#and ended up writing instead

[cursedbycrossovers]

Help Wanted ≠ Send Sacrifices

Danny gripped his bangs in his fist, staring down at the paperwork before him with endless frustration and not a lick of comprehension.

Why was there so much paperwork, anyway? Pariah Dark hadn't exactly seemed like the type to keep records. Had he done this on purpose? As punishment to whomever wound up taking the throne from him? Danny had to admit, that sounded like a really devious plan. Unless the next ruler had been, like, The Secretary Ghost or something.

… that gave Danny an idea.

Clockwork had told him about this "Kingly Connection" thing he had yet to try out. Supposedly, it made it so that the king could address his subjects all at once, no matter where they may be. In case of an urgent announcement or Realms-threatening danger, or something.

To Danny, it sounded like a really efficient way to send out a 'Help Wanted' ad. Everyone would be able to hear it, and anyone who for some reason didn't could learn about it through word of mouth. Those who felt they were qualified could come see him at the Keep, and those who didn't could just continue on with whatever they'd been doing. It was the perfect plan.

Danny flopped back in his seat, relieved for the reprieve as he shut his tired eyes. He followed the pull, down, down, into his core… and then even further, til the light behind his eyes got brighter, til he reached the power of the KING.

Hey, everyone. This is your King speaking. I need like, a secretary or something. Someone who can help me handle literal millennia of paperwork. So, if y'all could come on down to the Keep, or pass the offer on to the smartest person you know, that'd be dope.

Danny felt as the power pulsed within his chest, sending his message out along the millions of tiny strings tying all Undead souls back to his. He sighed and slouched in his chair, exhaustion finally catching up to him. All he had to do now was wait. A little nap in the meantime couldn't hurt, could it?

— — —

Jason felt simultaneously floaty and more grounded than he had since his mysterious resurrection. All his anger and uncertainty was just gone, replaced by pure drive and direction. He wasn't thinking very deeply, but he knew what he was doing. It was like laying on the surface of a sunlit lake, letting the gentle waves take him wherever they wished.

The Red Hood finished the chalk circle in the middle of the wide, empty warehouse floor and stepped back. The lines and starbursts that decorated it were drawn immaculately, without a single smudge. Now, all he needed was…

… the smartest person you know…

… Where was Tim?

— — —

Edit: Now includes multiple parts! You can find #2 HERE.

[illustraice]

someone save alphonse elric and may chang from a very long suffering year

[riddlerosehearts]

thinking about how lae'zel is literally THE first character you ever see on-screen in bg3 even before getting to make your own tav, and how her story as a young warrior from a race of people who were once enslaved by mind flayers is SO deeply intertwined with the main plot of the game, and how she herself has such awesome character development focused on loyalty and duty and being free to become your own person and make your own path in life and how she's arrogant and aggressive and closed-off and says edgy shit like "i know only blood-red and death-black, my mind is silver and my body steel" but then she also speaks so poetically at times and can be so romantic and compassionate and she gets embarrassed when you tell her it's "tiefling" not "teethling" and she responds to shadowheart saying "have we buried the hatchet?" with "no, why would i bury a weapon, is it broken?". and how she was basically the only origin companion that i knew nothing about before i played bg3 for the first time even though i'd been seeing constant posts about the game for months!! ugh lae'zel i love you so much you deserve so much more appreciation.

[winter-parrot]

for @911whatisyourpride week 3: family. took this prompt a little sideways but the idea hit me like a truck like two hours ago and then i typed this entire ficlet directly into the tumblr post dialog like a madwoman, so.

buck doesn't exactly try to adopt a dog, and fails anyway. tommy picks up a dog and an (ex?)-boyfriend. | bucktommy (duh) | post season-8 | 2.4k

now on ao3!

------------

Buck keeps thinking about Blaze. Not Bingo, who went back to his family and is probably spoiled and happy and exactly where he belongs. But Blaze, whom for that single day had belonged to Buck. Who had been a friend when he and Eddie were on the outs, and everything was falling apart, and he had nobody to talk to because everyone thought he was overreacting. Someone who was happy to see him, who looked at him adoringly, who took joy from Buck's mere existence and gave joy in return.

Now, his life is a hundred times the mess that it was back then, but the parallels aren't escaping him.

And yeah, yeah, he's always got Maddie. But she's not his, not really; she's got more important people in her life. Her own family. Chimney, and Jee, and newborn baby Robert-who-he-still-cannot-call-Bobby. Chim's got her and Jee and Robert, in return. Eddie's got Chris, and Tia Pepa. Hen's got Karen and Denny and Mara too, now. Athena's got May and Harry, and anyway he's not going to impose on her, not now, not after everything.

Point is, everyone's got someone who's theirs. Everyone except him, that is. For a minute there he thought he might have Tommy, but well. Shows you how much he knows about love, about building a family.

So instead he's sitting all alone--in a shitty little Airbnb he's got for the week, because apartment hunting in LA is anything but fast--thinking about Blaze. And looking up dog rescues, just to dream about holding them all, and bringing one home, and having someone to greet him and be excited to see him when he gets home.

He knows it's pathetic--knew it even then, when he was clinging to Blaze and ignoring Eddie--but the one thing more pathetic than having a dog for your only friend and source of love, is having no one for a friend and source of love. Although, dreaming about having a dog for his only friend and source of love, when he can't even get a dog because he doesn't have a home address and anywhere with a pet deposit is going to be way out of his price range, is probably more pathetic than both.

The thought doesn't stop him from scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling past the little squares of photos and blurbs. There's a five-year-old beagle named Dot that reminds him a little too painfully of Blaze. A six-month-old mutt of a puppy--they think it's maybe a boxer mix--with bright blue eyes called Frankie. A massive ninety-pound Doberman named Sergeant with a noble air to him--and behaviour problems, apparently. A tiny yorkie, by far the teey-tiniest dog he's ever seen, called Mini.

And then, at the bottom, a raggedy three-legged lab mix called Tres. He's the longest-running resident of the shelter, according to his bio. Lost his leg in an accident, while wandering in the streets. Seven years old, old enough to have trouble being adopted even without the missing leg. He's also got the biggest, most soulful brown eyes Buck's ever seen on a dog. Ever seen period, maybe.

Before he quite realizes what he's doing, Buck has the address memorized and the keys to his Jeep in his hand. No, that's not entirely true. He sort of halfway realizes what he's doing, but refuses to let himself recognize it all the way. Because if he did, then he'd have to acknowledge that it's insane, and then he'd have nothing to do but sit there and think about how pathetic he is, and how sad Tres looked in the photos.

The shelter is almost halfway across the city, because he wasn't exactly paying attention to the location when he started down this impromptu spiral. But that's alright; he's on day one of a four off, so he's got the time to kill. It's early enough, too, so traffic won't even be that bad. (He Does Not think about why he was up so early on his day off. That way lies grief and pain and danger, and he does not want to end up accidentally wrapping his car around a power pole.)

Still, this is LA, and "not that bad" ends up being nearly an hour instead. Plenty of time to think about what the hell he's doing, and all the million reasons it's a stupid, impulsive idea. But he's started this already, going Full Buck as they'd say, and he's determined not to turn back. Maybe he can't take Tres home, doesn't even have a home to take Tres to, but that doesn't mean he can't go see the dog, right? Maybe he can't be enough for anyone in his life, can't make them happy or hold them together, but surely he can be a bright spot in one sad dog's day. He can be good for this one thing.

The shelter's open, but just barely, when he gets there. No cars in the tiny parking lot, thank God, because most sane people don't show up to animal shelters at--he checks his phone--8:17 in the morning. The tiny bells above the door chime a happy little chorus as he walks in. A woman behind the front desk looks up, seeming startled to see him there. Fair enough.

"Hi, u-um, I saw this dog on your website?" Buck says, uncertainty tilting his sentence up into a question.

"Are you looking to adopt?" the woman--Miranda, according to the name tag Buck's now close enough to read--asks, already rummaging for some forms.

"U-um, not-not yet. I don't, um, I don't currently have a pet-friendly place," Buck says. He doesn't have any place, of course, but that's a lot to unload on this poor woman at barely eight in the morning. "B-but, um, but I'd like to someday. When I'm in a- a better place." Winces at the phrasing; apparently he's so chock full of death euphemisms these days, it's leaking out everywhere. "I just, um, I just wanted to see the dog for now? Maybe play wit him for a bit, if-if that's something I can do?"

Miranda looks at him for a long moment. It feels, oddly, like the way Bobby used to look at him. Piercing and uncompromising, but not unkind. Like she was looking at him, really looking, past his shell and right down to the core of him--not to judge, or find him wanting, but just to see. To understand. To maybe even help. The moment stretches like gum, and Buck's not even sure he's breathing. Not until she nods once, sharply, and says, "What was his name? The dog you were looking at?"

"U-um, Tres," Buck says, somehow surprised by this turn of events despite literally showing up here for it. "I was looking at Tres."

Miranda's face turns apologetic. "Oh hon, someone already put in yestereday to adopt him."

Something inside Buck stretches past breaking point, snaps into overstretched pieces. Of course he can't even do this right. Too late and not enough. Forces his lips into a smile that feels far too brittle for how practiced it's become, these past few weeks. "R-right. Okay. That's, that's good for him, right? G-going home to someone who can love him." Love him better than Buck ever could. Who probably has a yard for Tres to play around in, and a cozy fireplace for Tres to curl up in front off, with a fluffy dog bed all set up and waiting.

Miranda nods, but she seems distracted, chewing at her lip. Looks down at her desk. Shuffles through some papers, looking for something. Squints down at one sheet, running her fingers along the lines. "Pick up time, pick up time... ah! Yeah, that's what I thought." She looks up at him, still holding the paper in her hand. "Listen, you seem like a nice guy--the people who come here for the saddest dogs usually are. You can see other dogs, of course, whichever ones you want. But if you've got your heart set on Tres, The owner's out back right now, picking up Tres and his stuff. I can go and ask if he'd be okay with you at least say hi to Tres."

Buck nods, mumbles out a thanks that may or may not come out intelligible past the growing knot in his throat. He can't explain it, why meeting Tres feels so important. Maybe it's because he felt like they were kindred souls, in some terribly pathetic way, forgotten and left behind and waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to finally want him. Maybe it's because he thought that he could save someone, even just one sad dog, from the terrible loneliness eating him up from the inside--and be saved in return. Maybe he just wanted to be good for something, anything, and this was the one tiny thing that felt maybe, possibly, within his reach.

Or maybe he was just a sucker for a sob story and big sad eyes and abandoned dogs. It doesn't have to be that deep.

Miranda pops her head in from the back door where she'd disappeared to. "He said yes, of course. Come on and meet Tres. It'd be good for his socialization anyway, to meet some more people."

Well. At least this whole insane trip wasn't a total loss, then. He can go meet Tres and his new owner, play with a dog for a few minutes, and then drive back to his sad Airbnb so he can keep searching apartment listings. Buck makes his way across the lobby, towards the door that Miranda's holding open. Ducks out through the gap. Steps into a little back yard, lined with straggly grass and patches of sand. Looks around for Tres.

Finds himself looking at familiar blue eyes, instead.

"Evan?" Tommy says, staring right back at him like he's seeing a ghost. His eyes are wide, and so blue, and rimmed faintly red with exhaustion. Buck's pretty sure there's new lines in their corners, stupidly wants to reach out a run a gentle finger over them, to learn their new shapes. Clenches his hands into fists in his pockets to stop himself.

"T-tommy," he says, more breath than word. Has to swallow twice and clear his throat awkwardly before he tries again. "Hey. I, uh, I didn't know you were in the market for a dog."

Tommy shrugs, a little awkward. Something about the motion somehow makes those strong, wide shoulders seem small. "House was feeling too quiet. Thought a dog might help liven things up. Plus, I've always been weak for the puppy eyes." The last sentence comes out with the weight of a confession, too heavy for the back yard of an animal shelter with a soon-to-be-spoiled three-legged dog sniffing around by their feet.

Buck makes his lips curl up at the corner, pretends he doesn't notice it feels more like a grimace than a smile. "You've got good taste," he says, jerking his chin towards Tres. "I had my eyes on him this morning, too."

"Sorry," Tommy says, and it feels like he's talking about more than the dog. "Didn't mean to steal him from you."

It's Buck's turn to shrug, this time. He tries not to think about other things Tommy's stolen, not from him but for him. Tries to hold on to the fading memory of how he felt that sun-drenched morning in Eddie's kitchen, in that helicopter still full of hope over the LA skyline. Tommy's going to be good to Tres. Buck knows, because he was good to him, too. Besides, Tommy's got a solid house, big back yard and a fireplace just like he'd been picturing.

Buck's got no house, and no dog, and no one to go home to. He leans down to pet Tres instead of thinking about that. Lets Tres lick his face and slobber all over him. Pretends that's why dampness weighs down his lashes.

"I was just gonna take him home, get him settled in," Tommy says above him, after a few prolonged minutes of silence.

Buck get up, because he does know how to take a hint, sometimes. Time to get out of Tommy's hair, let him take home the dog he wants without the ex-boyfriend he didn't want. Doesn't meet Tommy's eyes as he turns to leave, because even he's got a limit for how pathetic he's willing to be in one day.

"Do you want to come with me?" Tommy says, the words uncharacteristically rushed.

Buck looks up with surprise. Tommy's got a hand rubbing against the back of his neck in a gesture Buck hasn't seen in ages.

"D-do you want me to?" Buck says. Tries not to feel like he's asking about more than just Tres. Fails. It's like they're having a whole second conversation--except they're not, because they haven't said more than maybe fifty words to each other and neither of them are actually saying it. So maybe it's all in Buck's head; maybe he's gotten so desperate that he's reading signs into innocent

Tommy's wide-eyed again, breathing a little fast and shallow. For a second, he looks almost panicked. Doesn't quite look at Buck as he reaches down to clip a leash onto Tres's collar, and lingers to pet down the line of Tres's spine with a huge hand.

When he stands back up, something in him has straightened. He's steady, looking Buck straight in the eyes as he nods firmly. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I want you to come home with me." Glances down at his feet, where Tres is sitting patiently with his tongue rolling out. "You and me and Tres."

They're still not talking, not really. Not about the them of it all But it's the closest they've come since the helicopter--no, since before that. Since that morning, maybe.

It feels like an invitation. Like a closed door, reopened. Like a second, third, fifth chance at something.

Buck leans down to give Tres one last pat--for luck, for hope, for gratitude, for courage. He takes the hand Tommy opens to him. Him and Tommy and Tres. It feels like a good place to start.

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Drawn before the update; didn't age the greatest, but uh, still fun haha

[incorrect-green-lantern-quotes]

Currently drunk and imagining Green Lanterns being the resident alien experts in the Justice League/Titans/whatever superhero team they’re in

Like, when the JL first got together and Hal learned that two of his teammates were the last survivors of their worlds, he decided then and there that he would always support them in whatever way he could.

(Because as the first- and for a while, only- human in the Green Lantern Corps, Hal knew better than most what it was like to be the only one of his species in a room. It’s astonishingly lonely even when you know your planet and people are still alive and well.)

So Hal asks his ring for information about Krypton and Mars, which holidays their people had celebrated and held sacred, what foods they had enjoyed that he could recreate with ingredients available on Earth.

Hal ends up becoming the third JL member after Bruce and Diana to learn about Superman’s secret identity after Clark has to explain that he came to Earth as an infant and most of his own knowledge of Krypton is as secondhand as Hal’s is. J’onn however, is very touched by Hal’s attempts at baking N’bisko cookies, as it reminds him of when he would make them with his wife and daughter.

Guy inadvertently makes Hal's practices into a tradition when he gets roped into some Fourth World drinking games with Mr. Miracle and Big Barda. Apokolips might be a flaming hellhole, but it was still once home to them both and they do miss it at times. Even in his Warrior years, Guy keeps his pub stocked with food and drinks that are popular in space, in case he gets a hungry visitor from the stars.

From then on, it becomes a duty of their shared legacy. John in his rookie days didn’t listen much to Hal but this was one of piece of advice he did heed: You might end up with an alien refugee as a teammate at some point, and it is your job as a Green Lantern to be there for them when they’re homesick. John was never a member of the Titans, and he's certainly no mentor to the team's alien princess, but he does visit Starfire on days when her banishment from Tamaran weighs most heavily, like the Blorthog Festival.

Kyle had no idea about any of this when he inherited the last ring in the wake of the Corp’s twilight. Expecting him to pick up where his predecessors had left off would have been just another weight to carry on his shoulders. So instead the heroes who'd once been touched by a Green Lantern's kindness now return the favor for their only successor. They tell Kyle about the Corps that were the keepers of peace and justice across the universe for thousands of years. They tell him of how the emerald knights of Oa were brave and kind and loved by so many people.

They tell him these things because they see that the Green Lanterns were more than just an organization of lawmen. They were a legacy, a family, a culture. Unorthodox insofar as that every member was an adopted one, but that only meant Kyle is just as much a son of the Corps as Hal or Guy or John had ever been. He may be Oa’s last son, may not have known that he belonged to the Green Lanterns until their light was all but gone, but he would never have to be lonely.

[mediumgayitalian]

"It's two sugars, right? And approximately eighty percent cream by volume?"

"I love you," says Will seriously.

Nico snorts. "You love caffeine. If you loved me, you would be looking at me when you said that, not the cup."

"Hm? Are you talking? Me and my caffeine are trying to have a conversation, thanks. Come back later."

Nico laughs, big and raspy, and Will grins the kind of grin that squishes his round face. He sets the cup down and slides his hands down Nico's arms, circling his wrists; the kiss is clumsy and ridiculous because neither of them can stop giggling long enough to press their lips together properly.

"I can, like, see sound," Will mumbles. "Shit is wild. Complaining is purple."

"You know, you can quit."

"Can't."

"Revolt?"

"Tried. Got dragged back."

"Hm. Well, you know what Cecil says."

"I'm not throwing a Molotov cocktail in my own infirmary, and you can't either, before you say that."

Nico sighs, kissing one last kiss to the corner of Will's mouth before pulling away. "I could make it look like the cleanest of accidents."

"I'm sure."

"And then you could come spend time with me." He takes his special, nametagged place in the good spinny chair, with the perfect ass indent and comfy cracked leather. "I'll take you wherever you want. You wanna go to Florence? We can go to Florence."

"I'd love that, actually."

"Okay! I'll pack you a bag. You wait by the door, I'll distract them with a Mol--" Nico hastens to correct at Will's Look™️. "With a very small and almost inconsequential stick of dynamite I will give to Harley."

"Better."

"Okay! Be ready in ten."

He gets a Look again, but it is much softer this time, blue eyes dark with regret.

"Nico."

Nico scowls. "I know."

"It's only because Dad's gone silent."

"Ugh. I know. Can't your father choose a less inconvenient time to get smited, or whatever happened to him."

"I'm pretty sure he's alive. I mean, the sun is still kicking, and I still get occasional dream concerts."

"Pretty sure that's PTSD."

"It's possible."

"I just want to kiss my boyfriend in peace," Nico grumps, falling back in his chair so hard he damn near goes sprawling. He yanks himself up, pink-cheeked, and pretends not to notice the laughter Will hides in his hands, lest he file for divorce. "Stupid godly drama."

"A-fuckin'-men to that."

Will powerwalks past the nursing station, pressing a kiss to his fingers and his fingers to Nico's forehead. Nico resists the urge to grab his hand and pull him backwards, into the V of his legs, into the circle of his arms; instead he watches, chin in his wrist, as Will flutters from cot to cot, smiling gently at the younger kids, rolling his eyes at the older teens. He works as if he has four arms, pouring medicine and humming passing hymns, looping heart monitors in place and encouraging his siblings every time he walks by. For someone who has had to spend a not-insignificant portion of his time in this place since the other Apollo kids lost their vitakinesis, he seems remarkably comfortable. Nico wonders how much of that is learned habit.

"Hey."

Will hums in acknowledgement, sweeping his glowing hands over a kid's broken leg.

"What do you want to eat."

"You just brought me coffee."

"That's a drink, for one. For two, that was four hours ago."

Will blinks. There is still gold ringed around his irises, and his scars and freckles twinkle like stars.

"It has?"

"Mhm."

"Oh -- woah." He stumbles a little, when he stands, steadying himself on the counter until Nico can slip an arm around his waist. "I think I'm maybe, um, done for the day."

"Good," Nico murmurs, glaring at the two campers who open their mouths to complain. "Anyone else can just heal the mortal way for a bit. You need to rest."

Will nods, and Nico guides him out, holding the screen door and taking it slow down the porch steps. Will is warm, more than just the burn from his hands and his throat, and when Nico glances out of the corners of his eyes his cheeks are red and eyes downcast.

"Nobody's watching," Nico promises quietly. "Even if there were, you're just tired."

"I'm limping like a ninety year old man."

"The socks and sandals really sell that look, yeah."

"Shut up."

Nico presses a grinning kiss to his cheek. "No. Come on, Grampa. I'm gonna get you set up in bed and then I'm going to steal, like, twelve sandwiches from the dining hall."

"Barbeque sandwiches?" Will asks hopefully. "Your bed?"

"You're going to get what I give you," Nico snarks, mapping a route to the nearest BBQ place in his head. There's that one on Park and 30th that's open late. "And -- uh, yeah. My bed. If you want."

He is normal about that and Will snickers for no reason, or perhaps because he is dumb in the brain. Por que no los dos. Both.

They make it finally to the black marble steps of Cabin Thirteen, and Will pulls away before Nico can decide whether or not it's worth it to shadow-travel them both inside. He twists and rests both hands on Nico's cheek, cooled down to pleasantly warm, now, and leans in slow until their lips are just nanometers apart, a hairsbreadth of distance between them.

"Thank you," he whispers, near silent in the fading evening.

Nico can only nod.

Will breathes with him for a moment, eyes closed and breath warm. When he opens again the gold is fully gone, and the blue is dark like dusk, almost purpleish.

"I love you," he murmurs. He straightens up and presses one last chaste kiss to Nico's forehead. "Thank you for looking out for me. I'll see you when I wake up."

He climbs carefully up to the cabin, slipping through the heavy doors without tripping over anything, for once. A blessing, maybe, from a clouded father, or from grateful Fates. Nico stares at the door until the sun sinks below the ground and the heat fades from his cheeks, and then he smiles.

He sinks into the shadows in search for twelve sandwiches, and a coke for good measure.

[egophiliac]

happy new year Ego!!! Just wanted to let you know that I absolutely adore your twst fanart and the tags are just an absolute pleasure to read! You are my greatest inspiration for my personal twst art and I just wanted to thank you for your wonderful masterpieces <333 if possible, may I ask what are some of your headcanons for the diasomnia family? If not for diasomnia then any other characters are fine as well!

thank you, and happy new year! 💚💜💚 that is amazing to hear; it's always a little bewildering but super flattering that other people like my silly little doodles so much!

I don't think I really have any really solid headcanons and also canon keeps validating me left and right (FLUFFY DOMESTIC DIAFAM IS REAL). mostly just kind of...impressions and general thoughts, if that makes sense! lately though I've been kind of obsessed with thinking about Lilia's hair, and specifically when/why he ended up cutting it. (l-look, we're bouncing around the timeline and I gotta make decisions about these things when I draw, it's relevant) (I mean I would probably be weirdly fixated on this anyway, but.)

I think I've settled on the idea that he kept it long until he went to NRC, partly because 1) I like drawing The Ponytail, and 2) I think he thought of NRC as a chance to reinvent himself a bit! he gets to go and be a wacky carefree teenager for a few years and have fun! (officially he's there to keep an eye on Son #1, but how much trouble could he get into, really.) so he gave himself a Cool Teen Haircut to go with his fresh new Cool Teen Persona!

also maybe he had some reflection on his hair's troubled past with three kids...

...and had to weigh his vanity versus the fact that he was going off to be around hundreds of kids on a daily basis, and. the choice suddenly seemed obvious.

[ritsuuwu26]

Uuuuughh

[yandere-wishes]

༻°₊ ｡I'm Sorry I'm Not Everything You Wanted｡ ₊°༺

⭒⌒★𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓷𝓮 𝔁 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 ★⌒⭒

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི 𝓢𝔂𝓶𝓹𝓪𝓽𝓱𝔂 𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝓚𝓷𝓲𝓯𝓮 𝓑𝔂 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲 𝓧𝓒𝓧 ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

⊹♡ 𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓾𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓸 𝓖𝓲𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼 ♡⊹

જ⁀➴Warnings: yandere behavior, older man younger woman (reader is over 18), identity crises but make it hot.

𐙚 Synopsis: You begged him to give you the mantel, to christen you as one of his knights, but the burden lays heavily across your shoulders, becoming heavier with each solemn glance.

・┆✦ʚ I couldn't even be them if I tried ɞ✦ ┆・

ʚ☆ɞ It has occurred to Bruce, that the last several nights, there has been a shadow observing him. Slithering through the darkness, perched, watching his every move. He feels studied, noted, like a frog with its skin pinned back divulging its organs for all to see. But when he allows himself a glimpse behind him. He is only ever met with the neon black landscape of Gotham's skyline.

ʚ☆ɞ Menace stalking menace, he is sure of it now. There is an existence haunting him, lurking just out of sight. Someone is stalking him, dissecting him. Their every breath synchronizing with his. He can not catch such a fickle thing, he can not step on this new shadow. It's only when he's half high off fear toxin and two-thirds through an adrenaline rush that he realizes what to do.

ʚ☆ɞ Batman claws at Scarecrow's arm. Nails sinking into straw and flesh. Pulling the sickly thin body above his head and flinging it into the darkness. He listens for the noise of the body hitting something solid. A pained holler piercing the white noise. Echolocation, there is a reason he's chosen the bat as his homage.

ʚ☆ɞ You are a tiny thing, lying beneath the unconscious man. Girlish and juvenile in every way. For a second he considers leaving you there, letting the danger of your ploy sink in. And yet before he can decide whether to offer a hand or turn away, you've already maneuvered out of your binding, pushing yourself up with a puerile skip. Balancing on tiptoes to examine the irritation in his dull eyes…

ʚ☆ɞ You've been trying to slip into the Batcave for the past week now. Batman's scoldings always fall on deaf ears. He's had to save you from his own creations, his own security, after every patrol. He's grown wary of delivering the same lecture. Now he merely awaits the day he'll find you sitting behind his computer with that sickly glib smile smeared across your pretty face.

ʚ☆ɞ It's a forced welcome invitation. You have a way of always being where you are not wanted, prying through steel and concrete until you've made it into the forbidden garden. He hates how much you remind him of Tim. How much you make his sons' presence vibrate through the empty cave. But it's not empty now, is it? He hears you the moment your sole graces the cave's floor, he lets you prowl behind him, awaiting knife and threat. Instead he's almost shaken when you wrap your arms gingerly around his neck, nuzzling into his shoulder with a content hum.

"I finally did it."

ʚ☆ɞ For a second he remembers Don Quioxte, obsessed soul driven to madness. He can't help but laugh.

ʚ☆ɞ He knights you, Robin, not because he wishes to, but because you've left him no alternative. You trail behind him so openly. Spinning and twirling and punching. It didn't take long for Gotham to take note of your presence. "THE NEW CHILD-WONDER" the headlines read. Now there is no other excuse but to deem you sidekick, lest the News and GCPD begin to cavil.

ʚ☆ɞ You cling to his waist, and rest your head on his shoulder during patrols that have gone until sunrise. It's getting harder and harder to ignore the skittish patter of his heart when your weight falls upon him when your arms pull taut his muscles. When he's feeling bold enough to admit somber truths to himself, Bruce confesses that when your eyes flutter open from light slumber is when he thinks you are the most beautiful. Little doll returning to hell. It's cruel and loving all in the same breath.

ʚ☆ɞ And yet he only sees suffering and an early grave with your name inscribed upon the marble. He is doomed to watch his love die. Just like all those who love him are doomed to bleed out in hopes that he will save them…

He never can.

ʚ☆ɞ He will never see you as his equal, you know this, felt it in every shove and push as he huddles you behind his bulking frame. He gives you neither batarangs nor batclaws at first, he doesn't think you're ready for the burden of such weapons. Instead, he teaches you to punch, to kick, to dislocate bones from sockets, and leave men withering in pain. In the end, you find you like the batarangs most. They do more damage than your tiny fists ever could. Or maybe it's cause he'd held you so close once, lacing his fingers with yours to teach you how to throw.

You feel the ghost of his hand weighing upon yours every time you pitch one at the oncoming threat.

ʚ☆ɞ He's only ever known love when it's under moonlight. He's only ever known love in the form of missed bullets. Not I'll protect but rather, I'll teach you how to protect yourself I'll allow you to vanquish the threat before it arises. Maybe cause it's easier this way than watching your body bleed out on the sidewalk. Maybe it's easier to turn your loved ones into abominations than let them be killed by monsters.

ʚ☆ɞ He pulls you onto his lap atop Wayne Tower's edge. Holds your hips with the same grip he uses to crush Poison Ivy's flytraps. Too bruising, too vehement. He could dip you back, pluck your wings without you knowing, and watch you freefall onto the sidewalk. He could kill you, Bruce is sure it'd be so much less painful than watching his rogues dig into you. Gnaw on your organs and swallow your heart. He could save you by snuffing the air from your lungs. You could belong to him eternally…

ʚ☆ɞ You almost feel like Gilgamesh awaiting a miracle that will never come. Chasing after a daemon who knows not how to spare sympathy. You hear the melancholy and pride that lace his voice when he talks about them. The others, your predeceases, his robins. Their legacy lays like nectar in the back of your throat too thick to swallow, too vital to spit.

ʚ☆ɞ It's ironic how, since that fateful night so many moons ago, he's come to learn that there are countless, countless ways people can die. From bullets and neglect, from broken bones and souls, from ideologies to lavish to reside inside a human vessel. He's watched everyone he's ever loved die and die again. But when you pull on his cape and look into his eyes, when the moon's light hits you just right, casting shimmers upon your face, painting you as an ethereal angel who has fallen from the heavens so high. Bruce can't help but pray that you remain by his side until the end of times. Until Gotham's love finally kills him too.

ʚ☆ɞ He can't help but let his stone heart flutter, can't help but long to pull you closer. You chirp his name with an elysian smile, cling to him as he swings you both from rooftop to rooftop. You fit between his bones so perfectly. Bruce dreams of splitting his ribcage open and pulling out his heart. Caging his precious bird inside himself.

ʚ☆ɞ Sometimes you wonder if he knows how sharp the knife is. He speaks in cacophonies but they ever only sound monochrone to you. You mustn't tell your young what they can and can't achieve you think. You mustn't clip their wings till it replicates their antecedent's wings. There is a lecturer before every war, only for you to be sidelined for the next two. You count the pattern like stab wounds. One to the neck, two to the heart.

Batman expects replicas and regalias. You feel so invisible.

ʚ☆ɞ "I would gladly break my heart for you Batman." Bruce winces at the words. You're skipping across the edge playing some form of invisible hopscotch. "Thanks, but I don't need another broken heart on my conscience. I got enough of that already." He wonders if you'd teach him your game if he promised to let you punch Killer Croc this time.

ʚ☆ɞ "I do not understand the insults" you confess one night, He's crutched on a skyscraper awaiting the stampede of Two-Face's getaway cars.

"Are people so obtuse that they see not all the good you've done? Would they rather live in a city that can kill them a hundred times over?" Bruce sighs, a heavy noise that rattles the air. "it's easy to blame things on the one trying to fix them. People need scapegoats, they need to believe in the flaws of their heroes." It doesn't answer your question, not exactly but before you can pry, he's already swinging onto the street. You close your eyes savoring the rare solitude before jumping after him.

ʚ☆ɞ "I think you're destined to do this forever"

You speak through decades, through centuries. Bruce doesn't allow himself the privilege of cringing at the quotation. It had been one of the better things the Joker had ever said, almost like a mother reassuring her child that she would be there to pick them up after school. No, instead he focuses on the ghostly lite of your voice. How it reverberates with his sons' tones. Miscellaneous candances that sound nothing less than eerie. Speaking through time, through space. He is destined to make the same mistakes, destined to watch the same deaths.

ʚ☆ɞ "I think I'll be Lilith after I'm done being Robin"

"Who says you'll ever be done being Robin."

ʚ☆ɞ There is a part of him that thinks, believes, that if he just kisses you, feels the softness of your lips and the rigid bones beneath, then he will have saved you. The logic never sinks in, maybe it's just an excuse. The longing has started to grow teeth. It sinks them into his heart every single night. Bruce pulls you closer and lets his lips still over yours. If he could change something, anything this time around, then maybe just maybe he won't have to watch you die.

ʚ☆ɞ Bruce's kisses are suffocating, patronizing. Your tiny fists do little to deter them. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, his hands massage your hips. He knows exactly how to make poison feel like pleasure.

ʚ☆ɞ There's a bird inside a golden cage. She's pretty singing songs of misery. There will be a diamond ring on her finger soon, stripping away her dreams of being a hero.

[sunnymainecoonx]

I don't think I ever published these so ig.....

There's a last one but err warning for gore and blood(mostly just ripping an arm off)

[kusanagihaku]

everything you lose is a step you take

⭢ taiga + mc, 1k

b is for b-t-h. ˖⁺‧₊⟡ alphabet series | ao3

When the door to Taiga’s room cracks open to reveal the golden barrel of a gun you don’t even blink. 

“What the fuck d’ya want,” comes a flat demand. 

You sigh, and flap a folder of documents against Taiga’s gun. “Your forms for the week.” 

The door creaks open further to reveal a frowning Taiga. “No.” 

He lets you into his room all the same, though, so you follow when he turns tail to sprawl back onto the red plush of his bed. 

You shuffle the forms out of their folder as you enter. “Three forms this week. Two from Romeo and one for a mission report.” 

(You’d learnt not to mention Hyde by name long ago, after he tossed you out one too many times for asking.) 

Taiga groans, taking the pen you hand him. He signs his name with a disgruntled flourish, then waves you away. You think you see a hint of a pout on his lips, but you daren’t quite believe it. “Go bother Lulu, I wanna nap.” 

“Wait,” you say. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “I have a… a gift for you.” 

Taiga stares at you for a moment before shrugging. At the curious raise of his eyebrows you pull out a bracelet from the inside of your blazer. Its white beads are laced with tiny glinting plastic beads that catch the low candlelight and reflect blood-red sparks around the dying sunlight of the room. It is light in your palm, a barely there reminder of the culmination of an afternoon’s work, and as you slip it into Taiga’s waiting palm the cheap acrylic look almost like rubies. 

Taiga squints at the white beads that have landed in his hand. “B-T-H?” 

You shift. “That’s what Romeo calls you, isn’t it? Whenever you look at it you’ll remember to reply his texts.” 

Taiga’s laugh startles a smile out of you. He holds it up to the light. “He didn’t put ya up to this, did he. Doesn’t look like his kinda beads.” 

You rub your neck. You doubt you could afford Romeo’s ‘kinda beads’. “No, I made it myself. Made one for all of us so you’d remember who we were.” 

(You did make one for Romeo so as not to leave him out, after all; you just don’t know if he’d accept something so cheap.) 

Taiga hums. The ease at which he accepts your gift is mildly discomfiting; as he slips the elastic over his fist the beads look like a crown of blood. 

His eyes flicker over to yours, zeroing in on where your arms are crossed over your chest. He smiles, something sharp and mischievous that burns an inferno up the sparks of your skin. “Ya made one for yourself, kitty-cat?” 

You shift your weight to your other foot. “Yeah.” 

“What does yours say?” 

You fidget with the beads wrapped around your wrist. It’s a little embarrassing to read it out loud, now that you’re confronted with Taiga himself, but Taiga raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth, and you find yourself blurting, “Dumbass #1.” 

Taiga pauses. His mouth snaps shut before a slow grin unfurls across his face. “And who the fuck is Dumbass #2?” 

You frown. “Ritsu.”

“Who?” 

“What– he’s–“ you catch sight of the glee in Taiga’s eyes– “Oh, never mind.” 

Taiga throws his head back and laughs, a loud cackle that paints the whole room yellow. He runs a hand through the fire of his hair. “I’ll remember.” 

You doubt it, but that’s what you made the bracelets for anyway. 

Taiga stands, one fluid motion that brings him off the sofa and straight to your face. You nearly jerk back from the sudden proximity, but his fingers trail down your arm, lacing itself into the back of your hand before bringing it up to his lips. 

Time stops, then, in the sun of the room. 

What is it like to hold a predator, his ruthless and reckless turned soft in the heart of your palm? To have him wrap your hand around his cheek, cradling him, like he knows you are not afraid of a star so bright and lightless and burning? 

His eyelashes brush your fingers. He sighs, the quiet huff warm against your fingertips. The thump of your heart echoes loud in your ears as he melts into your hold, pliant and trusting, like you are the only thing keeping him from floating away on strains of blood and hunger, and when he opens his eyes to look down at you it feels all too much like a surrender. 

“Thank you,” Taiga hums. His voice is uncharacteristically quiet, not coloured with its usual tone of frustration or boredom but a raw honesty that melts right from the whiskey of his lips onto where he is bruising a kiss onto the tilt of your thumb– 

-before his teeth catch on the elastic cord of Dumbass #1 and yank it clean off your wrist. 

The beads scatter around the floor of the room, pearly white pieces bouncing off the black marble. Each rattle of fallen bead rings in your ears – just like that, an afternoon’s work disperses itself and slides under pieces of furniture, never to be seen again. 

“Taiga,” you breathe, brows furrowing, but before you can begin to process the sting of rejection from Taiga’s actions, soft lips press themselves against the inside of your wrist. 

His hand, warm on the outside of yours, curls your fingers around the smooth of his cheek. “Kitty-cat.” 

Your eyes meet. His luminous green eyes swallow all the light in the room, threaten to swallow you, whole. 

You daren’t move. 

Your thumb stays on his cheek, even as his hand leaves yours to curl around your bare wrist. 

But then Taiga’s eyes narrow, and he grins, all shark and glow, hair falling like blood into the sharp of his gaze. “Make another one,” he says, and kisses your wrist again, for good measure. His teeth graze your pulse. 

“Make sure it says kitty-cat this time.” 

[artstaeus3600]

Alrighty buckle up fuckers cause imma start off with omegaverse and if you don't like that than you've been warned

Now different dimensions Danny phantom and DC, the DC universe being the omegaverse while Danny Phantom isn't, Danny gets Launched into this omegaverse DC universe while he was fighting Skulker accidentally and not being able to make portals yet is stuck for the foreseeable future, what he doesn't know is that this universe gave him a designation (pick ur choice between Alpha or Omega for drama) but he really smells like one of those two and everybody else can smell him too

While stuck in this universe nothing about him has changed besides his smell he doesn't act differently because of the designation and it's really throwing off the people that's around him and that smell him, Danny can feel emotions cause of ghosts and he can't really tone down his smell and he has no idea what a scent patch is what so ever, so he's just wandering around trying to find a natural portal or even if this universe can make a portal for him to get back to his universe, all while he's being simped over by whoever is nearby

Of course depending on which designation he got he'll probably be forced into some type of collar(of course this also depends on how you see the omegaverse cause I've seen some really restrictive ones and more lax ones)

[scribz-ag24]

dusknoir's selfishness appreciation post

One aspect of Dusknoir's character I find deeply captivating is how his selfish motivation to live on remains unique and differentiated from the rest of the cast. In a story where most of the characters are willing to sacrifice themselves for a greater good, it's fascinating to see how Dusknoir at no point ever seeks that greater good, and yet the writers succeed in giving him an emotional and satisfying character arc. All without ever getting rid of what made Dusknoir work as an antagonist in the first place, something that stands out even more when comparing him to his peers in SE5. So lemme ramble about it for a bit

Dusknoir is motivated by his fear of disappearing and, in spite of sparing a thought to how welcoming the world was before the paralysis ("The quality of life here must be cheery and charming. / Why, it’s so welcoming, I might like to settle here myself… Hoo-hoo-ha!"), at no point is he ever shown regretful or hesitant to cruelly eliminate those who attempt to change history. His determination at times seems firmer than Grovyle's, since Grovyle is seen apologizing for his actions or forcing himself to focus on his mission to save the planet above all else (Crystal Lake and encounter with Spiritomb during his escape from the Sableye, respectively). Dusknoir's objective is much smaller in scope and he shows no sign of being able to have his mind swayed.

He is self-centred and terrified, as expected of Pokémon in the dark future. In Explorers's tale, where major plot beats revolve around accepting sacrifice and overcoming your fears, it's no wonder Dusknoir works perfectly as the major opposing force throughout the game. Where Hero and Grovyle (and Celebi although the narrative ignores her for the most part) love the world too much to let it die, Dusknoir can't think of anything except perpetuating his own survival at all costs, disregarding the fact that he has no actual reason to live. The only thing we see him do is serve Primal Dialga, and even that job seems limited to "get rid of those who try to change history". There are no prospects of anything better coming his way.

Morover, Dusknoir's lack of care for the world remains consistent throughout SE5. As Grovyle's main opposing force, it's only natural all the arguments about the "morally right thing to do" are white noise to him. When Grovyle finishes explaining the heroic grand objective of his mission, that saving the planet will grant everyone in the past a new future, Dusknoir blatantly ignores his entire argument. He shows no regard for any life but his own, something that might also be inferred from the careless way he treats the Sableye and Spiritomb.

To continue the trend of Grovyle and Dusknoir being foils of each other, SE5 show us example after example of Grovyle looking for strenght in others, lending a thought to Hero and Partner, reminding himself again and again why he fights so hard. Through it all, he never loses sight of the global consequences of his actions, "for the future!" "make an impact in Partner's future" "the fate of the Pokémon in the future".

In fact, Hero and Partner rarely leave his thoughts. Grovyle is deeply tied to others thanks to his internal thoughts, whereas Dusknoir's thoughts, all throughout the Frozen Island, never stray far from his worst enemy. Even the two ocassions when he brings up Hero or Partner are meant to torment Grovyle, he's very isolated otherwise. It only reinforces how narrow his scope is, compared to Grovyle's ambition of changing the entire world for no benefit to himself.

Up until the middle of SE5 Grovyle seems like a deeply selfless character, and that remains true until the end. However, in a moment of brilliance, the writers introduce to us Grovyle's objective of making his life shine, of leaving a footprint in the world so he will be remembered by others, a selfish motivation. One that is as valid, captivating and powerful as the selfless "give everyone a new life is", and a selfish one nevertheless. And that is exactly what Dusknoir needed to hear. In a parallel to the first conversation of the episode, Dusknoir is once again hurt and vulnerable and listening to Grovyle's justification for his mission. Only this time he pays close attention to what Grovyle says; and this time, to his later dismay, he understands him.

Dusknoir's character arc is partly as strong as it is because the writers are not erasing any of his flaws or established personality, they are precisely using that wish to not disappear and that focus on his own life to drive Dusknoir into a noble objective. Therefore, when Dusknoir switches sides, it is believable. There is enough evidence to see why he was swayed by the idea of his spirit lingering in the world, where millions of lives never made a dent in his determined pursuit of hopeless self-preservation.

As if that wasn't enough, the writers make a point of driving this selfish motivation even further home by contrasting it with literally every other friendly character we can talk to. We only need to take a look at Celebi and the Sableye's lines of dialogue to see that, if the writers had intended for Dusknoir to care for the future itself, they would have had no issue making him say it explicitly. All these characters can spare a line to the greater good of the planet.

And yet, Dusknoir's distinct objective remains clear until the very end, no mentions of the future or any global scale, he wants to make his life shine and live to the fullest in the time he has left. It's an aspect i see overlooked quite a lot in general media, using selfishness to contribute to the big heroic mission. Since Pokémon games tend to have a clearer, more simplified message, where being selfish should be bad and being selfless would be unambiguously good, I am rather fond of this example of a villainous antagonist turning the same qualities that made him an insurmountable threat into the strenght of a crucial member of the team that helped to save the world.

I firmly believe this is a pretty important piece of Dusknoir's characterization. Obviously, he is indirectly "caring" about the world by saving it, yet that is never his main goal by any stretch. Keeping his self-centred personality is an extremely compelling way to develop his character for the better without introducing any external influence, relying on "i'll do the right thing" or the cliché "do it for X person" that would water down his place in the narrative and contradict his established characterization. Once he recognizes the truth in Grovyle's words, he is able to put his fear aside and finally live, for whatever time he has left, as himself and for himself.

[As a funny detail, i find quite charming how celebi is shown to fight for nothing but to save the future; dusknoir, on the contrary, is wholly focused on leaving an impact on the world; and grovyle somehow holds both motivations without neither overshadowing the other. If this isn't proof that they're meant to be a trio, i don't know what it is lol]

[alchemiclee]

I like the idea of phainon being a bit taller than mydei and mydei never forgives him for it. he can't get over it. it's one if his biggest complexes and he randomly gets upset at phainon for it for no reason. phainon doesn't even bring it up or use it to tease him. he knows mydei does that all by himself because he can't ignore that fact, which is even more hilarious to him. he just chuckles in response, which pisses mydei off more. but he usually compliments him on something else to try to make up for it, blatantly flirting at times. and that both flusters and further pisses mydei off.

phainon: *standing next to mydei and looks over at him*

mydei: "stop looking down on me"

p: "ok i'll sit down then-"

m: "DONT YOU PITY ME"

p: *tries to hold it in but chuckles against his will*

m: *scowls and looks like he's about to explode and curses him*

p: "how about I meet your beautiful eyes then ;)" *grabs his chin and bends down slightly to make direct eye contact*

m: *turns red, pushes him off, and stomps away like an angry toddler*

[potatoattorney]

Thinking about how Sister Iris doesn’t even have a last name. She could have been Iris Fey but Morgan didn’t want either of the twins. She could have been Iris Hawthorne but her father sent her to Hazakura Temple. The anime calls her Iris Hazakura but she’s never referred to this way in the games.

She hardly even gets to have her own identity. She goes to Ivy University and dates Phoenix as Dahlia Hawthorne and she loves him but he’s in love with the person she’s pretending to be. In 3-5 at Hazakura Temple she’s at a point where she should be able to be her own person. She should be able to be seen as Iris. But Phoenix sees her as Dahlia’s ghost. And then there’s the plot to kill Maya, and Iris has to cover for Dahlia again. Again and again she’s just Dahlia’s stunt double.