seconds, she released him with a sharp exhale, grabbed her blanket from the floor, and without another word climbed back into her little nest beneath the holo-table. Within moments, she was curled up again, eyes closed, already drifting back into sleep.

The room was dead silent.

Soap blinked once. Twice. “Did… did she just—?”

Ghost stared at the lump of blanket in disbelief. “…She’s been in here the whole time?”

Price’s mouth twitched into a rare grin as he lit his cigar. “Told you she was good. Welcome to Task Force 141.”

#soap call of duty #soapghost #ghost #john soap mactavish #simon riley #simon ghost riley #konig call of duty #fanfic

BBC Sherlock ⚠️‼️

You know when Sherlock drugs John during Baskerville and John freaks out? I have two head cannons for it.

First Headcanon: John the Soldier

We forget that before he was John the Blogger — sarcastic, tea-drinking flatmate — he was Captain John H. Watson, RAMC. The kind of man who stitched up wounds in a tent under mortar fire, who learned to assess a man’s injuries before even glancing at his face, because sometimes you didn’t want to remember it later.

So when the drugs hit, it’s not just chemical confusion. His mind doesn’t just wander — it slams him back into the dust and chaos of Afghanistan. The air is thick with cordite, the scream of rotor blades is deafening, and somewhere in the distance, someone is shouting for a medic.

John moves on instinct. He’s scanning for threats, checking for casualties, and every shadow is a potential sniper. He’s wired for survival, and survival means control — but he has none here. That’s why it’s so terrifying. His voice is sharp, movements quick, each step a soldier’s step.

To Sherlock, it might look like John is “freaking out.” But this isn’t panic. This is a man fighting a war only he can see.

Second Headcanon: “Finally”

Sherlock has experimented on John before — in harmless ways, in cruel ways, in ways that made John sigh and roll his eyes but never truly fear for his life. Sherlock knows John carries his gun, knows he’s competent with it, knows he’s used it on cases. But that’s always been outward — toward danger, toward enemies. Never inward.

So when the hallucinations come and John’s mind betrays him, Sherlock has no framework to predict the shift. He doesn’t see the change at first — the way John’s shoulders go rigid, the way his breathing slows. The drugs have stripped away all the coping mechanisms, and now John is surrounded by ghosts. Every soldier he couldn’t save, every enemy he’s ever dropped with a perfect shot — they’re all here, all at once, and they’re close.

When Sherlock bursts in, there’s a gun in John’s hand. The angle tells him everything. He doesn’t flinch. No tremor in his voice. Just one word, measured and inevitable:

“Finally.”

Is it relief? Realization? Or is it that Sherlock, in some buried part of himself, has always known John was walking a razor’s edge? That this moment — the point where John’s ghosts would outweigh his tether to life — was only ever a matter of time.

#sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #johnlock #john watson #the hound of the baskervilles #soldier #content warning

marcomie12

It's punk to be a good person 🦸🏻

novelistwriter

The Child King's New Knight

DP x DC Prompt

Danny has been trying his best to be the Ghost King. The first few weeks had some ups and downs, mostly him trying to get used to Fright Knight. But he eventually got used to Fright Knight as time went on, and Danny got better at being the new Ghost King.

Danny was about to reveal his identity to his parents, and his friends and Jazz have worked with him to get him out of the house quickly if it turns out to be a bad reveal. None of them expected the GIW to be hidden in Fentonworks and for the Fenton Parent's to be working with them. All of them were captured and taken to different facilities to be experimented on.

The experiments that Danny went through were so severe that the Crown of Flames and the Ring of Rage had changed him into his Ghostly age, that of a 5 year old.

Fright Knight had come to save his King from the GIW. He had come alone because only he could sense that he was in danger, the Ghosts of the Infinite Realms haven't fully accepted Danny as Ghost King, but they were getting there as he became more competent and Clockwork was busy with the Observants to not notice his King's capture.

Fright Knight could do so much, as he's got to protect his King, so he can't fight to his fullest. This leads to Fright Knight being gravely injured by the GIW weapons. He may perish, but fear will still exist, and the mantle of "Fright Knight" will pass on to another his king chooses.

Danny is healed as best as Frostbite can do before he needs to be put in a living world. His memory isn't that great because of the age reversal, but he knows how to use his powers (which have also been weakened because of the age reversal). He is sent to Gotham with the mementos of his friends and sister that Clockwork gave him. One of Tucker's PDA's that has stored information about Ghost culture and the things that severely harm them. A small bag that Sam had enchanted that refills with seeds of various plants. Jazz's USB that contains the blueprints of the non-lethal Fenton inventions, the Ghost Portal, and the Ecto-Dejecto.

Danny stumbled out of a portal in front of the Batfam. The Batfam were ready for something dangerous to come out when the portal appeared, but didn't expect to see a kid stumble out. Danny only sees a lot of things he fears when he laid eyes on the Batfam with their weapons drawn. A large looming figure with a cape and a head with two top points (Batman). Electricity, the very thing that killed him (Nightwing). Guns, which remind him of the GIW and his parents shooting at him (Red Hood). A bo staff that reminds him of his own mom hitting him with that staff, telling him to give her back her baby boy (Red Robin). But when he sees a sword, he is reminded of how safe he was when someone he trusted that would always protect him, so he hides from the others behind Robin.

shewhowillrise

Dead on Main Idea DCxDP

Bruce remembers how Jason was when he was first in the manor. Reserved, shrunken, jumped at everything. He slowly started to change into a more out going kid. Something that Bruce was thankful for that didn’t leave after his boy came back from the grave. Yes, he was more aggressive about it, but he rather have a Jason that spoke his mind than one that didn’t speak at all.

Jason introduces the family to his boyfriend Danny, and he gets along with everyone. Even Damian tolerates him. Bruce couldn’t be more happy for his second eldest son.

Until he started noticing that Jason was more reserved again. Started to notice Jason didn’t have that ‘edge’ about him anymore.

Started noticing bruises.

—

Meanwhile Jason is feeling amazing in his relationship with Danny. Danny is helping him with the pit madness, he’s calmed down enough where he can actually have a full conversation with Timbert without thinking instructive thoughts of harming the kid.

Plus, with work from a yeti therapist, has worked out some of his daddy and mommy issues and felt more comfortable doing a little more hardcore stuff in the bed room. And dating a ghost king, who has access to the oldest of toys, makes it fun.

Now if only his dad would stop trying to convince him to leave Danny life would be as perfect as it could ever be since crawling out of that grave.

livinghalfway

Bury Him with the Roses

TW: mentions of being buried alive

Damian finds out that his twin brother Danyal is alive after finding an article about purple-back gorillas, and as much as he dreads it he does have to inform his father about the child he never knew about.

Chaos explodes in the house after that revelation. Everyone is doing everything they can to dig up information on the kid. What’s weird though is that getting any sort of information out of Amity Park is proving to be quite difficult. It was a miracle it seems that Damian even found the article in the place.

In the end though they were able to find an address for the Fenton household. Which is why one week after that discovery Bruce, Damian, and Dick are all on a plane towards Illonis.

Only when they finally reach their destination late in the evening—the sun already nearly set—, and knock on the door do they come face to face with two grieving parents. The three of them are told that Danyal had died, and had been buried mere hours ago. The two are kind enough though to give them the location of his burial after they explain why they are there.

Despite it now being dark Damian refuses to go back to the hotel, and demands they go to the grave that instant. He has waited so long to be near his brother once more, and he will not waste another second.

Walking through the graveyard was a silent affair; guilt heavy in the air. As they walk closer though a light can be seen in the distance along with two individuals. Both of whom are holding shovels; digging. Once it is clear that it is Danyal’s grave specifically nothing is going to hold Damian back.

He dashes forward and tackles the closest graverobber. Bruce and Dick not far behind grab the other one out of the knee deep hole already dug. The two quickly try to explain that they are friends of Danyal, and are there to save him. That his parents buried him alive. They beg for a moment of silence to prove their case.

That is when a weak, muffled cry can be heard coming from below their feet.

Edit: First Chapter for this can be found here

shire-lady-rozie

Thorin : OW!

Bilbo : What happened?

Thorin: Nothing, just nicked myself on the blade

Bilbo : Aw, here *kisses his finger*

Thorin : Why'd you do that?

Bilbo : It's a hobbit thing! Kissing booboos makes you feel better!

Later :

Thorin: Dwalin I need you to punch me in the mouth

shire-lady-rozie

Kili and Fili noticing how much Bilbo gets annoyed by being called the wrong name, so gradually the names get worse

Fili : Mr Boggins, could you help me?

Kili : Mr Blobbins have you seen that?

Bilbo : For the last time, it's Baggins

Fili : Look Mister Blubbers!

Bilbo : Stop it Fili

Kili : Where is Mister Bubbles?

Fili : Guys I found Mr Blueberries

Bilbo : You're not even trying anymore

Kili : What do you mean, Mr Bumblebee?

The next day :

Bilbo: Please Kili and Fili you can call me Bilbo

Kili: Oh okay Beelord

Fili: If you thinks so Beano

Bilbo: God have mercy

Later that day, after Bilbo gave up :

Bilbo : Good morning Kidleaf, have you slept well?

Kili : Yes very well Uncle Beepboop

Bilbo : What do you want for breakfast Fungi?

Fili : Pancakes please, Uncle Bamboo

sonrium

DP × DC The Power of Names Coffee Shop AU

Coffee shops are notorious for misspelling peoples names to the point that it's a running joke and basically a forgone conclusion everywhere. Everywhere except this tiny coffee shop near Crime Alley. The new hire there, Danny, spells everybody's name correctly without having to ask. Whether it's "Carly" or "Karly," he always gets it right the first time. Heck, people give him their names in Chinese and Arabic, and he swaps to the correct alphabet, no problem (because Danny, being king of the dead, can speak all languages dead and living, so might as well be respectful).

It becomes a bit of a running joke in the community to give Danny the craziest names they can find to see if he can get them right. Some of the Bats even hear rumors about him and give it a go for fun. They make a game out of it to see who can find a language or alphabet that Danny can't get. That is until, while massively sleep deprived from a case involving cults and magic and getting nowhere, Tim accidently says one of the words that he'd been hearing in the cultist chants when he orders. Danny gives him an odd look but shrugs and writes something on the cup. It isn't until Tim has already left the shop that he realizes that the symbol written on his cup is one shown in the cultists scrolls he couldn't decipher.

Tim almost dropped his coffee. Danny wasn't just a human who knew a ton of languages, he must have been a meta with the ability to understand EVERY language. And the Bats desperately needed his help to crack this one before the cultist finished summoning whatever demon or disaster they had planned. But how to get the kid's help? From idle chatter while ordering, the Bats learned that Danny wanted nothing to do with the Gotham vigilantes. And Tim had already given his connection to this case away by spewing that word written on his cup...

(I like to imagine the name Tim gave was something like "corn field" and that's why Danny looked at him funny and not because it's one of the languages of the dead)

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