#He doesn't have last name . why do they never think of the names

[chaoticwriting]

Gotham New Rogue 2

It's been a few weeks since Danny started to become the Trickster. To be honest, it is working very well. His core is expanding fast as ectoplasm is regenerating faster than ever before. He is also slowly developing new abilities and gaining more control and powers to his already established abilities.

For instance, Danny used to struggle making clones, but now he can easily create dozens of them with just a thought. He can also change his clothes to whatever he imagines using ectoplasm now. His ice power is also stronger and easier to control. His superhuman body is developing and slowly getting stronger and faster.

Overall, Danny will say that make a smart decision to become a rogue especially since no one has caught him yet. Danny is currently laying on top of a building watching the sun slowly set in the horizon. His stomach suddenly grumbles and he decides to hit the shack before he gets to "work" tonight.

Jumping off the roof, Danny lands and walks to the nearest Batburger while still wearing his rogue suit. He has a totally funny idea today and it involves him being seen in public. Entering the Batburger is like entering a library for some reason. As soon as he enters, everyone goes deathly quiet.

Danny slowly walks towards the cashier and orders his food.

Danny: 5 sets of set C please.

Cashier: Ermm, that will be 60 bucks.

Danny: Here.

After paying for the food, Danny gets his food and sits at one of the tables alone. It's only after he is through his 3rd set that reality is set in for the people. They begin to move and contrary to Danny's expectations, approach him to ask for pictures. Danny allows them some pictures and unknowingly raises his status as Gotham's friendliest rogue.

Suddenly, a white man that screams rich guy, a woman with blonde hair and a black guy wearing Signal's merch approach him. Danny has learned a lot of things from his 14 years of life and 2 years of half life and Danny knows when a rich guy approaches you, it's never good (Sam doesn't have the rich vibe).

Rich guy: Hello Trickster! May we have a meal with you?

Danny: Sure.

Rich guy: Ah, how rude of me. My name is Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne. These two are my friends, Stephanie Brown and Duke Thomas. You can call me Tim by the way.

Danny: Sure, Tim.

They sit opposite him with their meals and try to make small talks with him while eating. The trio realize that Danny seems to respond a lot better when Steph or Duke is the one to ask the question.

Steph: So, Trickster. Why don't you like my friend here?

Duke: Way to go in being subtle, Steph. Why not ask who is he really next?

Steph: Hey, I can't help it you know. He seems so snarky whenever Tim asks questions. I wanna know if Tim pissed him off or something.

Danny: He is rich, right?

Duke: Err, yes?

Steph: Let's say he is. Why does that matter?

Danny: I hate rich people. And government. But who doesn't hate the government?

Duke: So, eat the rich?

Danny: Yes.

Steph: Cool cool. We are also here just so we could leech him off anyway. We're not really friends.

Tim: Ow, you hurt me by saying that. What happened to our vow of eternal friendships?

Steph: I cross my fingers.

Duke: I lie.

Danny: Hahahaha. You're like my friends.

Tim: You have friends?

Danny: Of course I have friends. And unlike you I don't need money to have friends.

Tim: Sorry sorry. Are your friends also rouges?

Danny: Wouldn't you like to know? Last I need is Batman investigating my friends. I'm sure Batman is part of you rich people group chat or something.

Steph and Duke: *Snickers*

Tim: *Glares at the two* Why would you think Batman is in contact with the rich people?

Danny: Isn't it obvious? Batman has all these high tech gadgets and is always there fast whenever a Wayne is kidnapped. I would even say Batman is being sponsored by the Wayne.

Danny: I also don't like most heroes in general. They are just the government lapdog doing whatever the government wants.

Tim, Steph and Duke frowned at that statement. From the way Danny speaks, it is clear that he has some history against the government. Him being here also means he is at least confident enough to run away if any of the bats are here. Is it just blind confidence or a truly competent ability will remain to be seen.

Tim is just about to refute him when Danny suddenly stands up. All of them tensed up and ready for battle when Danny turns towards one side of the window, waves and disappears right in front of them. They are very confused and when they turn towards the direction Danny was just looking at, they see Batman and Black Bat right on the rooftop across the building.

Batman and Tim nod to each other and they all return to the caves.

-Batcave-

Tim: So you all hear the conversation right?

Dick: Except at the end where the sound becomes blurred for a moment, we hear everything.

Tim: Good. So what are your thoughts on this?

Damian: It is pretty self explanatory Drake. He has a personal hatred towards the government and that extends to all bodies of government or people he thought is connected to the government.

Tim: But why though? Is the hatred towards the government something as simple because he is a criminal? Or is there something else towards it?

Bruce: There is nothing to find about him currently with our limited resources about him. Return to the manor for today and take some rest. We will investigate it later.

All of them return to the manor and rest for the night.

-2 weeks later-

The Trickster is standing in front of an unconscious and tied up Batman. He is giggling loudly that evolves into full blown laughter.

He takes off Batman's belt and starts to pull out stuff one after another. Soon, he found the item that he needed.

Trickster: Hahahahahahaha. I have finally got it. The strongest weapon in the world!

The batfam that is watching the live broadcast shiver as they watch Trickster holds out the black object high in the sky.

[thepixelelf]

frat president seungcheol x reader x one night romance chan warnings: slight and I mean slight suggestiveness. coarse language, alcohol, possessive (derogatory) cheol; he's toxic and doesn't know it. implications of sex and sexual acts. idk how frats work. wc: 1.8k

love triangle au requests (this one is also for @hey-blondie <3)

read part 1 first

[what's holding you back? 2] Every time his brothers decide to throw another house party, Seungcheol considers quitting altogether. He's always the one who ends up having to clean the house (with the help of an ever-nagging neatfreak Mingyu by his side, at least), always the one who has to arrange the keg delivery (with Soonyoung and his connections getting them life-saving discounts, thankfully), and always the one whose room gets miraculously broken into by some horny party-goers.

(Joshua is still scrubbing every tile in the bathrooms bi-weekly for that last incident.)

((Why he couldn't use his own damn room is still a mystery to Seungcheol.))

Despite all that, every time the boys arrange a new headache -- party, whatever -- and Seungcheol thinks about sitting this one out, they always manage to do the one thing that makes these stupid shindigs irresistible to Seungcheol.

They invite you.

And even though your course load can only be described as mountainous, your part-time job starts early tomorrow morning, and you far prefer getting at least half of a good night's sleep...

You're here. You're here while music blasts and people dance like the rent's due and something breaks every two and a half minutes, laughing at something Jeonghan said. Just within and out of reach.

You lean into the cushion behind you, your shoulders brushing his arm where it rests on the back of the couch. Seungcheol lets the warmth from your back seep through his skin like honey -- because why wouldn't he? You're comfortable where you are, and it's his job to be that "where".

"No, I'm serious!" you defend yourself against Jeonghan's teasing. A likely thing for him to be doing. "He's a total scaredy cat. That's why he always makes you guys run the yearly haunted house."

Soonyoung waves his hand dismissively. "No way. His family celebrates Halloween every year-- that's why he never runs it with us."

"As if!" With a sly smirk, you bump your shoulder into Seungcheol's side. "He hides out at my place every year, and we don't even watch scary movies, either."

Seungcheol rubs the spot you bumped even though it doesn't hurt at all. "We watch scary movies," he argues.

"Halloweentown doesn't count, Seungcheol."

"Now you're just trying to embarrass me--"

Someone calls out your name, and you turn your head, eyes widening,

"Oh shit," you breathe out.

Some guy strides up to the couch with the confidence and determination of a soldier, and every muscle in Seungcheol's body tenses.

You? After the initial surprise, your eyes brighten in that special way Seungcheol likes when you're looking at him.

And can't stand when it's anyone else.

Lifting yourself off the cushions and subsequently away from Seungcheol's arm, you approach the guy before he makes it all the way over to the couch. You touch a hand to his arm, lightly, familiar, a smile on your lips as you chuckle and say, "How the hell did you find me?"

Seungcheol's jaw clenches. He turns to Jeonghan. "Who is that?"

For once, Jeonghan was minding his own business, and he turns away from his conversation to see whom Seungcheol nodded at. "Ah," he says, all-knowing when it comes to who's who. "That's one of Seungkwan's friends. Chan. Lee Chan."

Seungcheol scrunches his nose. Chan, he mocks in his mind as he watches you lead the guy off somewhere. Lee Chan sure isn't holding back in the up-and-down glances. It's like he can't even believe you're there in front of him.

The thing is, you shouldn't be. Seungcheol grinds his teeth. The couch is where you should be, where you're comfortable and you're honey and you're next to him.

He stands.

Even though he knows the answer now, Seungcheol settles next to you, slings his arm over your shoulder, and interrupts whatever the loser was saying with, "Hey, Cherry. Who's your friend?" He lifts his chin a bit, peering down his nose at him with the closest he can get to a polite smile.

There. Lee Chan should get the message with that.

But instead of scurrying off with his tail between his legs like so many of your pursuers had before him, Chan barely acknowledges Seungcheol and just blinks at you. "Cherry?" he asks.

"Oh." You fluster a bit at the nickname, and Seungcheol grows hotter knowing Chan gets to see another one of his favourite expressions on you. "Um, the first of this guy's frat parties I went to, I drank way too much cherry vodka and did some...things. I can't even smell anything cherry-flavoured now without getting queasy." Using one arm to bashfully rub the back of your neck, you chuckle, the movement causing Seungcheol's arm to slip off your shoulders.

He looks for your eyes, which don't meet his. You didn't do that on purpose.

Did you?

"Anyway." You clear your throat and use one hand to gesture at your admirer. "This is Chan. Chan, this is Seungcheol. He's my, um..."

You look at him then, and the lack of answer hits him somewhere within his rib cage. He crosses his arms and turns to Chan. "How do you two know each other?"

He isn't used to having to ask questions like this, his reputation usually enough to deter any unwanted interactions. If this Chan guy is still standing here, though, it must mean he really, really wants to talk to you.

Chan opens his mouth, but you're faster. "Remember the destination wedding my mom's friends went to?"

Seungcheol nods. "The one where they brought you so you could watch their children?"

"Yeah." You glance at Chan, and it's almost like you're telling him something Seungcheol can't hear. "We met there."

Seungcheol's right hand grips harder onto his own arm. "I see."

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," Chan says, ignoring Seungcheol once again. He sends you what must be a charming smile. "Especially not here."

"Funny." But you don't laugh. "I didn't think I'd see you here either."

Alright. Enough.

Seungcheol makes a show of grabbing your plastic cup and looking inside. "Let's go get you something to drink," he says, noting your confusion but having none of it. "Nothing cherry, I promise."

Because Seungcheol is the one who knows you. Knows your likes and dislikes, your favourite colours, how you prefer your eggs, the smell of your shampoo...

The face you make when he touches your bare skin. The way desire flickers in your eyes like the hot coals of a campfire.

You shake your head, pulling your cup back and holding it close to your chest. "I'm okay. Thank you."

Seungcheol's brow furrows. "I really think we should go to the kitchen."

"I'm fine, Cheol."

Lifting his hand, he places it on your forearm. "Cherry--"

At the same time as you step away from his touch, Chan steps between you and Seungcheol. "How about you go get yourself a drink?" he says, chest almost imperceptibly puffed out. "I wanted to ask Cherry something in private, anyway."

The nickname Seungcheol gave you coming off of this little shit's tongue makes him seethe. "Ask them what, exactly?" he says through his teeth.

Chan doesn't falter. "I'm sure you don't want to know."

"I'm sure I do," Seungcheol grits out.

"Guys..." you try to cut in quietly, but both boys are too caught up in each other to notice.

Scoffing in amusement, Chan shakes his head before meeting Seungcheol's glare. "Then if you need to know: I wanted to ask if they enjoyed it."

Seungcheol's jaw clenches. "'Enjoyed it'?" he echoes.

"Hey," you try again, somewhere beyond the red fog closing in on him.

"Yes," Chan answers confidently, crossing his own arms now. "If the sounds they made for me are anything to go by, I bet they really enjoyed it -- enough for a repeat performance."

Surging forward, Seungcheol clutches the collar of Chan's shirt in his fist. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Chan smirks, taking delight in setting him off. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Seungcheol growls, pulling his other arm back to give this guy exactly the beating he deserves, but he's half a second too late.

You shove your foot into his stomach, and he stumbles back, fingers loosening from Chan's shirt. You push Chan back by the shoulder for good measure, and when you turn back again, the anger on your face turns Seungcheol's chest inside out.

This fire in your eyes is different than he's ever seen before. Your anger is no stranger to him, from the frustrations of life and all the shit you've had to go through, but you haven't been this mad at him since...

Fuck.

Since he didn't kiss you that night.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Seungcheol?" Your shoulders rise and fall with the anger coursing through you. It's like a wall has finally fallen, the way you look at him. "You're not some rom-com bad boy. Get a hold of yourself."

Seungcheol takes a breath, holding his stomach. "Cherry..."

"What?!" You throw your hands in the air and let them fall. The hints of the brawl that almost broke out had caught the attention of some people around already, but your exasperated voice turns even more heads. "What, Seungcheol? You decided you don't want to fuck me, and after that, you decided no one else can either?"

"I... That's not..."

You huff. "I don't care. I actually just don't care anymore. You know why I didn't tell you about this? Do you know why I never talk to you about this kind of shit?"

He doesn't want to know. But he has a feeling he needs to. "Cherry..."

"Because I knew you'd react like this," you tell him, eyes cold. "Why is it that just because you won't have me, I'm not allowed to have anyone?"

When Seungcheol has no response, Chan returns himself to the picture, standing beside you and putting his hand at the small of your back.

You spin. "And you." An accusatory finger gets thrust in Chan's face, settling under his widened eyes. "If you think you're getting a" --you spit the words-- "'repeat performance' after airing out my shit like that for some dumbfuck pissing contest, you're obviously not the same Chan I met before."

Mouth opening and closing like a fish on the chopping block, Chan sputters for a few seconds before you seemingly decide you don't care about what he would have to say.

You storm off, straight to Soonyoung, whom you grab by the arm and ask to take you home. He spares one glance in Seungcheol's direction, then nods at you with concern on his face.

He knows something Seungcheol doesn't, and it makes Seungcheol want to throw up.

With you gone, the party resumes its usual chaos and volume, although Seungcheol can feel the stares from every direction. Chan disappears somewhere. He doesn't care.

Somehow, Seungcheol finds himself back on the couch. It's a lot less comfortable without you next to him.

Jeonghan sits down with a sigh. "You fucked up, didn't you?"

Sunken into the cushions, Seungcheol shuts his eyes. "I've been fucking up."

"What are you going to do about it?"

Seungcheol brings his hands up to his face, and he digs his palms into his eye sockets. "I don't know. Fuck. I don't know."

[ghost-proofbaby]

Something my family always did was qe would open presents very carefully because we had to reuse wrapping paper (we were poor) and reuse bows. We didn't get much st Christmas but it always meant something to me as a kid. There were times my parents got nothing just so me and my sister could have something.

I can see Eddie being raised the same by Wayne

i absolutely agree with this. it was harder in my household since we always bought such cheap paper that ripped if we even breathed on it, but bows? always reuse. name tags? save them. any sort of gift bags? don't even think about throwing those away.

and i just... it's nice to think about Eddie being raised that way as well? like a sense of comfort in knowing he wouldn't give us a weird glance when we still do it, even if now we're not in the same position of necessity.

also, i can so clearly picture the first christmas where wayne does this, only his second christmas with eddie. and he's just downright scared. which is weird, because why is the weight in his chest turning so heavy at the thought of letting his nephew down? just this thirteen year old boy who's gone through hell, whose standards might just be six feet under. but it's all he can think about, all he can worry about, as he's wrapping up that damn guitar so carefully. eddie's only gift that year - the only item he'd even brought up in the last six months. and wayne had spent his entire check on it, no room left for frivolous wrapping or shiny new bows. wayne is reusing last year's paper, using an insane amount of tape he'd borrowed from a neighbor to patch up any and all tears his shaking hands make in his rush to wrap the guitar in time.

and you know what? eddie would notice.

make a small comment, saying "is this last year's paper?". and i can feel wayne's heart dropping as he waits for eddie to be upset but then the boy does this easy thing, something wayne watches him do many more times over the years, where he turns it into something positive.

"sick," he'd say, with a toothy grin and buzzed head, eyes genuinely shining as he looks up at wayne, "this paper is sick. i'm so glad you found it again this year."

wayne doesn't have to tell him to carefully unwrap the gift. because eddie wasn't stupid at thirteen, and he knew had to still his shaking hands just long enough to not leave a single extra tear in that paper, just in case wayne needs it next year. he doesn't mind - he's just glad to be celebrating the holidays again with someone who cares.

but it's all over when eddie sees that guitar. wayne expected shrieking or yelping or just... he doesn't really know, just anything. but all he sees is some kid with hair that's a little bit longer this year, shoulders a little less slumped, and tears pouring down.

"son-" he'd start, not even sure how to comfort the boy but needing to.

eddie does the last thing wayne had expected. the boy had been distant since showing up at the trailer, keeping to himself quite a bit, flinching away from touch. but for the first time in over a year, eddie doesn't flinch away.

he launches himself at wayne.

hugs him through his tears, just babbling out his thanks on repeat. they both agree to never talk about it again after the tears dry, and wayne even sheds a few of his own. but something melts that night for them - jokes happen easier, awkward side hugs and messing of eddie's blooming curls as wayne leaves for his shifts are more frequent. every damn day he hears him playing on that damn guitar, even without an amp. the next christmas wayne gets him the amp, another lonely present, wrapped in the same paper (probably for the final time -- it's seen far better days and he's pretty sure eddie could see the gift through one of the torn corners two days before christmas even came) and eddie once again makes a comment about how lucky it is wayne can still find that paper in stores. they both know the truth, and neither really care.

eddie keeps that guitar for the rest of his days, adorned with the nickname of Sweetheart. and they keep reusing paper, both knowing it was more than some bit but deciding to make jokes all the same as if they were actively choosing to do so. it makes it all a bit easier.

eddie doesn't care if wayne never has another dime to spend on another present for him, or can ever wrap another gift. he'll take his damn christmas presents in paper bags if it came down to it, cause the love is there, and god, he had missed that.

[ledesaid]

Billy has a fever🌡️

♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-♦-

Well, it's official. He doesn't have much luck today. Well, he hasn't had much luck in recent years. He was barely eleven years old (ten years and seven months) and was delirious, alone, in his small corner of the world.

Billy had been proud of having avoided getting sick until this point because he already knew what would happen next: he would have to turn himself in to social services so they could take him to the hospital and then he would escape again. Complicated. Not many had luck in that last part of the plan; he had friends who, after that, couldn't escape the system again.

The problem was that he barely had enough strength to move an arm, he couldn't get up, much less go out into the streets in search of a police officer or a precinct. This left him with two options: call the League on his communicator or use his chalk to open a portal.

The cold December wind whipped against his window hard enough to drown out his thoughts. But one broke through strongly enough to make him decide.

How was he going to bring one of his colleagues to the little hole he tried to call home?

Well, is the portal.

Billy had an emergency circle that would take him to a beautiful island hidden somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Titan Gaia had entrusted him with that place if he fell ill, and now was the time. He could barely distinguish the symbols the chalk left behind, but he was sure he had written beloved caretaker of green life. What he wasn't sure about was if he had properly delimited the spatial jump.

Maybe that's why he was looking at a redheaded woman before passing out instead of a thirty-foot-tall humanoid mountain.

"Well, this isn't something you see every day... Who are you, kid?"

Billy can't respond, and the next thing he knows is that he wakes up in a warm room, fortunately without windows being battered by intense snow. Very clean, clear walls, drawings of plants on the walls, but it wasn't the hospital.

Then he notices that he was in a bed shaped like a giant bunny, no, it really looked like a giant bunny plush with a mattress in the middle of it. A little madness.

A soft, warm, and fluffy madness.

By this time, Billy notices his fever has disappeared. Yes, his head hurts slightly and he has an IV connected to his arm, but he feels strong enough to patrol for a couple of days.

"How do you feel, little fern?"

Billy: Little fern?

"We've taken care of you like a fern, and Harley wanted to nickname you that until we knew your name."

Billy: Thanks, I'm Billy.

Pamela: Good, I'm Pamela, and soon you'll meet Harley, she's my wife. She's a bit energetic, so I apologize in advance for the noise, but that's how she shows her affection.

Billy doesn't know quite what to do or say. If the portal had failed and brought him in front of this woman, it would be hard to explain how it was possible, and escaping would be a bit complicated until he could call the captain.

A wonder indeed was his situation.

Pamela: Don't think too loudly, Billy, we're not going to turn you over to social services or the police.

Billy: Really? * he said a bit confused * Why?

Pamela: We're not exactly lovers of that side of the law, but we know how to recognize a kid in trouble who needs a hand.

Billy grabbed the soft, fluffy sheets that covered him tightly. It was time.

Billy: Thank you very much, really. If you give me a couple of hours, I'll be gone and you'll never hear from me again. I promise.

The woman raised an eyebrow in disbelief, possibly, Billy wondered if he had said something wrong, but he didn't understand exactly what. Was a couple of hours too much? He could really leave in just twenty minutes.

Billy: But I can leave earlier if...

Pamela: Sorry, kid, but it's too soon for you to get out of bed. You came to me with a 103° fever, delirious...

Before Billy could ask about what he might have said, a door was heard slamming not far from the room where Billy had slept and, a few seconds later, a sing-songy and shrill voice made them look. Blonde with a high ponytail, the one and only Harley Quinn. Billy finally put the pieces together, so that's why the names and appearances seemed familiar. Don't blame him, he didn't associate Pamela with Poison Ivy, maybe because he associated the color with Martians... it was strange. He was so exposed to extraordinary and impossible things that he was indifferent to being excited by mere skin color or an ex-supervillain in front of him.

Harley: I'm glad you're okay, little lost boy.

Billy: Uh... Th-Thanks.

The black-haired boy was being hugged tightly by the blonde woman in one of the sincerest embraces Billy could ever remember.

Pamela: Let him breathe, love, Billy still has the IV...

Harley: Oh, right! Sorry... Is your name Billy? Hi, I'm Harley Quinn. Do you want a big plate of waffles with ice cream, toast, strawberries and cream, and maple syrup?

Maybe it was the residual effects of his fever, the hunger of possibly four days, or the warm hug, but Billy nodded his head in affirmation, feeling that if he opened his mouth, he wouldn't be able to avoid crying in front of this warm couple.

[repulsive-manwhore]

PREVIOUS CHAPTER HERE 🔗

why are you such a stupid fucking cunt?

"PLEASEEEE! please, i'm begging you... i'm fucking begging you please let me out!!"

"i'm not letting you out of there... not until you tell me what the fuck you meant by that. what do you mean you know who i am, huh? HUH?!"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"PLEAAAAAASE!!!"

"you're not getting out of there, i put a fucking chair under the doorknob. besides, if you broke out what are you gonna do? i have a gun, you stupid bitch."

"...what do you want?"

"i want you to tell me the truth... tell me my name."

god dammit...

"i- i don't... know your name..."

"y'know i have to ask, just for shits and giggles... do you think i'm a fucking retard or something? who says 'i know who you are' and DOESN'T mean that? hmm?!"

just come clean, there's no point, you're just pissing him off further. he knows that you know. you have to tell him... but maybe...

"...okay, i'll say your name... under one condition..."

"you really think you're in the position right now to make conditions? no, tell me my fucking name. right now."

"you tell me why you're stalking me."

"...why the fuck does it matter?"

"i wanna know. i have to. otherwise i don't care you can just kill me right now, i don't care."

"that's a lie."

"no it's not."

yes it is.

"i can make your life a lot harder you know, the same way you just made my life harder tonight. dragging me into a fucking mu-"

"DON'T... don't say it out loud."

and there it is. leverage. you can tell he didn't wanna kill that cop. you saw it in his face when he first walked into that motel with you. he doesn't need more blood on his hands, he wants you, he HAS you. and now he's stuck with you, because he can't kill you. he stalked you for a reason... why would he throw you away?

"...your name is Ryan."

"go on, don't be shy. i have a last name too."

"...Matherson. Ryan Matherson..."

it got quiet. reaaaaal quiet. oh fuck, the doorknob...

CREAAAAAAAK.

...why is he just standing there? what's he gonna do... why am i fucking wet right now? oh that's right, because you're crying on the floor looking up at this absolute monster of a man, and for whatever fucked up reason you just always have to fall for me the fucki-

"get up. let's go."

"...why, where are you taking me? are you gonna ki-"

CLASP.

"I SAID, NOT OUT LOUD!"

"mmmmph! mmmmph, mhm, mhm..."

yes, yes i promise i'm sorry! i'm sorry, i'll fucking listen to you... god, your hands... your big, strong, calloused, veiny ha- stop stop stop stop stop... stop that. just nod.

"good. i don't wanna fucking kill you, alright? i never wanted to, this was NEVER supposed to happen... but we gotta get out of here, okay? and if you try to run i have to... you know what i fucking did, to you, to him. you run and tell and i get locked away forever. i won't let that happen, even if it means i have to do it to you... i don't want to... please?"

he does have a heart... somewhere at least.

"i promise... i won't run just tell me what to do."

"good... good. i can't take you to the front desk like this. i'm sorry but i have to keep you locked in here."

"what? no! why can't i just wait in your car or something?!"

"again, do i really have to ask if you think i'm an idiot?"

he's right, your dumbass would try and hotwire that motherfucker while he checks out and you'd just end up in a ditch somewhere in rural Wisconsin if he left you to your own devices.

"alright fine! just... can i maybe have a snack please while i wait for you? i'm really hungry..."

"i'll get us some food when we go. in the meantime, eat the fuckin complimentary toothpaste for all i care. it'll be like 15 minutes, you'll live."

SLAM!

wow, thanks asshole. lemme guess, if i'm thirsty i can just drink out of the toilet right? you'd probably like that too, sick fuck... okay that's definitely projection cmon now.

"you said 15 minutes right?!"

"yes... 15 minutes. just hang tight. promise, i'll be right back..."

"okay... and you better tell me why you kidnapped me okay? DO YOU HEAR M-"

SLAM!

UGH! fucking jerk... alright, fine, you're all alone now. just wait for him... you really shouldn't be alone right now you know. you always get so sad when you're alone. he should be here with you right now...

...fucking your little victim brains out.

[vukovich]

Fisting prompt if you're interested! Two people down the hall from me hooked up on my very first night of university. He fisted her with a ring on and it cut inside her vagina and she bled everywhere and needed stitches. A bunch of girls (all strangers at this point) gathered to help her in the bathroom and it was very wholesome. Pretty sure they hooked up again after that too.

So the prompt is something along those lines with Draco fisting Harry while wearing a ring on their first night of 8th year/university/new job, etc., it doesn't go well, and Harry needs medical attention. He can have a vagina if you're feeling it, but no preference between that and ass. Merry fistmasssss

Put a Ring on in It

Draco never would have done it if Potter hadn't dared him.

"You gonna get cold feet now, Malfoy?"

They were both utterly pissed and high off triumph.

"Chicken," Potter said. He tossed his packer to bounce off Draco's chest and onto the floor.

It was warm.

Potter was warmer. And wet. Drenched. The only thing he said was "More", until Draco ran out of fingers, but Harry begged like a man starving.

They didn't quit until Draco's shoulder shook. He was pressure-red across the knuckles, like he'd punched a wall, then dunked his fist in Vaseline to put out the burn.

Potter excused himself to the restroom and didn't come back. Draco didn't take it personally. In fact, he hardly noticed.

--

Potter robbed him. It was the only plausible explanation.

In the morning, his ring and wallet were gone. He noticed the missing ring immediately upon waking. He missed it like a dead spouse, the absence in bed palpable.

Magic didn't find it, so it wasn't anywhere nearby.

When he wrested last night's clothes back on, his pockets were empty.

Potter. He scoffed at the indignity of it while doing up his cuffs. Of all damned people. Auror Potter.

A freshening spell would have to do this morning. He had a police report to file.

--

By the time he reached the desk, his ire had faded. Rather than demand to see Potter or loudly narrate the contents of his report, he cleared his throat and said:

"Yes, Auror Potter found my wallet and I'm supposed to pick it up from him."

The secretary glanced up at him sidelong. Then down. She lingered on his shoes.

"He's sick."

Draco considered finding Potter's office and breaking into it. The secretary wheeled her chair to a rotary phone on the other end of the desk. Her back was to Draco.

And then he was halfway down the hall.

Left: Aurors A-H Right: Aurors I-R Ahead: Aurors S-Z

"Helpful," he whispered to himself.

He kept his stride casual and did not think about what would happen to a former Death Eater, who was somewhere in the twilight between drunk and hungover, when he got caught ransacking a Senior Auror's office on a lark.

Potter, Harold James

"Pfft," Draco grabbed the doorknob and twisted, just to see how sturdy the lock was. "Harold James. Sounds like a porn-"

The door swung right open. Potter was sitting at his desk.

"-name..." Draco gulped. He considered bolting. Apparating. Throwing something and screaming. "Pocket sand."

"What?"

"I said, 'You're supposed to be sick'."

As soon as he said it, he felt it, himself. His hangover was approaching like a freight train of northbound nausea. He was adept at holding himself together, but the effort made him irate.

"Oh. I am. I'm on my way home." Potter shifted in his chair like he couldn't find a comfortable spot. "I was, ah," he held up a scrap of paper, "just going to Owl you. Actually."

"To apologize for robbing me in my sleep?" Draco hissed.

Why was he even here at this God-forsaken hour, anyway? Because Saint Potter was a klepto when he drank? He surely didn't need the money.

"Wait," Potter paused in pulling a clear plastic baggie from his robe pocket, "what? I didn't steal it."

He pulled it out even more slowly, and Draco realized he'd walked into a trap. Potter had engineered this. He was some kind of one night stand stalker. He wanted Draco to come hunt him down the morning after. And he knew exactly what to steal to spur Draco best.

"You arsehole." Draco's ire stuffed his guts back down.

He snatched the baggie and held it up. Inside was his ring, safe and sound. If a bit crusty.

Potter didn't say anything to defend himself. He silently watched Draco pour the ring out into his palm. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

He was probably disappointed Draco had figured him out. Maybe he'd expected Draco to be too cowardly to demand it back. That seemed more like Potter. He probably took a souvenir from all of his bedroom conquests. His wallet had better not be missing anything important.

"And my wallet?" Draco asked, like was collecting taxes.

Potter shot him a quizzical look.

Draco sniffed and said, "Or do you keep that for your sex trophy collection?"

"My what?"

"You know, your-"

And Potter leaned back in his chair, and the seat made a strange, clinical crinkling sound. And then the grind of ice cubes. And Potter's hissed breath.

And Draco finally looked down at his hands. There was a St Mungo's logo on the baggie. The dried gunk around the emerald was tinged with red-turning-brown.

Potter hadn't stolen out under the cover of darkness like a cat burglar, after all. He'd used Draco's bathroom and gone straight to the Mungo's A&E.

Potter said, "You probably left your wallet at the party. I think you left without your coat, too."

Draco gulped. His wallet was in his coat pocket in the cloak room.

The events of the night replayed in fast-forward. Many frames were missing.

"Didn't know you were left-handed," Potter said, as though watching the film in Draco's head.

"I'm... not...?" Draco said, dazed, as he desperately sought an exit.

He sent a man to the hospital and then hunted him down and accused him of theft. He'd gone to considerable lengths to do so, in fact. Illegal lengths.

The color drained from his face, and he wobbled a bit.

"I think I'm unwell," Draco warbled.

Potter handed him the folded scrap of paper and nodded towards the open door. In farewell, he said, "Interesting that wasn't even your better hand," but mostly to himself.

Draco didn't stop to consider it and shuffled in the general direction of the front desk. Presuming that the folded paper was a note to get him past the secretary, he unfolded it as he approached.

It was official stationary from the desk of Harold James Potter, Senior Auror.

Draco huffed at the self-important name choice.

There was no note. Not a single word. Just a doodle of a Niffler.

--

[dzvelinaskebiyars]

No because can we talk about team Sabbath? Not to say that they're hot and they're cool but like analyse them?

Can we talk about how they're different from others individually? How they're socially rejected as if they're fundamentally different from normals?

Firstly, Vinny Hong.

He was always discriminated for being different in every way one can be different from someone. His looks- red hair and Heterochromia which is said to be his albinism. He has been bullied for looking differently than what's beauty standard in Korea, for being different from normal people as he was convinced that he's abnormal one. He was also bullied a lot for being a poor, which sets his difference between rich or non poor people and him. He has been picked on a lot because of that and the fact that he was struggling with money affected his character a lot. We saw that society doesn't treat ppl with albinism and/or Heterochromia well, and plus poor people are often victims of bullying. On top of that, he got in troubles a lot and made himself a name "a thug" in school, which again set him apart from rest of students. He's called mad dog. Teachers can't deal with him, adults are having problems with him and etc. He's completely rejected by society. That's why he wants recognition so badly, so that he can deal with his inferiority complex.

Secondly, Hajun a.k.a Joker

Hajun is underground fighter, I think that already sets him apart from most people and most boxers (as they don't fight for underground fights) so that's one difference for you. Even his little brother hates that he's underground fighter, despite the fact that Hajun genuinely seems to like fighting just as cycling but despite that, his love for fighting isn't being accepted by his iwn family. He's also different from others as a character. For example, his attention span seems to be short and messy as he gets easily distracted. He's in middle of important race but he gete distracted and stop at red light when he actually doesn't have to. No one stopped in entire windbreaker serious at red light except Hajun. He akso stopped to save the puppy during the race and came in last because if that. People were confused because what Hajun was doing was not making sense for them, that it was actually very different from what kind of players they're used to. Plus Hajun, just like Vinny, is facing money problems.

Thirdly, Wooin Yoo

Wooin was rejected by his own family but I think it's also said how people, even now, refuse to admit that he's normal. But first of all, his main issue is his family. Wooin has been trying for years to get recognition from his family, some love and acknowledgement but he never got one, in fact he got redeemed as useless, disappointment, troublemaker punk. All he honestly wanted was recognition from his family, no one else. He was locked up, yes fucking locked up, by his own father and the freedom got ripped away from his hands. I doubt he had much freedom from the beginning anyway. He got locked up for assumingly long time and even if his house was big and even if he was rich, he was extremely lonely. Now, he's seen as weird by people but I honestly think it's because he couldn't develop well due to his abusive family.

Lastly, Hyuk Kwon

We all know why Hyuk us being rejected: his style. He's oro Cyclist, he's really good and talented but unfortunately, he can be aggressive. Like his jack-knife, or how he tried to crush team ghost's member's head with his bike while telling them to die. That's what he got expelled from his previous team.

"i heard Hyuk is kicked out."

"Finally. Everyone who races against him ends up injured haha."

So it's obvious he was rejectec by his own team. If it hasn't been Wooin, he'd probably be dealing with this problem again.

Team Sabbath is being rejected by rest if the teams as well, as other crews don't welcome their style of cycling. But it's like Hummingbird and Sabbath aren't that different, they're both similar to found family but they have different morals.

[interoteme]

Who is the best sign in host and Why is it Donny ??????? Thanks

[totheidiot]

i hate that the solar eclipse just now serves as a reminder that nobody loves me.

[timoswerner]

simon jordan sticking up for joey barton's initial complaints about women in football media, what a shock 🙄

[crystalkitty1220]

I’m planning on making an incorrect summary of ibvs and this was one of the first ideas i had

THIS REMINDS ME OF THE TIME I WAS BORED IN CLASS AND WASTED LIKE TWENTY PAGES OF MY NOTEBOOK BY SCRIPTING A "IBVS IN A NUTSHELL" THING

tags are just me being nostalgic

[joycrispy]

Awhile ago @ouidamforeman made this post:

This shot through my brain like a chain of firecrackers, so, without derailing the original post, I have some THOUGHTS to add about why this concept is not only hilarious (because it is), but also...

It. It kind of fucks. Severely.

And in a delightfully Pratchett-y way, I'd dare to suggest.

I'll explain:

As inferred above, both Crowley AND Aziraphale have canonical Biblical counterparts. Not by name, no, but by function.

Crowley, of course, is the serpent of Eden.

(note on the serpent of Eden: In Genesis 3:1-15, at least, the serpent is not identified as anything other than a serpent, albeit one that can talk. Later, it will be variously interpreted as a traitorous agent of Hell, as a demon, as a guise of Satan himself, etc. In Good Omens --as a slinky ginger who walks funny)

Lesser known, at least so far as I can tell, is the flaming sword. It, too, appears in Genesis 3, in the very last line:

"So he drove out the man; and placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life." --Genesis 3:24, KJV

Thanks to translation ambiguity, there is some debate concerning the nature of the flaming sword --is it a divine weapon given unto one of the Cherubim (if so, why only one)? Or is it an independent entity, which takes the form of a sword (as other angelic beings take the form of wheels and such)? For our purposes, I don't think the distinction matters. The guard at the gate of Eden, whether an angel wielding the sword or an angel who IS the sword, is Aziraphale.

(note on the flaming sword: in some traditions --Eastern Orthodox, for example-- it is held that upon Christ's death and resurrection, the flaming sword gave up it's post and vanished from Eden for good. By these sensibilities, the removal of the sword signifies the redemption and salvation of man.

...Put a pin in that. We're coming back to it.)

So, we have our pair. The Serpent and the Sword, introduced at the beginning and the end (ha) of the very same chapter of Genesis.

But here's the important bit, the bit that's not immediately obvious, the bit that nonetheless encapsulates one of the central themes, if not THE central theme, of Good Omens:

The Sword was never intended to guard Eden while Adam and Eve were still in it.

Do you understand?

The Sword's function was never to protect them. It doesn't even appear until after they've already fallen. No... it was to usher Adam and Eve from the garden, and then keep them out. It was a threat. It was a punishment.

The flaming sword was given to be used against them.

So. Again. We have our pair. The Serpent and the Sword: the inception and the consequence of original sin, personified. They are the one-two punch that launches mankind from paradise, after Hell lures it to destruction and Heaven condemns it for being destroyed. Which is to say that despite being, supposedly, hereditary enemies on two different sides of a celestial cold war, they are actually unified by one purpose, one pivotal role to play in the Divine Plan: completely fucking humanity over.

That's how it's supposed to go. It is written.

...But, in Good Omens, they're not just the Serpent and the Sword.

They're Crowley and Aziraphale.

(author begins to go insane from emotion under the cut)

In Good Omens, humanity is handed it's salvation (pin!) scarcely half an hour after losing it. Instead of looming over God's empty garden, the sword protects a very sad, very scared and very pregnant girl. And no, not because a blameless martyr suffered and died for the privilege, either.

It was just that she'd had such a bad day. And there were vicious animals out there. And Aziraphale worried she would be cold.

...I need to impress upon you how much this is NOT just a matter of being careless with company property. With this one act of kindness, Aziraphale is undermining the whole entire POINT of the expulsion from Eden. God Herself confronts him about it, and he lies. To God.

And the Serpent--

(Crowley, that is, who wonders what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway; who thinks that maybe he did a GOOD thing when he tempted Eve with the apple; who objects that God is over-reacting to a first offense; who knows what it is to fall but not what it is to be comforted after the fact...)

--just goes ahead and falls in love with him about it.

As for Crowley --I barely need to explain him, right? People have been making the 'didn't the serpent actually do us a solid?' argument for centuries. But if I'm going to quote one of them, it may as well be the one Neil Gaiman wrote ficlet about:

"If the account given in Genesis is really true, ought we not, after all, to thank this serpent? He was the first schoolmaster, the first advocate of learning, the first enemy of ignorance, the first to whisper in human ears the sacred word liberty, the creator of ambition, the author of modesty, of inquiry, of doubt, of investigation, of progress and of civilization." --Robert G. Ingersoll

The first to ask questions.

Even beyond flattering literary interpretation, we know that Crowley is, so often, discreetly running damage control on the machinations of Heaven and Hell. When he can get away with it. Occasionally, when he can't (1827).

And Aziraphale loves him for it, too. Loves him back.

And so this romance plays out over millennia, where they fall in love with each other but also the world, because of each other and because of the world. But it begins in Eden. Where, instead of acting as the first Earthly example of Divine/Diabolical collusion and callousness--

(other examples --the flood; the bet with Satan; the back channels; the exchange of Holy Water and Hellfire; and on and on...)

--they refuse. Without even necessarily knowing they're doing it, they just refuse. Refuse to trivialize human life, and refuse to hate each other.

To write a story about the Serpent and the Sword falling in love is to write a story about transgression.

Not just in the sense that they are a demon and an angel, and it's ~forbidden. That's part of it, yeah, but the greater part of it is that they are THIS demon and angel, in particular. From The Real Bible's Book of Genesis, in the chapter where man falls.

It's the sort of thing you write and laugh. And then you look at it. And you think. And then you frown, and you sit up a little straighter. And you think.

And then you keep writing.

And what emerges hits you like a goddamn truck.

(...A lot of Pratchett reads that way. I believe Gaiman when he says Pratchett would have been happy with the romance, by the way. I really really do).

It's a story about transgression, about love as transgression. They break the rules by loving each other, by loving creation, and by rejecting the hatred and hypocrisy that would have triangulated them as a unified blow against humanity, before humanity had even really got started. And yeah, hell, it's a queer romance too, just to really drive the point home (oh, that!!! THAT!!!)

...I could spend a long time wildly gesturing at this and never be satisfied. Instead of watching me do that (I'll spare you), please look at this gif:

I love this shot so much.

Look at Eve and Crowley moving, at the same time in the same direction, towards their respective wielders of the flaming sword. Adam reaches out and takes her hand; Aziraphale reaches out and covers him with a wing.

You know what a shot like that establishes? Likeness. Commonality. Kinship.

"Our side" was never just Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley says as much at the end of season 1 ("--all of us against all of them."). From the beginning, "our side" was Crowley, Aziraphale, and every single human being. Lately that's around 8 billion, but once upon a time it was just two other people. Another couple. The primeval mother and father.

But Adam and Eve die, eventually. Humanity grows without them. It's Crowley and Aziraphale who remain, and who protect it. Who...oversee it's upbringing.

Godfathers. Sort of.

[bohemiandeer]

You know what hits me hard? When 5 to 6 year old children, all the way in Southeast Asia, knows about what's happening in Palestine right now. That children their age is getting bombed, that they're starving to death, that they're getting shot at, and sniped in the head. Because, just this past 2 or so months, I heard some of the little ones in the Kindergarten classes I'm TAing in as an Intern talk about it. Hell, one of the little boys downright said he didn't like Israel, because Israel is bad, because they do scary things. Another was questioning whether Palestine was bad too, because, "why else would they shooting at them?". A little girl in one of my classes doesn't want to finish her food at all, because she wants to save at least half her meat and rice for kids in Palestine, because she heard that, they don't have food. And that's just the ones I remember. Namely the inciting cases before their classmates slowly follow suit. The littles are fricking SCARED. We had to sit these kids down, and tell them that the topic is too mature for them at the moment, that they shouldn't even be concerned because they're KINDERGARTNERS, they're not even old enough to properly understand. The one teacher I was TAing for had to make a class announcement saying that. What gets me is, these are 5 to 6 year olds, the youngest I've worked with in this specific age group is 4. 5 years old on average, and they've already been exposed to the worst horrors genocide has to offer through the news and snippets of conversation among adults and hell, considering how many of them say they like to play games on Mama's phone, or their IPad, even from fricking social media. And the fact that, these literal babies, from all the way in Cambodia, has more empathy in their entire body and soul, than full grown fricking adults have in the nail of their pinky finger, gets me. FFS we as adults could LEARN from them I feel sometimes. I honestly don't know what to feel about it anymore. On the one hand, this is the next generation I'm working with. And if the next generation's default response to a tragedy such as Palestine, is what I've seen come up on occasion so far? Perhaps there's some bloody hope for this world after all. At least in this country. Especially since a majority of them already come from families who survived a genocide. These are the 3rd - 4th generation descendants of those who survived the Khmer Rouge. They've got grandparents at home, who no doubt are more than intimately familiar with what Palestine is going through right now. And it shows.

But on the other, it makes my heart sink because these are CHILDREN, these are LITTLE KIDS, they should be playing with their toys and watching cartoons and talking to their friends about everything from Spiderman to Speakerman to Kuromi and her friends, and be worried about whether or not they can go to playground that day, guranteed they're well behaved, or if Mama remembered to pack in their costume for swimming lessons that week. NOT JUST MY KIDS. But the little ones in Palestine too. They deserve better. They all deserve, so much better. Hell, it's come to the point that whenever I look at my kiddos right now, whether they'd be working in class, playing, doing something as mundane as eating lunch or getting ready for their nap. I think of the children their age in Palestine that didn't even get the chance to survive. I think of the ones whose memories from this age, is nothing but absolute horror and pain, rather than what has slowly become my normal, who never got to experience what my littles do on a daily basis right now.

Children shouldn't even be concerned about "War", about a Genocide. The last thing that should be on a 5 year old's mind, is pain, and suffering, and the worst horrors imaginable ever to be inflicted on a human being. ESPECIALLY WHEN IT'S INFLICTED, ON OTHER CHILDREN THEIR AGE. And for that alone, the world has failed them. Especially the kids in Palestine who didn't ask for any of this. They just wanted to carry on with life as kids do, the same way as my littles do on a daily basis no doubt, learning, playing, chatting with friends over their favourite cartoons and characters, worrying about whether they'd get to go to the playground or not that day.

I apologize for talking about this on this blog. I know my blog tends to be lighter in feel, a lot more unhinged and light hearted typically. I mean, I'm just a fricking nerd who likes to draw and write, and lurk about her favourite fandoms to consume and support what is shared among other nerds who also like to draw and write. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. About contemplating it, especially since I'll be back on a roll tomorrow, working with my kiddos again after not seeing them for 5 days straight because of Holidays. And, I just had to talk about it. This is something I felt I couldn't keep to myself this time, I don't think my soul'd be able to carry it. I had to talk about it.

FREE PALESTINE. Our children deserve better.

[seelestia]

✧ i'll show you (if you'll let me).

⎯ there is a certain touch of beauty to witnessing a side of theirs revealed to you so naturally. it becomes as easy as breathing if you just let it happen... so, will you? ( or in other words, a way you enable them to be themselves. )

#STARRING. aventurine, dr. ratio, sunday, dan heng ft. gn!reader. { 4.2k words }

#TAGS. fluff, established relationship. more: minor spoilers for aven's backstory (described mostly abstractly), ratio is referred to by his first name, i called sunday a nerd (sorry), dr. ratio & dan heng are certified workaholics.

#P/S. i think i may have yapped a little considering the word count but i hope it ends up being a good kind of yapping. tysm for reading! ♡

© seelestia on tumblr, may 2024. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

★ 〜 masterlist.

will you let aventurine hold you close when he sleeps? . . . whether it's an arm slung over your hips or his nose buried in your shoulder or fingers tracing shapes onto your skin. he doesn't ask for too much; only that you grant him the permission to cradle you in his arms, somewhere within his reach. it's a habit, he hopes you don't mind.

you have to wonder, though. considering the plenitude of pillows on the bed, why do his hands still seek you out? with all the credits he spent on those cotton-stuffed angels, you thought aventurine would relish them a bit more. but ah-ah, see? that is where you're wrong. sure, the pillows are extremely comfy but he always has a preference for things with much, much more value.

and the truth — well, his truth — is that even the softest cushions from oti mall couldn't compare to the privilege of laying his head on your chest, he'd say. especially when you brush his hair with your fingers - oh, one of the easiest ways to paradise. truly, the best value there is! can you blame a man for being honest and a little lovesick?

(“sappy,” you accuse. he pouts, offended.)

but aventurine has a flair for theatrics, you know that. his witty quips are as feather-light in weight as light-hearted they are in intent. but his touch - in the forms of kind caresses or rhythmic taps to a tune from his forgotten culture - lingers on your skin, with a yearning so heavy. you question whether it could be nostalgia or instead, silent awe at a reality he never imagined could ever be his.

(kakavasha remembers. clinging onto you for warmth like he once did to his sister, falling asleep with her prayers to mama fenge in his ears. the avgins believed gaiathra triclops to be the symbol of humility; so naturally, their prayers to her should also be humble, not too quiet but not too loud. all in moderation. for a frail child like him, those gentle prayers alone were enough to let him drift into a dreamless slumber and to ignore the shackles of reality if not for the briefest moments.

time passed. came a time where the melody he associated with slumber was no longer a soft voice lulling him but pure static, a noise to distract his mind from the chains around his wrists. they burned themselves onto his skin, searing, but he was already too familiar with the sensation to care. the mark on his neck was unwelcome, laughing at him, but he too laughed at his own pitiful reflection so what's the difference, anyway?

time passed again, the call of slumber then turned into clattering noises of chips doused in gold and dice thrown onto a surface. he thought it'd stay that way forever but before long, it morphed into up-and-down waves he couldn't decipher initially. they're gentle, faint like a human's breathing: your breathing as you allowed him to lie beside you for the first time, he realized back then. although he deems himself unworthy, an ugly grime on your pristine existence that still insists on cradling him — but despite it all, he finds this last melody to be his favorite so far.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

ticklish.

the sensation, minor yet still impactful enough, causes you to stir out of sleep. the light of noon greets your eyes and you become vaguely cognizant that the root of it all is the tufts of blond hair brushing against your neck.

there is a solid weight on your torso and a pair of slender arms loosely wrapped around your waist - but they're nothing you haven't grown used to. you comb your fingers through the messy locks licking at your skin, instinctively, and the fragrant scent of what you register as penacony's limited edition perfume kisses your nose.

“...ugh, what system time is it?” you let out a grunt, shifting around slightly to let your limbs breathe. you don't get an answer to your question, instead, aventurine's arms reestablish their hold on you. hooking you closer to him as if to wring out whatever proximity is left, if there is even any. his simple proclamation of “who cares?”, in a sense.

there it is again, that ticklish feeling. you feel soft lips grazing feather-like kisses against your collarbone. oh, he definitely isn't letting go just yet. truly merciless, a dozy morning thought accompanied by your tired sigh. the noise still comes out fond, however, so your feigned act of annoyance is fooling no one.

“it's warm, you know,” you grumble. but the yawn escaping your mouth right after betrays whatever stern image you're trying to adopt. not like you can ever be too stern with him. aventurine knows this, yes, and he gives you an A+ for effort each time.

“mhm,” he finally speaks, snuggling into your chest with no care about anything in the world, “g'morning to you too, lovely.”

his favorite mornings aren't his favorite if not thanks to your innocuous complaints and delightful attempts at pushing his pretty face away, no? a lazy grin graces the stoneheart's lips and eyes like exquisite gems, although sleepy, flutter open to gaze at you languidly. he takes the sight of you in then lets out a sigh - a fond noise just like yours earlier; the both of you really are two peas of a pod.

you must look a terrible mess right now and yet, the sight of you has aventurine smiling dazedly. “ah, what a spectacular sight. i really am the luckiest man in the galaxy,” he hums in approval. you want to roll your eyes but stops as he leans up to pepper (ah, one necessary correction: smother) kisses all over your face, arms dragging you closer to his chest like a cage. your eyes widen comically. what a nefarious trap, he has the advantage!

every remnant of sleepiness clinging to your mind evaporates. you squeal with laughter, shoving at his shoulder using the strength of a baby deer because no, you don't really want him to stop. he knows that too, of course.

“mwah, mwah, mwah—”

“pfft...! kakavasha, i can't breathe!”

(he has half a mind to pinch his skin, as if to remind himself that this is real. he can feel your giggles tickling his skin as if to tell him in return: yes, you are.)

will you let veritas pour his heart out after a long day? . . . well, that could count as too much of an overstatement. others say, “that man is like a brick wall!” some more dare to whisper, “doesn't his temper already exhaust whatever emotional quota he has?!” needless to say, everyone knows that dr. ratio is a man ruled by the mind, not by the heart. alright, that's quite true - but does that imply he has discarded the latter altogether? if so, then you beg to differ.

(not in the literal sense, of course! the heart is a vital organ of the body. saying otherwise would be akin to spitting on his shiny phd in biology... or his seven other phd's at that.)

the pedestal which the public places veritas ratio on reaches still great heights, even if it may not rival an ivory tower a member of the genius society resides in. it is so high up that mundane troubles of those below can't reach a genius like him, surely? well, as tall as he stands - somehow, the universe grants you a front row seat for a particular sight that proves otherwise.

if only they knew the doctor has a habit of mumbling these incomprehensible (more like barely intelligible) grumbles under his breath, striking a resemblance similar to a grumpy old cat. if you strain your ears hard enough, you might catch a “...this has to be it...” or “...i dare not think so...” from time to time as he roams around the room with materials in his hands.

(absurd, people would say. but you think it's extremely cute.)

veritas doesn't say it out loud - but you can tell by the hunch in his stiff shoulders, by the one or two sighs he huffs every six minutes - that he is itching to tell somebody of all the tomfooleries he has encountered today. of course, the topics he laments about vary; it's only when you hear him exhaling the loudest sigh that you get to find out.

mostly though, it's about his students and remarks on how they can further improve their performance — sure, he could phrase it a little gentler — but you still find it sweet that he cares. if not that, then it'd be about indolent colleagues, complicated formulae and more. on some days, he'll even let out an exasperated “truly mind-boggling! could you believe that?” to which you'd reply with an “uh-huh, go on.”

at the end of a ranting session, veritas takes careful note to leave a kiss on your person afterward. no matter where it is - on the lips, the cheek or your hand. no matter where you are - sitting on the couch beside him, behind the kitchen counter or across the room. the warmth that stays on your skin when he pulls away is somewhat tingly. appreciative, you think, especially when he looks at you with such loving eyes that his colleagues would be sure to retch in shock if they were a witness.

looks like you are right on the money; he has never discarded his heart, after all. so yes, to rephrase - will you lend veritas a listening ear when he needs it?

✧ a moment among the stars:

“...yet another headache.”

as unsubtle as ever, the doctor's complaint is barely hidden behind the guise of a mumble. those neatly styled violet bangs of his aren't doing an excellent job at concealing that frown strewn across his forehead either. veritas's posture is tense, a dead giveaway, as he goes over the piles of documents on his desk.

you cock an eyebrow upon seeing the stamp belonging to the intelligentsia guild on one of the papers. definitely work. it has been two system hours since he took a seat at the work desk, you concur, or lifted a finger to do something besides flipping through drafts. a mere glance at the stack of documents is enough to convince you that those researchers at the guild must really value veritas's input.

a perk of being a genius, maybe? the phantom of a weight lands alight on your shoulders. with a mug of black coffee in hand, you make your way to him. your footsteps are without a sound, only the noise of porcelain being placed down onto woodenware is enough to announce your arrival. “rough day at work?” you ask, peering down at his progress.

(a doctor's handwriting really is something. you resist the urge to squint.)

veritas doesn't seem to mind. if the way he smiles at the sight of you, albeit tiredly, is any indication. “hah,” he rests a hand on his temple and scoffs wryly, “so much grievances like you wouldn't believe.”

oh, he is teetering on the precipice of a tangent but stops himself. “...fret not, i'm fine. this is hardly something beyond my expertise,” he shakes his head, the motion causing his reading glasses to slide down a smidgen down the bridge of his nose.

you're too familiar with the self-assured bravado he puts on. you're quite endeared, actually. “okay, mr. i-require-no-rest,” you take the glasses off his face and he breaks into a frown. at the childish tone you're using or for having his reading glasses taken away, you don't know.

“why don't you take a little break?” you suggest. veritas sighs, “need i remind you that dilly-dallying is for fools who wish to waste their time?” and crosses his arms defiantly. he knows your strategy, he has come face-to-face with it several times.

“do you think a break with me is a waste of time?” you present him with a rhetorical question, quite the difficult adversary.

(and he keeps losing to it every single time.)

“well, that's—” the doctor nearly splutters, taken aback. “that's different if you insist on inserting yourself as a variable,” he infers, putting emphasis on the last part accompanied by an incredulous look.

“the answer is up for debate then,” you shrug with a cheeky smile. your hand then deftly lifts the mug you previously set down to your lips, veritas's eyes dilate in bewilderment. “so,” you hum at the rich taste of your handiwork, “wanna tell me about your day? haven't heard about the council in a while.”

“you—” he gasps in defeat, “i thought that was supposed to be my mug of coffee.”

(he has a slight pout on his face, but you dare not point it out lest it disappears in the blink of an eye.)

“our mug of coffee,” you take a few more sips with an innocent decadence. “all is fair in love and war, doctor.”

“i can never win with you,” he buries his face in his palm with a groan. you laugh heartily, a sound that chimes like quaint little bells in his ears - it elicits a reaction from his lips, for them to quirk up at the corners in the smallest of ways.

“regardless. . .” veritas relents and reaches for your free hand. you let him. “it seems a break wouldn't be so amiss, after all,” he then presses a kiss on the side of your wrist, affectionate.

(your heart skips a beat.)

will you let sunday regale you with facts you've never heard of before? . . . a man of eloquent words, no less a man of educated mind. you have no doubt that the books in the dewlight pavilion really aren't just there for show - not that you're allowed to browse through them at your own desire. a servant's voice would stop you in your tracks should your fingers ever brush against something in the family's secret bookshelf.

how mysterious.

but sunday makes it known to the staff that you, in particular, are allowed more access to the shelves - perhaps, not too much - but more than even mr. mccoy, at least. with the way you have to crane your neck far up to pinpoint the tallest height that the shelves reach, you wonder: has sunday gone through everything here personally?

your immediate answer is most likely. you know sunday fairly well; to have something that he hasn't scrutinized from the inside out in his possession will surely gnaw away at his psyche incessantly. not being in the know at all times is a looming fear for him. but of course, you have other ways to confirm the answer for yourself.

pick out a book from a shelf there, either intentional or purely arbitrary, and watch as sunday carefully traces his steps towards you. his curiosity is piqued, which topic has caught your interest this time? but he tucks it under proper cordiality. with a hand behind his back, he'd utter your name in the softest tone and ask the familiar question of “would you like to know more?” — asking for your permission to ramble, essentially — you find this tendency of his to be charming, so you nod each time.

(and he smiles when you do. a smile less refined at the edges, kinder and relaxed.)

the best place to start from is always the beginning. you think sunday agrees because he often starts by telling you the history and its origins before moving on to its impact on the galaxy, then his personal stance on the topic. it's a pattern, you notice, his ramblings have a pattern. and it's consistent every time, you might've believed he was reading off a script. and what's more? sunday is blissfully oblivious of it.

fascinating. you ponder: what kind of things you can do with this information? decisions, decisions, decisions. . . but ultimately, you opt for keeping it a secret like a treasure only you're allowed to see.

(that might be true in a way. you don't doubt that robin, his dear sister, is familiar with this side of him. does that mean he treasures you like he does her? your chest starts to feel a bit lighter.)

if you were to point it out, you fear you might never witness it again - goodness, to know that he has been displaying such foolishness or rather, what he viewed as an embarrassing freudian slip in front of you? his wings might as well resort to covering his face for good until the end of time.

as you listen to him talk (with such elegance at that), you can't help whatever tender look you have on your face. really, who would've thought the head of the oak family could be such. . . a nerd?

(you hope in secret that sunday will be more willing to show sides like these to you in the future. and that they're not a weakness at all, not when they're shared with you.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“it looks like you're fascinated by the dreamscape nursery rhyme this time.”

sunday spares the article in your hold no further inspection. one glance at the cover and walls of memorized information rush to the front of his mind. he looks familiar with it; could it be a part of his childhood too? but then again, everything found here is within his knowledge.

“i am,” you say with intrigue, “it got me ruminating for a while.”

you meet his gaze, stumbling upon yellow irises that glimmer akin to gold under penaconian chandeliers. you think you see a hint of affection in them, swimming around your reflection like a school of fish in a pond. it makes you smile.

he smiles back, oblivious to your thoughts but returns your gesture. he asks, “how so?” and you reply without delay, “i read through it and the morbid undertone took me by surpri—”

or at least, it's supposed to be without delay until you realize sunday has stepped closer in order to peer down at the page you're holding open. and suddenly, you're extremely aware of every minute detail like how his breath brushes against the side of your cheek and how his chest rumbles as he hums in acknowledgement.

(you flush in the neck and he perceives this reaction of yours with mirth.)

“my apologies,” sunday chuckles and pulls away, “i've simply forgotten the rhyme and wished to refresh my memory.”

“somehow, i feel that isn't the case...” you mumble accusingly. that seems to amplify whatever little amusement he gets from flustering you. “oh, my dove. i can assure you that it is,” he caresses your head, a little placatingly.

most times, sunday isn't so laidback about giving affection in public — since he has an image to maintain — so you assume the fact that the servants are out and about, leaving only you and him here, plays a role in his unusual boldness. you accept the gesture with a bashful pout.

“now, where were we?” sunday clears his throat, “ah, yes. some people have noted on the nursery rhyme's strange quality but still, it retains its popularity in penacony. it is also widely assumed that the hound resembles the bloodhound family while—”

you hold back an amused sigh, but it's more out of fondness than anything. he'll start from the history then the effect on the general public, as per usual, but you're not the only predictable one here. you'd listen to him anytime too, won't you?

(you do adore when the head of the oak family would put off his public figure mask around you. if only for just a while.)

will you let dan heng rest his head on your lap when it's just you two? . . . the sense of comfort it provides isn't something he can explain with words. as if he has ever been good with words in the first place. saying a sentence bereft of logical reasoning or witty remarks doesn't come easily to the express’ guard. neither does intimacy. . . but you know that already, don't you?

after all, it isn't a secret that dan heng prefers speaking with his actions. if to show one's intentions is the end goal, then actions are the fastest route to choose. words, although able to sweeten the trip like how a beautiful scenery can, will eventually lead to actions regardless so why take the extra step?

but you're different from him; you articulate what you think and what you mean. you're honest in ways that keep catching dan heng off guard without fail — just like the first time you offered your empty lap to him when his head was swirling in pain — but he supposes that is one of your charms. “words can be useful. we're not all born mind readers,” you told him once and he hummed, accepting of your perspective.

(“look at you two! opposites attract!” march chirped. he recalled shooting her a look of indignation and she rubbed the back of her head sheepishly in response.)

dan heng has learnt to grow used to your propensities - but by far, your shameless invitations are still one matter that can't be comprehended even with time. he cannot understand; how you smile as you sit on his futon in the archives (he doesn't mind), how you link gazes with him so effortlessly, how you pat your lap knowingly and say, “why don't you rest your head here?”

(he has to restrain himself from bursting into flames like a heliobus.)

sometimes, he'll accept reluctantly or he'll decline with an underlying tone of longing he doesn't want you to notice. because as much of a good hold dan heng has on nonchalance, he cannot deny that this particular gesture of yours has left a mark on him.

(it remains persistently.)

when he rests his head on your lap, he can't help but take a deep inhale - your fragrance fills his senses and he discards the selfish desire to keep it all to himself. your fingers are soothing as they thread through his hair gently. the feeling that washes over him is serene, almost comparable to submerging himself in the pure waters of scalegorge waterscape.

when overcome by such a tranquil state of mind, dan heng wonders what expression he might be making at that moment? he always keeps his eyes closed, so it's a shame he may never know. but you do, and you don't think you've ever seen him look so at peace before like he does now.

(perhaps, that's why you keep offering him this in the first place.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“someone looks tired,” you state with a pointed stare. the archives isn't a room too spacious and the only ones here are you and him. the target of your sentence is obvious.

but dan heng doesn't take the bait, barely looks away from the entry he is currently authoring. still, he spares you a glance and hums glibly, “are you projecting? if so, feel free to use my bed in the meantime.”

you let out a noise, something gibberish that conveys disappointment but it is effectively drowned out by the typing noises. “you haven't even touched the food i bought you,” your voice becomes mellow, “why don't you rest for a while?”

he isn't convinced, you think, since his fingers are still hard at work. the new info the team brought back must've been a lot if he's that focused.

“dan heng?” you try again, hopeful for the last time. you don't take him for a fool, of course, he'll know when he reaches his limit and have proper rest then. but would that really be ideal? a second passes and that hope flickers like a dimming light. but just an inch before the edge of giving up, the typing slows to a stop.

“. . .alright,” he murmurs. finally, after a good hour spent drawing patterns on his backside with your eyes, dan heng turns around to face you. he look tense, you note with abject concern.

“here,” you usher him to your lap, empty and conveniently so. dan heng shoots you a blank look - this isn't the first time you offered and this isn't the first time he reacted like that. you try to suppress a laugh, failing gloriously at it. “just for a little bit,” you utter through a stifled fit of chuckles.

dan heng shakes his head, not in rejection but in defeat. his eyes slip close, second nature, as he leans to situate his head on your lap. you welcome him with a hum and let your fingers card through his hair. a calm sigh falls from his lips like a water droplet in springtime.

“this. . . is nice,” he admits, sudden and unprompted. you nearly doubt your ears for a moment there. did he— “i don't hate it is, uhm, what i mean to say,” dan heng adds and it dawns on you that your ears are still working. his eyes are still closed, not that you'd expect anything else, he prefers to treat it as a shield from being face-to-face with embarrassment.

(or to avoid your ecstatic gaze. he can feel warmth rushing to his cheeks already.)

“i know,” you smile, brushing away a few messy strands from his forehead. he isn't an open book but you think you've read the pages enough to remember all the little details. “but thanks for telling me. i'm no mind reader but i think i can read yours pretty well.”

“i shall provide no further comment,” he holds back an incredulous exhale, yet his lips still curl slightly at the corner. you feel the teeniest desire to trace the curve of his lips with your fingertip but settle for silently admiring them instead.

“it's fine. i know the answer already,” you say, words dripping with affection. such a shame dan heng never looks up at you during a time like this. because if he did, he wouldn't have missed seeing the sheer fondness in your gaze that rains down on him in light showers. a true shame.

(one day, he'll gather the courage. maybe.)

— thank you for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. ♡

[leviathanxprincess]

Introducing Homicipher Characters to Your Plushies - Pt. 1

The Homicipher Characters come to you in hopes for whatever insanity they plan to drag you into, you instead have a different plan! Showing them your plushies!

Based off my series for the whb devils ! Consider this is scenario where you brought them back to your world with you and they understand your language fully now and vice versa !

Notes: Some very light suggestive content. Gender neutral reader ! This round of characters includes: Mr. Crawling, Mr. Scarletella, Mr. Chopped. Mr. Silvair, Mr. Gap, Mr. Hood, & Mr. Machete !

Mr. Crawling

Honestly you could do anything and it would just make him love you more.

But especially in this case!

He will sit and listen intently to every last thing you have to say about your plushies!

And he's memorized all of their names for you!! He knows which ones are your favorites and which ones you find the most comforting when you're upset.

He thinks you're so cute when you talk about them too!

He gives you and your plushies pets as you talk about them!!

Squishes your cheeks, you're the most adorable person to him and he's glad you shared with him such an important part of your life.

Will go out and find even more plushies for you. He would do anything for you after all!

Mr. Scarletella

If I'm being honest you could honestly talk about anything and he would just listen.

It wouldn't matter the topic. You wanna talk about your plushies? Then yeah of course he's gonna listen and eat up every detail.

He loves seeing your smile, and admittedly he does get a bit of cuteness aggression from it so prepare yourself for that lol.

However.... He does get kind of jealous of them too.

What do you mean he's not the only being you've given names to? Not to mention the amount of attention and affection you give to them.

Yes, these aren't living creatures and he knows this but he can't help himself!

He gets irritated about it, if you notice his jealousy right away and stop and give him attention then he'll get over it quick.

If it takes you longer to notice however. Things might end up requiring a much more bigger solution than just a few kisses and cuddles.

Mr. Chopped

They're very cute!! He likes your plushies and how excited and cute you get when you talk about them!!

But... They're not as cute as him, right?

Expect to be showing him an equal amount of attention as you are your plushies as your introducing him to them.

He just gets so grumpy and jealous way too easily.

He very much requires you to gush about him just as much as you gush about these inanimate objects.

And as long as you do so he is pleased and content and can live in harmony with your plushies.

He takes note of the names and while he might not remember every last detail, he does like talking to you about them!!

He knows it's an easy way to make you happy and he very much likes making you happy!!

However you'll never know that sometimes when you're not looking, he's glaring at them.

Mr. Silvair

While I don't think he really cares that much about the plushies, he is interested in humans. And you.

So he'll listen. It gives him a bit of insight to how not human minds work, but specifically yours.

This odd cute stuffed creatures bring you immense joy, he's not sure why, but he knows it does and he would like to know why.

Honestly it doesn't really matter what you do, everything to him provides him with more research.

That being said, it's not like it ends up being solely about his research.

He does end up finding himself being oddly endeared by your behavior and how happy you when talking about your plushies.

He's taking to placing them on your whenever you're upset or need comfort. Especially since he knows it works.

He can soft and sweet sometimes. At least when it comes to his favorite human, of course.

Mr. Gap

The idea came to you when you saw him peeking out of a dark gap that was in your plushie pile!

He came to ask one of his typical questions, but you didn't let him get a word in!

You immediately just picked up one of your plushies and started talking about them!

He doesn't really quite find anything interesting about the plushies, but he is interested in you so!

He will listen to what you have to say. And he does know some of your plushies by name after you tell him about them.

Will occasionally show up with plushies he's found that he thinks you will like.

Of course you need to give him your heart to have them though!

You won't?

Well... he guesses he can settle for a kiss or something instead....

Mr. Hood

He doesn't quite fully understand your deep attachment to these objects, but he'll support your love for them fully.

We already know he's a good teacher, but he's also one of the best listeners as well.

He will sit for however long it takes for you to share with him all of your plushies and their names and even lore if you have that for them as well.

He does find it rather endearing, even if he's not quite sure why he enjoys you talking about something for so long.

Will pat your head occasionally, if only he had a head that you could see because if he did he would have the softest smile on it as he watches you talk.

Truly experiencing you share this with him just puts an even deeper desire in him to protect you from any and all harm.

He will make sure and be guaranteed to protect that bright, beaming smile on your face that you have in this moment. At any cost.

Mr. Machete

He does not give a shit.

Or at least that's what he says.

And well, to be fair, he is annoyed by your focus on these cute nonthreatening soft things instead of just sparing with him or something.

Don't ask him if he's jealous of your plushies, he'll deny it to ends of the earth.

Ignore that he's been acting grumpy since.

Just give him a little extra attention and he'll be fine.

Also seems like the kind to get cuteness aggression. But his cuteness aggression just leads to him wanting to fight you. And bite you. Maybe some scratching too. Basically he's not gonna be nice about it and just give you squeezing hugs or something lol

[writerfromthestars]

DP X DC PROMT: Happiness? In this Economy?

Dick convinces Jason to go with him to a party because he apparently "needs to socialize". At this party is also Danny, who is majoring in astrophysics at Gotham University. They run into each other, hit it off, and end up hooking up.

Danny has class in the morning, so he leaves before Jason wakes up, hurrying to get his day started and completely unaware of the fact that some of the ectoplasm he produces has seeped into Jason. (Neither of them tell each other their names, or maybe they're too hungover to remember? Idk, but they don't know each others names. It was also too dark for Jason to see Danny's face.)

Jason wakes up, wondering how the hell the cute guy from last night managed to leave without waking him up. He also feels happier than he has in a while, which he attributes to the fact that he actually had fun last night instead of scowling in the corner.

But the happiness, the calm, it just... Doesn't leave? For some reason?

At first, Jason is willing to accept that maybe the univers is just giving him a day off from the Pit Rage, God knows he's earned it, but when the end of the week is drawing closer and he's still no closer to figuring out why he's so goddamn pleasant all of a sudden, he starts to freak out.

He tracks this unnatural calm back to the party, and at first, he thinks someone spiked his drink. But the only people who were close enough to do that would be Dick, who would never do that, and his unknown, unnamed hookup.

Now, Jason isn't a very paranoid person, but he was raised during his early teens by the goddamn Batman, king of paranoia, so he immediately draws the following connections:

1. His unnamed hookup was able to roofie him without him noticing, bat training and all.

2. That drug, whatever it was, was strong enough to subdue the Pit Rage, and, seeing as it hasn't returned, that could be indefinite.

3. The only person who has ever been able to remotely control the Lazarus Pits is Ra's Al Ghul, and he still ended up a murderous sociopath, so obviously he doesn't have a good handle on it.

4. This random dude that he met at a goddamn college party may be the most powerful sorcerer in the world.

5. He need sto find this guy before she raises an undead army.

Thus, Jason finds himself in the awkward situation of explaining to his father that he may or may not have hooked up with a being more powerful than a man who runs an assassin cult and calls himself a demon.

The bats immediately begin searching Gotham for this guy, pulling out all the stops to stop this guy before they gain a new supervillain.

Meanwhile, Danny is peacefully going about his life.

Then, he runs into his one night stand and they start dating. Everything is going great for him! Moving to Gotham City was the best thing he's ever done!

Now Jason is even more panicked, because he just met this really cute guy, and now they're dating, but it's a horrible time because he's still trying to find this Eldritch creature.

Bonus ( to add to the misunderstandings):

Say Danny's trans. It's about now, a few months later, that morning sickness makes itself evident.