#is there a ship name for all three of them

[on-the-clear-blue]

I know I usually ship one of the Bat kids with Danny but...what about the elder generation?

Danny gets sent back in time by Clockwork to WW2, working with the Allies to stop the Axis from using Ghost artifacts to further their goals.

It's a long term mission, meaning that he is spending months if not a few years in the 1940s, and who might you think is his Ally handlers? One Mathew Kane and one 'Fred' Pennyworth, all three of them work with a civilian doctor that volunteered for the war effort, one 'Tom' Wanye.

Or, Danny unknowingly falls for his handlers while using his ghost powers to he the perfect spy, Martha cross dressed and lied to get into the army to help with the war effort because her family is Jewish and like hell is she going to just sit in a factory, she is going to kill Nazis, Thomas was flat footed and had poor health so he was refused by the draft, so volunteered to be a spy doctor instead.

And Alfred is suffering because the yank "Mathew" always jumps the gun but somehow makes everything end up alright, Thomas is utterly reckless and if he hadn't saved their lives so many times he would be off the team, and Danny because he distrusts the man's magic, it just ain't right.

[versevibess]

Commandress

Cassian X Reader

PART ONE

Summary:

Multiple part series. You lock eyes with the Lord of Bloodshed on the battlefield during Hybern’s attack and later his High Lord and Lady offer you a bargain you cannot refuse.

WARNINGS:

Later parts will contain more explicit content. Read at your own risk. Descriptions of violence and gore.

Please note:

This is my first time writing on tumblr! Please hang in there whilst I get the hang of things! :)

Bones cracked and crumbled beneath my feet, the battle field now paved with corpses; to the point that the mud beneath them was a sickly mixture of soil and flesh. I could hear the blood rushing to my head, my heart pounding so loud I could hardly hear my own self scream at my soldiers around me.

I could see the distaste on the many male faces the moment we stepped off of that ship, yet it did nothing but make me fight harder. A point needed to be proven, and I had done exactly that, my dagger disemboweling yet another of Hybern’s soldiers before me. I took a moment to catch my breath as his body turning into a sack of lifeless muscle, slumping to the ground, adding a tally next to the rest of them.

My surroundings were absolutely chaos, males bursting with red hot fury as their swords and shields clashed repeatedly against one another; no rhyme nor reason to their movement, just raw, unforgiving rage. Everything inside my body burned with fatigue, but I couldn’t let them know that, couldn’t prove them correct in saying that the battlefield was no place for a woman.

So I heaved for breath, unsheathing my sword from my side and hauling the heavy steel over my shoulder; waiting in anticipation for the next screwed up face to charge at me. I wouldn’t have to wait long, a large male clad in the Kings colours running towards me with a harsh snarl, his teeth grit. I paid it no thought as I swung my sword, once, twice, the metal of our weapons gleaming as they clashed, just before I took a brutal swing at his neck.

Clean. His head slid from his neck, a perfect seam of blood spilling from his throat and onto his armour before his legs finally caught up and collapsed from beneath him. Another mark next to my name.

Perhaps I had been too caught up in the brutality of it all, perhaps I simply couldn’t see through my white speckled vision as to what was happening before all of our armies - the King was dead. So I kept fighting, and fighting. Each body which fell to the ground was a reminder to my body to keep pushing, one more became two more, two more became three.

I may have become too confident as I took one more moment to catch my breath, hands still clenched around the silver handle of my sword which was hovered above my shoulder. So caught up in the middle of two thoughts - the disbelief that the King had been slain and the disbelief of how many dead bodies were trampled at my feet - that I hadn’t noticed the dagger which flew towards me.

The weapon cut through the air faster than light, the entire thing as if it was a dream that I didn’t quite have a grasp on. All I felt was pain, soaring, boiling pain from above my eyebrow, all the way down to the corner of my mouth. I may have been in a state of shock, my hand loosening around my sword as I screamed in agony, metallic tasting blood pooling between the seams of my lips as I screamed.

I hadn’t even seen the dagger come at me for a second blow, straight into the left side of my stomach.

Blinding red flight burst around me, and for a moment I believed this was it; that the red light consuming me was in fact the underworld I was undoubtedly destined to be sent to once my soul left my body.

This was it, I thought.

Yet I could feel my body hit the ground. My face pillowed by cushions of mud, or perhaps a corpse. And once my eyes peeled open from the sheer pain of it all, they met the man who delivered the blow, being cut into ribbons by an Illyrian soldier.

No, not an Illyrian soldier.

My eyes drifted open and closed, and in what may have been my final moments, I watched as he scorched my attacker with his wrath, with siphons so bright they were almost blinding. He towered over the rest of his men, a beacon of power, destruction. I didn’t have the mental capacity to note the look of terror twist in everyone else’s faces, but I was sure I would remember it for days to come. If the gods allowed it.

Darkness consumed me once more, and for slightly longer this time; yet the adrenaline that soared through my body overpowered deaths calling.

My eyes shot open, the ringing in my ears now drowning back into the battlefield cries. I managed to press my hand into the mud and haul my weight onto my single arm, the other hand clutching at the weeping wound purchased to my side. My eyelids fought against me, squeezing closed at the mud and blood which burned through my vision. Yet I still found my feet, stumbling backwards slightly through the thick wet soil, my sword digging into the ground beside me.

I watched the man’s heavy wings flare, so wide, a pang of bitter jealousy hit me deep in my chest. I wanted to do the same, the sharp jagged lumps of carved bone in my back itching to mimic his movements. Sorrow washed over me, no matter how many bodies lay before me on the battle field, I held no where near as much grief for them as I did my wings.

He turned, his broad chest heaving, his bearded jaw jutted out ever so slightly as he gasped for air, for regeneration. His hazel eyes held mine, a face so beautiful, carved from the gods them selves before me, yet in such a horrible wicked place. My eyebrows furrowed as his eyes narrowed at me.

And then he pressed his lips together, giving me a short, sharp nod before turning his back to me and bracing what was left of the war.

•

I tried to think back to that time as little as I could.

A thought alone was enough to make my stomach churn, enough to make me spill the contents of my gut onto the floor before me at any given second.

I had lost many of my women, and with such a small army left, it made our training days shorter, our help lesser. It was ultimately down to me to cover all bases now.

My heart twisted as I observed the many tent archways which hadn’t been opened since we returned; snow had began to build around the entrances due to a lack of disturbance. My eyes would often well as I thought about the untouched, cold beds which still remained inside - the belongings which now belonged to nobody.

I tried to convince myself that it was the whole point of this secluded place. Women with no safety could seek comfort in knowing they would be fed, trained and live their life with purpose other than to be bred and wed, and when the time would come, they would put up their fight. Yet it didn’t make it easier, even time its self seemed to make it even harder.

It wasn’t often that a new presence could be sensed among the camp. Under the glamours which cloaked Cretea, the land in which we stood was deemed practically nonexistent.

That was until today.

I stood inside of my tent, leaning over my wash basin and listening to the quiet crackle of my fireplace when the archway of my tent rustled open. My teeth clashed together at the abrupt burst of noise, clutching my damp wash cloth with a white knuckle as I washed the days debris from my skin.

“Commandress-“ the young, female voice called from the archway of the tent. I turned, still scrubbing away at my forearm as I silently prayed for a day where I received a moment of interrupted peace. “There are some people here for you.” She declared.

I continued to stare at the girl through my lashes, harshly digging away at a dried patch of mud which clung to my skin. I almost paid no heed to her, usually when someone was here for me, it was to tell me that I was doing my job wrong.

“Who?” I asked, looking back down at the patch of red skin which I had rubbed raw.

She didn’t answer straight away, instead I watched as her mouth opened and closed without a word. I raised my eyebrows, flinging the cloth into the basin and bracing my hands at my hips, holsters still strapped to my fox fur lined leathers.

“The High Lord and Lady of the Night Court.”

•

The High Lady stood proudly in the snow, wrapped in bundles of fur and shawls; a long, deep navy dress cascading into the white fluffy ice. A crown of silver stars, incrusted with more jewels than I had ever laid eyes on in my life rested atop of her head of thick golden-brown hair. I hadn’t properly had chance to observe her striking beauty during the war, yet I could see why she was well matched, mated, to the winged male who stood beside her.

I was in no state to be seen by a Lord, nor Lady. Only partially clad in my leathers, I hadn’t properly had the chance to dress accordingly for such a visit before I threw myself out of the tent. My empty holsters still strapped to my hips, with a lousy black long sleeve which did little to fight the brutal cold; I simply couldn’t fight the anticipation as to knowing why on earth they were here.

My face feigned confidence as I braced myself before them, feet planted firmly in the snow as I stared at the two with questioning eyes. Not only did they have little reason to be standing in my camp, but they also shouldn’t have been able to find it.

“The Commandress“ the High Lord announced, hands pressed into his pockets as one foot waded carelessly through the snow. “It is a pleasure to put a name to the face.”

My lips pressed together firmly, arms crossed over my chest as one thousand questions threatened to spill from my tongue. Instead, my eyes trailed to his gracious wings, pain twisting deep in my heart until I met the soft smile of the High Lady.

I could tell she could sense my discomfort, my uncertainty. “Perhaps we should go somewhere warm, I would love to discuss a few things with you.” She offered kindly.

I hesitated for a moment, eyebrow twitching upwards before my eyes trailed their way to the dining tent. Curiosity coiled within me, not particularly willing to wait the walk to the warm shelter to know what their intentions were.

“Why are you here?” I asked, perhaps a bit forward. I was as taken aback by my abrupt words as the High Lord was.

The High Lady, Feyre, followed my eyes, slowly and cautiously wading through the snow towards the warm hue of the fire and the smell of roasting meat. I followed, as did Rhysand. My frozen hands clenching and unclenching at my sides, phantom wings tucked so tight, as if I was a hound with their tail between its legs.

We walked in silence to the tent, irritation slowly beginning to creep up at me as no words were exchanged any further. Part of me wondered whether they must have wanted me seated for whatever it was they had to declare.

Yet we sat, the mated fae side by side, myself opposite them and still not a word giving away their purpose. Rhysand’s violet eyes were so intense it was almost painful to bare them, Feyre’s equally so.

I took a deep breath in through my nose, staring down at my clasped hands before meeting their faces once again. “My Lord, Lady, to what do I owe the pleasure?” I tried a more formal approach, earning a brief scoff from Rhysand. Feyre simply smiled, glancing at her mate.

“I don’t think I had ever heard an Illyrian speak with such formality.” He remarked and my eyebrows furrowed.

“How do you know that I am Illyrian?” I asked. I certainly didn’t have the wings to prove it.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, bright violet eyes clearly tracing over the scar which was now embedded into the soft skin of my face. A permanent reminder of what our people endured. A wicked reminder.

“Illyrian woman are a different kind, different to us males.” He inhaled a sharp breath, his ankle crossing over his knee as he clasped his hands in his lap infront of him. I watched as his wings flared with his movement. “Stronger, driven.”

“I do not need your praise, just tell me what you need.” I pushed firmly.

His eyebrows raised, Feyre’s hand sliding over his forearm, a silent gesture for him to just get to the point.

“The war was brutal for all of us, as you know.” His head nodded towards the few remaining woman of the camp who had began to rustle around outside, undoubtedly eavesdropping on the conversation. “Yet once we grew brave enough to share our own stories-“ he paused for a moment, glancing at his mate. “The commander of my armies could only ask about one woman… one which he did not know the name of, yet fought as if she had something to prove.”

I swallowed dryly.

“He said she lead an army of woman, not just Illyrian, but from every corner of the immortal lands and she bought many men to their deaths effortlessly.” He continued.

“I believe you have the wrong person.” I bit.

Feyre’s lips rolled inwards, her eyes not meeting mine as she toyed with the sapphire and silver ring on her slender finger.

“He told us that if we were to ever find her, she would have a scar; one from the top of her brow to her lip.”

My eye twitched slightly, my hands gripping the wooden bench with enough force to snap it. Not only fear, but disappointment washed over me. I had kept us hidden for so long, my people hidden for so long, with only one promise to protect the scarred souls who lived here from the cruel outside world. Yet they could find me from something so small, as insignificant as a scar on my face.

“What do you want?” I asked, the quiver evident in my voice.

I had heard stories of the High Lord, whispers from Pyrthian; that he could turn an immortals mind to mist with as little as a thought. He could make them think things, whatever he pleased. I knew I had to be careful, perhaps more careful than I had ever been.

He feigned a look of thought, his lip curling outwards as he picked at a silver thread on his dark velvet tunic.

“Your guidance, in exchange for whatever you please.”

I prayed to the gods that they couldn’t hear the skipped beat of my heart.

I remained silent, peering slowly between the two as I waited for a catch to follow their offer. Regardless of whether it came, I knew my answer already. I had dedicated what little life I had experienced to helping less fortunate women, to ensuring they had another path. That couldn’t stop now, now that I had been offered a higher duty.

Silence continued to consume the High Lord’s offer, my eyes narrowing with thought as one of my soldiers who was tending to dinner, Synthia, brought over three cups of boiling tea. I only just managed to mumble a thank you in return, my vision now strained on the tumbling streams of steam emitted from the cup.

“I’m afraid I must decline.” I finally answered.

The two looked at one another for a few seconds, until Feyre’s gaze fell on me. She simply took a sip from her tea, with much more grace and elegance than anyone on this camp had ever managed, before settling the cup down in front of her softly.

“It is entirely your choice, but may I ask that you listen to our reasoning and in return, we will listen to yours.”

I hesitated but nodded, slightly taken aback by her response. I doubted that the High Lady often heard anyone decline an offer that her and her mate had composed, yet she handled it with grace.

“I understand why you took all of this on, the camp, the role of commandress…” The High Lady’s eyes trailed to where my wings should have sat proud. “In our Illyrian camps, the girls now train, learn to fly-“ her eyes lit up at the words alone, “yet you know how these Illyrian men can be, stubborn -“ her mate flashed her a look, although almost appeared as if he agreed. “- stuck in their old ways. The general of our armies expressed his admiration for your skill on the battlefield, and it was my idea to seek you out and ask if you would be willing to help.”

I let the words settle before I spoke, sparks of nerves erupting in my gut. My heart was beating so wildly in my chest that I thought it may tear through the muscle. Yet they remained the epitome of calm and composed.

“My wings were carved from my body long after the practice was banned, before I had even bled.” The words rolled from my tongue with such hatred and disgust, yet they both knew it wasn’t intended for them. “Woman still arrive to this island with their back and bones in bits-“

“Then help us put a stop to it.” The Lords words were cold, firm.

“May I ask why you do not wish to help?” The High Lady followed.

I had began to chew on the insides of my cheeks, my lips twisting as I let the question stew in the air for a moment.

“How could I live with myself, if I left this land for a fancy court and a new role after leading dozens of women to their deaths.” My words were laced with a raw sense of guilt. The thought alone twisted my chest, a dreaded sickness settling in the pit of my stomach as the scene played out behind my eyes.

“Your army will be cared for, and if they wish they may join you on whichever camp you reside on. We will have our finest Illyrian warriors continue to train them in the meanwhile - until you are settled in.” Rhysand followed, a tiny spark of hope igniting inside of me.

Perhaps I could end this once and for all. Without the sick evil bastards shredding fae women of their wings, draining them of the power in which they possessed, then there wouldn’t be a need to keep them secluded. The battle which shredded throughout my mind was enough to make me become nauseous, ‘what ifs’ plaguing my rational train of thought.

“You have my word, your people will be cared for, safe, they will never worry about seeking out a warm bed or a cooked meal again. They will receive whatever education we can give, whatever expertise we can pass on and you will receive whatever your heart desires.” The High Lord continued.

I watched as Feyre’s expression perked at the end of his generosity.

“What is it your heart desires, Commandress?” She asked.

“Happiness.” I breathed.

[traincat]

Do you think the relationship between Peter and Johnny is part of the reason why Marvel won’t let Johnny come out?

That's an interesting question. My gut feeling is no -- I think because Johnny coming out doesn't mean that they would have to confirm that he has romantic feelings for Peter. It would be interesting to see that confirmed, but it's not something that necessarily comes hand-in-hand with Johnny coming out. They wouldn't have to address it at all. If Johnny were to come out, I think the most organic romantic relationship to put him in would be with his longtime best friend Wyatt Wingfoot, for example. I think inventing a brand new character designed solely to be The Boyfriend ala what happened with Iceman would be a mistake. On the other hand, Johnny/Bobby could also work, since Bobby is canonically gay. But I don't think they would have to bring Peter into the mix at all. (I can only see Spideytorch happening in canon in an alternate universe comic.)

Then there's the fact that, okay, I highly doubt Marvel will ever make Peter Parker canonically queer. (They have a gay Spider-Man in Cooper Coen rather than do anything with Peter in an AU. Nothing against Cooper Coen or anything, I just think it's interesting.) I mean who knows! Things change! But right here and now, I have trouble calling it, at least not any time remotely soon. I think Marvel will probably go bankrupt (again) first. But, in the meantime, they aren't afraid to ship bait with him and other men. Voraciously. The Spider-Man and Deadpool teamup comic was aimed at least partly if not nearly entirely at shippers, and I can't blame them because that was free money. That fandom is huge. And Zdarsky was definitely dangling ship bait for Spideytorch at certain points in PPSSM. Which makes sense -- creators are more aware of shipping and fandom than ever before, taking social media into account. They know what people are shipping and headcanoning. (One Marvel writer, who I am not going to publicly name, definitely implied some things about Flash TO MY FACE by which I mean in my mentions and then did the exact opposite of it.) So if they thought they could get money out of queerbaiting Peter with an out Johnny, I don't like, think that's something that's beneath Marvel. (I think very little is beneath Marvel, to be fair.)

My belief right now, and this is solely based on the timing of some things, is that Marvel believes Johnny coming out would hurt the new movie's box office. Marvel's interests with the Fantastic Four are very closely tied up to their film rights -- they literally stopped publishing the book for three years while they were trying to get them back, because if they couldn't have the film rights, they were going to pretend the Fantastic Four didn't exist, up to and including erasing them from the artwork present in Marvel's headquarters. So if they thought Johnny coming out (which would be highly publicized, look what happened when Bobby Drake came out) would cause enough people to not see the new film, I can absolutely see them making a decision based out of that.

[utilitycaster]

please tell me what to do if I frequently think about how i would have preferred a different ending to cr3 and feel a powerful yet deeply buried raging frustration deep inside me

sure!

Your feelings are valid and if you are moved to write fanfiction go for it, but I find that fix-it fic rarely speaks to me because on some level it's like, what's done is done, it should have been better, and fic written out of spite rather than because of a great idea tends to suck. So if you have a great concept for an ending for C3 write it; if you just wish it were different, continue on.

There are many things in my real actual life to which I would have preferred a different ending, and I can't change them, I can only live with the life I have, and there are many benefits to that too; such is the way of the world. At least when a fictional work ends like this you can be like well, on to the next one. See point 4.

Good outlets for buried raging frustration just generally include: exercise, building things (literal, physical), and volunteering/political action, all of which are productive and meaningful. Honestly these are good outlets for a lot of negative emotions and tend to transform them into positive ones. Building things (figurative) can be good but see point 1.

Consume Good (in the sense of execution, not morality) Media Instead. C1 and C2 rewatches are underway; I can provide some longform AP recs for other shows as well; and like, there's a lot of good TV and even more books out there. There are plenty of stories that have a satisfying ending and compelling conflict and characters; find them and think about them instead. I've been thinking about this as a separate problem but I feel actual play and ttrpg discussion suffers from people either being weirdly ignorant of heroic fantasy genre norms; or only familiar with heroic fantasy genre norms; and of course Terminal Fandom Brain (ie, everything is shipping) and reading or watching something outside of fandom or even as a lurker on the fringe is like a reset. I am now simply thinking about Trinity Santos and Aelis de Lenti and Neve Gallus and Helly R all the time instead.

Taliesin Jaffe said on last week's Weird Kids that there is an idea of three deaths (I forget to which culture or ideology he attributed it): the literal one of the body; the death of the last person who knew your personally; and the last time your name is said. From this we can infer that the less we talk, think about, or discuss Campaign 3, the faster it dies; and the more people complain about those of us who did not care for Campaign 3, the slower we die. Be the psychopomp you wish to see in the world.

[slothanime4]

Severus + Lily + James polycule <3 featuring baby Harry

When Severus Snape stumbles through the small cottage in Godric’s Hollow, bleeding and injured he is surprised to see a young Harry at the bottom of the stairs, standing and tense like he was the one caught. Severus quickly composes himself enough to bark the order, “get your mother,” as he falls in through the doorway onto their patchy sofa. Harry, being young and afraid of being caught out of bed at late, scrambles up the rest of the stairs to find James and Lily.

However, by the time Harry’s socked feet have stopped sliding into his parents room he raises his eyes to see them already up and walking towards him. James, his father, walks straight past and briskly down the stairs before Harry can even get a single word out and his mother follows suit, not hesitating to pick up Harry into her arms before she steps down.

When Harry can see past the stair banister, he looks over into the next room to see James furiously muttering spells whilst his wand hovers a mere few inches from Severus’ injured body equally unstable and in motion.

“What’s the damage?” Lily asks as she places Harry down a few feet away and crouches next to James

Taking a deep breath, James doesn’t look up from his casting before replying to his wife,

“I don’t know Lils,” a sigh, “my spells are picking up on so many but I just can’t tell which ones are causing what.” He looks up frustrated and desperate before catching the look on Harry’s face and immediately stopping all action.

Harry looks terrified, face white with glassy eyes and a gaping mouth. His gaze is focused on Sev’s equally pale face and shallow breathing but the unblinking state suggests that Harry isn’t seeing anything at all. Lily, picking up on James’s shift of focus, spins round on her feet and blocks Severus’ body from view.

“Harry?” She places her hands on his shoulders and gets the attention of the bright emerald eyes, so similar to her own.

“Is- Is pa going to be okay?” Harry’s words come out clumsy, matching the childish wabble to his chin that practically beg his mother to tell him that everything is going to be okay.

Maybe in another universe Harry lost his parents young and he was forced to work under the Dursley’s eye without ever showing a single emotion. Maybe his safe space was a tiny closet under the stairs. And maybe the first time he felt parental love was when he was 13 meeting his godfather for the first time. This is not that universe.

Lily pulls Harry in softly and wraps her arms around him, holding him close to her chest and resting her head on his. She breathes around him as Harry grips on and inhales the scent of his mother.

“Your pa will be fine,” she mutters, smoothing down his hair in long strokes, “dad’s casting healing spells on him now. Just like when you fell off your broom the other day, remember? You had a cut on your knee and he made it all better”

Harry whispers something into her chest which makes Lily pull away and ask him to repeat what he said, keeping him close enough that when he spoke he had to look up to meet her gaze,

“I thought it was kisses that did that?”

The question was so innocent that it promptly broke a sharp cackle out of James who seemed to no longer be focused on the healing and was instead watching Lily and Harry.

“Right you are, Prongslet. My magical skills and talent have nothing over the healing properties of kisses” he rolls his eyes and winks which causes a wet giggle out of Harry and an exasperated one from Lily. A groan from the occupant of the couch causes all three grins to fall and for Lily to rest on her knees by Severus head, grasping his hand which was previously dangling off.

“Please do tell me we’re not stroking Potter’s ego again?” The voice comes out rough and follows a singular eye raise that allows all the tension in the room to slowly melt away.

“You better be talking about James and not me,” Comes Lily snarky reply, “and we all know that Harry isn’t old enough to pick up on those traits yet”

“I thought we agreed that the brat definitely was?”

Harry lets out an offended gasp and walks towards Severus who was now attempting to sit up, and failing as two pairs of hands pushed him back down.

“‘m not a brat” Harry huffs out, his little brain catching onto the offending word and running with it.

“No?” Severus’ lazy gaze looks Harry up and down before pushing a finger into his puffed up cheeks and asking, “then what’s with this pout?”

Harry looks away, cheeks flushing before finally admitting, “I was worried about you,” he looks back up into Severus’ eyes and seeing him about to interrupt scrambles to get his words out. “You just showed up all injured and covered in blood and I panicked and couldn’t do anything and then you were just lying there and you looked really gross- and, and dad was worried and mum was worried and I was worried and-“ he sucks in a huge breath which gets replaced by a finger on his lips.

“I’m okay, you silly boy.” Severus’ arm pulls him into his side and Harry lies his head on his chest listening to the steady thump, thump, thumping of his heart. “I’m okay…” he breathes out again pressing his lips to the top of Harry’s messy hair and just saying that way for several moments.

With Severus being awake and no longer taking up the whole span of the sofa, James sits down heavily, the late hour and healing having taken out any spare energy he might’ve had. He wipes his weary eyes out from under his glasses and levels Severus with a half hearted glare, furiously whispering,

“we’re talking about this tomorrow”. Severus doesn’t make any movement or sound to indicate that he’s heard but James wasn’t expecting anything more out of the man tonight.

Lily, sensing that nobody would be moving again until the morning, sits on the floor and rests her back in front of James’ legs and closes her eyes with a soft sigh.

Come morning there would be three sore adults and one grumpy child but they would all be alive, and that would be enough for now.

[saintclementinearts]

I’m certain someone has already done this but. It’s necessary.

[potato-lord-but-not]

Starting 2025 off with some cutesie ourthur doodles like god intended

[rebelsafoot]

this trend Also could have worked for foreman, cameron and chase

[infizero-draws]

naming myself official ceo of lizzidarity (name i came up with). anyone else here insane after their interactions in the finale or is it just me

[anarchypumpkincowboy]

@italicized-oh I need you to know that you’re partially responsible for these thoughts and my latest obsessive hc where jace and Porter both have vampire kinks cause Zara drank from them while pegging them

Y’all y’all I can’t stop thinking about vampire Jace

Would he be pissed? Or would he just be resigned? I mean after all it’s not like it’s the first time Porter’s taken control of his body from him. Certainly won’t be the last. Porter’s a god. Porter’s his god. It’s his right to decide these things.

And… and a god’s followers influence their gods. So that must mean he wanted this, subconsciously at least, right? Porter’s got a thing for vampires, they learned that back when they messed around with Zara and Porter moaned when Zara bit him that first time. Jace has always wanted to make himself perfect for his god. So this must’ve been that desire influencing Porter. Right?

[quadrantadvisor]

Pairing Off, in which the Waynes meet the Fentons, just not all at once. 2,443 words

-

Damian feels less than positively about the new girl in his grade.

Danielle Fenton has already garnered a bit of a reputation. Her uniform is clearly second hand, and rumors abound about whether she has joined them at Gotham Academy on a merit scholarship or as “one of Wayne's charity cases.” Neither is true; Father has offered no fiscal support to the Fentons, and yet both she and her older brother attend the Academy, leading Damian to believe they've somehow paid their own way.

Her lower class status and midwestern accent ought to make Fenton a target, but her response to being cornered or talked down to by other students was an unsettling combination of cheerful and aggressive. She is now mostly left to her own devices, despite her notoriety. 

Damian has no interest in the girl. While it is true that she excels in both mathematics and social studies, her performance in English and science are unremarkable, and she poses no challenge to his rank at the top of the class. If he finds himself pushing harder in certain classes this semester in order to maintain the edge, it's no one else's business.

Now if only she would leave him alone.

Damian preemptively slams his sketchbook shut, just as a brash, inconsiderate, annoying girl hops up to sit on his desk. “Hey Dami, what're you drawing?”

“It is none of your business,” Damian seethes. “Remove yourself from my personal space before I-” he isn't allowed to threaten classmates with bodily harm, imply that he has brought weapons to school, or use words that are derogatory to women “-do so myself. By force.” He would avoid her altogether if he could, but Fenton is annoyingly (suspiciously) sneaky. He can only ever seem to sense her when she's just about on top of him.

Fenton merely laughs, high, bright, and joyful, and Damian grits his teeth. “Did you draw me yet?” she asks, and doesn't move an inch.

“No, I have not drawn you. I never said I would, and I have no plans to. Stop asking me.”

She shrugs and kicks her feet. “Maybe you'll change your mind. Can I see what you're working on?”

Damian pulls the sketchbook a tad bit closer to himself (a protective reflex that shows his weakness, he should be better than that by now.) “Never, imbecile.”

Fenton sticks her tongue out at him like a child. “Mean,” she says, still smiling. “I wanna see your art. It's so good!”

Damian tilts his nose up at her. “Of course it is, plebeian, I have standards-” he starts, but is cut off by the teacher entering. Fenton slides off his desk and heads to her own seat. Damian stows his sketchbook in his bag and tries not to think of the unfinished work inside, featuring a girl with dark hair, light eyes, and a mischievous grin.

-

There's this brownstone on the outskirts of Crime Alley, an old townhouse recently converted into commercial space. There's a coffee shop on street level, a tattoo parlor down the stairs, some sorta wine emporium on the second floor, and on the third, a little second hand bookshop

It's outside the border of Jason's territory, but he feels sorta responsible for it, given that he frequents the place.

It's a little out of his way, but the atmosphere is nice, alright? Clean, with soft lighting, but not sterile or corporate like the bigger places downtown. The owners are an older couple who Jason has met a couple of times, and they seem pretty happy with the new location. They're collectors, really, who run the shop to make ends meet.

Mostly, Jason talks to their employee. Jazz.

Jazz works in the afternoons and evenings, after her classes. She goes to Gotham U, double majoring in pre-med and psych, on top of a full time job, because she's almost as insane as a bat. She assures Jason that she does alright, gets a little downtime to study on her shifts.

She always makes time to talk to Jason.

Jazz is an interesting person to talk books with. She cares less about plot and literary themes, and more about diagnosing every character with their own personal malady of the mind. She dissects their thought processes and behaviors, ruthless in her analysis.

She's gonna be a brain surgeon someday, open people up and see what really makes them tick. Jason doesn't doubt it for a second.

So maybe Jason is a little bit in love with her.

It's not a big deal. Obviously it's not going anywhere. It's just nice to have something normal, to talk to someone normal, about normal stuff like books and college and sibling antics.

Jazz's stories about her sibling, Danny, rival Jason's own, and his family is fucking disastrous. Jason isn't actually sure if Dan is older or younger than Jazz is, or, for that matter, what pronouns he should use for them, since Jazz mixes it up pretty regularly. He knows that Jazz absolutely adores them, though, and it's heartwarming, the way she smiles as she talks.

All of that to explain why Red Hood is keeping an eye on a brownstone that technically falls outside of his territory.

There's a girl inside that he needs to keep safe.

-

“Hey bud, late night?” Dick asks the man lying prone in an alley, a block away from the Iceberg Lounge.

The response is slurred with sleep and muffled by a cheek pressed hard into asphalt. “S'at you, Dick?”

“Sure is. We've got to stop meeting like this,” Dick tells him, and means it.

The guy's name is Dan. No last name offered, which was fair, since Dick hasn't mentioned his.

What was weird was that Dan didn't give Penguin his last name, either, when he signed his employment contract. Just Dan.

Penguin has been trying to expand his influence into Bludhaven, and Dick's been trying to figure out why. Cobblepot is a very Gotham sort of gangster, all wrapped up in the city's ideas of style and respectability; Dick honestly would've thought that Blud was beneath him. He needs to figure out who he's contacting and what they're offering him, and he needs to do it before Penguin can get a foothold on his turf.

Running into Dan was a side effect. Dick didn't mean to keep doing it. It's just that Dan has this weird habit of completely disregarding trivial concerns such as his own health and safety, and doing weird shit like, as a random example, getting tired, laying down, and passing out. In the middle of the street. In Gotham.

The main part of Dan's job seems to be bouncing at the club. It makes sense—if you wanted to hire a guy as muscle, you couldn't do much better than Dan. He's at least 6 and a half feet tall, with a chest wider than Jason's. 

But Dick has also seen Dan traveling with Penguin before. Add in the fact that it's almost impossible to dig up info on him, and that tailing him is somehow even harder, and a picture starts to come together. A very vague, very suspicious picture.

It's too bad that Dick sort of likes him, and that he's incredibly hot.

Dan has removed his face from the alley floor, and is in the process of pushing himself up. “Not your business, man,” he retorts. “What are you, a cop?”

Dick can't help a wry chuckle at that. “Not anymore.”

“No shit?” Dan asks, hauling himself to his feet. He towers over Dick like that, but it's hard to be intimidated by a man whose cheek is red and pockmarked by little bits of gravel. Dick is legitimately embarrassed that he finds it charming. He needs to get better taste in men. “Yeah, no, that makes sense,” Dan continues, looking Dick up and down. “No way they could keep your ass on the force.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick asks.

Dan snorts. “I can smell the idealism on you from here.” He starts walking, heading straight past Dick, who falls into step beside him. “You remind me of this kid I know.”

Dick gives an interested hum, hoping that if he doesn't interrupt, Dan will elaborate, but no dice.

“So, where're you taking me this time?” the big man asks, still leading, and Dick stifles a grin at how silly the whole thing is.

“Maybe if I take you out for coffee, you won't faceplant onto any more concrete,” he says, reaching up to brush off some of the little rocks. Dan stutters to a stop as Dick touches his cheek, letting him, then strides off again as soon as he's done.

“Don't care, as long as you're paying.”

Dick stops him with a tug to his arm. “Coffee shop's this way,” he explains, pointing, and Dan doesn't hesitate, pivoting to take the lead once again. Dick rushes to keep up with his not-date, a criminal who he literally picked up off the street and who has no idea where he's going. He can't see his own smile, but he knows from experience that it is both delighted and a little manic. He admits to himself, begrudgingly, that he likes his men with something wrong with them.

-

The biggest reason that Tim played so much Doomed with Ghost_Boy, a couple of years ago, was that they were the only player he knew who kept hours as weird as his were. There were worse reasons to form a friendship. Ghost_Boy was a great player, and was always funny in chat. They were upbeat when things went well, and they were sarcastic but not bitter when things went poorly. Playing for the game's sake eventually changed to booting up the game to hang out with Ghost_Boy. They talked about how different their lives were, with Ghost_Boy in the midwest and Tim in the crime capital of America, and they talked about the things they had in common, like falling asleep in class. It was Tim's favorite form of stress relief, back then, when being Robin was new and overwhelming.

Then Tim got busy. No, that wasn't true—Tim had always been busy. More like, Tim's life fell to shambles, over and over again, and he stopped making time for stress relief when the very concept seemed out of his reach.

That was over dramatic. Tim fell off the game, and didn't keep in contact with his friend. That's all there was to it.

That was all there was to it, until a few nights ago, when he booted up his old Doomed file for nostalgia's sake and found a message from Ghost_Boy, sent a couple months back, that said he was planning to move to Gotham and, if Tim wanted, he'd be happy to meet up.

Tim immediately replied in the affirmative, and then he freaked out that he'd done that and started cyber stalking the guy. He couldn’t be bothered to pretend to be embarrassed by this behavior. He knew who he was.

Daniel Fenton was, in fact, a real teenager from a real midwestern town (Amity Park, Illinois.) He had moved to Gotham right when his message said he would, and lived with his older sister, Jasmine (who had custody over him,) and his younger sister, Danielle.

And that was where Tim was planning to stop his research, for the sake of his friend's privacy. Once he confirmed that he wasn't being catfished by either a supervillain or a run-of-the-mill creep, he was going to stop looking.

But Danielle Fenton's situation was incredibly weird.

Apparently, she had never lived with Daniel, Jasmine, and their parents before. Instead, after she was born, she'd been adopted by the kids’ godfather, eccentric billionaire Vlad Masters, and he was still her legal guardian. It was only after the Doctors Jack and Madeline died that she moved in with her siblings and started attending Gotham Academy, states away from her adoptive parent.

Vlad Masters was a man of eclectic tastes. The stories about him in the news were always covering some weird investment he had made, like purchasing a cheese castle in Wisconsin, or buying up property in Green Bay just to have a stake in the Packers, or pouring money into experimental forms of alternative energy. He was always refined in his public appearances, but he had the desperate edge of new money wanting to fit in with the old. Tim knew of him, but had never given him much thought before. He'd never made a move into Gotham, after all.

But the whole story was bizarre. Masters had gone to college with the Fentons, the three of them creating their own field of study in “Ectology,” before Masters had been contaminated in a lab accident, bedridden and unable to finish his degree. Jack and Maddie had continued their research, garnering just enough interest in their work to receive the funding needed to keep afloat, until some sort of breakthrough a few years ago added validity to their theories. They were practically celebrities in the niche forums Tim skimmed through. Masters, meanwhile, stopped working directly in the sciences and instead turned to networking, gaining some generous help from the friends he made and playing the stock market like a fiddle, until he was one of the most well known and lucrative investors in the world. He owned a few companies publicly, and managed some others under the table (Tim had to snort at the ridiculous naming of Dalv Co.) 

And then the Fentons had kids, and they raised two of them (seemingly quite happily, if the photos on their memorialized facebook accounts meant anything.) And then, for some reason, they named the third one nearly identically to their second child and gave her straight to Vlad. Masters raised the girl in Wisconsin, until suddenly relocating to Amity Park and becoming the town's mayor. There he stayed, until the Fenton's recent passing in a lab accident of their own.

Tim doesn't know what it all adds up to. But there was something going on, with both Vlad Masters and the Fentons, and if there's something nefarious in Masters’ actions or his wealth, it could be entirely possible that Daniel was a plant—a way for him to get an in with the Waynes. Tim has to be cautious, and he has to get to the bottom of this.

That's why Tim is waiting in a coffee shop, pretending to be engrossed in his laptop while keeping an eye on the door, waiting for the appearance of a teen with black hair and blue eyes.

Tim idly thinks that Bruce had better not adopt this one.

[celestial-clownz]

Can I request majorbeans or majorwood? :3

Why not both my dear anon?

commsions open!

[demaparbat-hp]

In your Spitfire AU, since Zuko is looking after Lu Ten II, what happened to Ursa?

Zuko is slightly older in the Spitfire AU. He was banished at fifteen, his head a little clearer and denial a little weaker than in canon. After his first look through the Air Temples, Zuko decides that if he can't find a myth, he might as well search for the next best thing.

Finding Ursa isn't easy, but in time he makes it to a secluded house in a near-forgotten part of the world. His mom is there, older and stronger and alive.

But she isn't alone.

And Zuko, as it turns out, didn't keep the best company during his search.

When Ursa is discovered and her secrets are laid bare for assassins (for Ozai) to find, she begs Zuko to take his little brother and run. She'll do anything it takes to protect her children, even if that means leaving them behind to keep a target off their back. Ursa diverts attention from them and allows Lu Ten's ancestry to be kept a secret. She orders Zuko not to follow her again, and disappears.

Zuko is left with a little three-year-old brother to raise and a mother he cannot hold onto.

[renonv]

Pov: you are Francis stuck on a long carriage ride with your freak friends (good for them)

[incorrect-upon-a-witchlight]

Frost: if you’re going to date me you have to be comfortable with casual silence because I never fucking talk

Torbek: Torbek swings wildly between never shutting the hell up and turning into a stump

Gricko: I’ll sometimes make a random ass noise for no reasoning at all.

[katiekatdragon27]

Your my fav glisten x shrimpo artist btw (and your art is epic ^_^)

Awwww thank you! I'm so flattered to be your favorite shinyshrimp artist!! Here's a doodle as a thanks!

Glisten: Hehe squishy❤️~ Shrimpo: I HATE THIS AND YOU!! Glisten: Your tail says otherwise~

But would you still like me if they were in a polycule~~~????

Yeah, polyamorous Glisten turns his partners poly too #livelaughlovepolycules (More art below cut):

So

Wanna guess who the third person in the polycule is?

You reeeeeeeeeeally wanna know?

Well...

HERE!! *runs for the hills*

So like, I've been a closeted glittermask shipper for like, idk, two weeks now?? But shinyshrimp is my mvp, so like, what if I merged them? Poly Glisten isn't too out there so this could happen, right? (says the delusional idiot).

Glisten: Teagan and Tisha helped me out. Whatcha think? Razzle: You look great, Hun~? What? Feeling underdressed "Shrimpy"?

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that Shrimpo and Razzle have beef. Razzle is petty. He doesn't like Shrimpo at all because he's bullied Dazzle in the past (and thinks that Glisten is too good for Shrimpo). Shrimpo hates Razzle for being whiney and smug to him (and also cuz he's slightly jealous of Razzle and Glisten's relationship). They work through these grievances as time passes, but it does take a while.

These doodles are from one of the many work parties the toons get up to. Glisten decided to doll up more than he usually does as do his dates (to mixed levels of effort lol). They all end up drinking and partying the whole night and have a blast.

Drinking makes everyone get along ig.

Yeah so some quick lore on glittermask: Glisten and Razzle have been in a relationship for a while now. They got together shortly after Glisten and Boxten broke up (on good terms btw). Razzle knows Glisten is poly and is chill with it, even if he questions the mirror's taste in men. Dazzle third wheels their relationship. but she and Glisten are friends so it's not too awkward lol.

Glittermask is everything shinyshrimp isn't. Where shinyshrimp is bickering, angst-comfort, and fighting over PDA, glittermask is a very PDA, lovey dovey, Hallmark movie-esque romance. Their only flaw is that there isn't open communication when it comes to darker problems. When Glisten is having one of his moments, Razzle does what he does when Dazzle is having one of her moments; he leaves Glisten alone. Which can be good, but it's not what Glisten needs (and what Shrimpo unintentionally excels at).

Both relationships are healthy but have flaws, like normal relationships lol. I hate when things are perfect. Make is messy! Give it ✨DRAMA✨!!

???: So? Who broke it?

And since I'm cringe, I made a fankid! His name is Hamlet (Razzle named him) and he's a super blinged out masquerade mask. Now Shimmer has a little brother who is insanely hyperactive and attention seeking. He would throw a fit about not being served first at the dinner lol. They get along well enough, and Shimmer is happy to have a sibling, but they tend to get on each other's nerves a lot.

But that doesn't stop the only slightly messed up family. They all care for each other in their own ways, and I love that for them.

Have a good one dudes!