#it's one of my older writings

[bradleysass]

Under the Stars - word count: 753 - Jegulas

The Black Lake stretched out before them, its dark waters rippling gently under the silver glow of the moon. The dock creaked softly beneath their weight, and the air was crisp with the bite of late autumn. Regulus Black sat beside James Potter, their feet dangling off the edge, barely grazing the water. The silence between them was not tense but fragile, like a thread that could snap if either spoke too loudly.

“You know,” James said finally, breaking the quiet, “for someone whose family is so obsessed with their name, you’d think they’d love this lake.” He gestured at the expanse of water, the stars above reflected in its surface like scattered jewels.

Regulus huffed a quiet laugh, his breath visible in the cool night air. “I doubt my family would ever appreciate something as simple as a lake, no matter how much it happens to share their name. They’re more interested in—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

James turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the starlight. “It matters to you.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head back, his dark hair falling away from his pale face as he looked up at the stars. “Do you ever wonder,” he began softly, “how much of us is decided before we’re even born? Who we’re supposed to be, what we’re supposed to believe?”

James leaned back on his hands, his gaze following Regulus’s to the sky. “Not really,” he admitted. “I guess I’ve always figured it’s up to us. What we do, the choices we make—that’s who we are.”

“Spoken like a true Gryffindor,” Regulus said, but there was no malice in his voice, only a faint, wistful envy.

“And you’re not?” James teased, nudging Regulus’s shoulder lightly. “You’re here, aren’t you? Sitting with me, breaking all kinds of unspoken Slytherin rules?”

Regulus smirked, but his expression quickly faded into something more somber. “It’s easy for you, James. You’ve always known where you stand, what you believe. You’ve never had to question it.”

James was silent for a moment, studying the other boy. Regulus’s profile was sharp and elegant, but there was a vulnerability in the way his shoulders hunched slightly, as if he were trying to shield himself from an invisible weight.

“You’re not your family,” James said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re not your house, or your name, or whatever bloody expectations they’ve dumped on you. You’re… you.”

Regulus turned to look at him then, his gray eyes searching James’s face. He wanted to argue, to say that it wasn’t that simple, that it could never be that simple, but the way James was looking at him made the words catch in his throat. There was no judgment there, no pity, only quiet assurance, as if James truly believed what he was saying.

The dock creaked again as James leaned forward, pointing up at the sky. “See that one?” he said, his voice lighter now. “That’s Sirius.”

Regulus snorted. “I’m aware, Potter. It’s literally my brother’s namesake.”

“Yeah, well,” James said with a grin, “it’s a fitting star for him. Bright, hard to miss, kind of a pain in the arse because it outshines everything around it.”

Despite himself, Regulus chuckled. “You’re not wrong.”

“And that one,” James continued, pointing again, “that’s Orion. Your dad, yeah? Big and imposing, but kind of empty in the middle.”

Regulus shot him a sharp look, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Careful, Potter. I might start to think you know more about my family than I do.”

“I doubt that,” James said, his grin softening into something gentler. “But stars are funny, aren’t they? They burn for ages, but what we see is the light they left behind, not what they are now. It’s like looking into the past.”

Regulus tilted his head, considering this. “So what does that make us?”

James shrugged. “Maybe we’re the in-between. What we do now shapes what people see later.” He paused, then nudged Regulus again. “Which is why I’m saying, you’ve got a choice, Black. Be the light they see later. Burn brighter than all that darkness.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze drift back to the stars, his thoughts swirling like the water beneath their feet. The silence stretched between them again, but this time, it felt less fragile.

“Maybe,” Regulus said at last, so quietly that James barely heard him.

For now, it was enough.

[heavenbarnes]

anyways, as i was saying about older bf!simon and his willingness to please learn

pt 2 to this

“you ever heard of a nut video with sound on?”

obviously, he hasn’t- far as he’s concerned, if you haven’t told him about it then it doesn’t exist to him.

no skin off your nose, you’d spend the rest of your life teaching him about the ‘latest trends’ if it meant he kept sending those filthy fucking videos to your phone.

(your favourites on tiktok were purely filled with ideas)

he’s holed up in a remote location, killing time till he can be home and actually do something to you rather than send you a bloody video about it.

your instructions come through clear and concise, just how he likes:

“it’s what’s written on the can, si- you can pick the setup but i just want to see you cum and, most importantly, i want to hear it”

you’re lucky simon is such a practical guy and maybe you could thank price one day for making him so good at following orders.

when he’s got his alone time he’s setting his phone up to record on the edge of the window sill, moonlight fighting through the curtain to illuminate him.

he’s lost the bulkiest of his gear, down to his tactical trousers and a compression t-shirt. the images in his tattoo sleeve almost move when the light catches them right.

balaclava on (the one that just shows his eyes above the painted image of a skull) and he’s standing up to undo his belt (that you think looks like an airplane seatbelt).

you can hear his boots against the floorboard as he steps back to give you the full view of him undoing his trousers, taking his sweet time because he knows it drives you fucking batty.

he’s so big that the phone is working overtime to get all of him in the frame but you see exactly what you need to- thick thighs at your eye line and massive hands drawing down his fly.

on (you assume) the other side of the globe, you’re at home in your shared bed and you’re propped up right in the middle with the smell of simon engulfing you as you watch the video play out before you.

(if you’d thought about it you should’ve cast it to the bedroom tv, hoping the neighbours didn’t mind)

simon sits back down with his legs spread wide, one hand gripping his thigh as the other rubs himself over his boxers. his eye contact with the camera was fucking intense, like you’d hoped, just like when he’s on top of you.

he’s dressed in all black and the moonlight is obscured but you can still see him firming up in his pants. his eyes flutter, an infinitesimal amount but you’ve been tuned into his every move since you met him.

your thumb leans hard on the volume up button and you can hear the diegetic sound of the building expanding and that usual technical hum that comes with a video. but at this pitch, you could hear him.

his breathing was chopped, chest expanding visibly as he pulled his cock out into clear view. jeeeeesus christ, it was never something you just got used to.

long, reasonably straight, fucking thick. even his hand struggled to make it look smaller as he wrapped around it, giving one dry tug.

as he closed his palm over the tip, you saw him make a swipe before he brought his hand back down considerably smoother than before. you’d had your hands down his pants enough times, man leaked like a fucking faucet.

simon’s head tipped back as he started to pull himself off, balaclava raising just enough to expose some of his throat. if you were there you would be perched in his lap, letting him do the work but running your tongue under the lip of the fabric.

one of the best things about the videos simon sent was, he didn’t really understand how sexy he was. he didn’t think any of the videos particularly watchable so he’d just send them on first take. if you liked them, you liked them- yours was the only opinion that mattered.

what that meant was, you never got b-roll. everything he sent you was unbridled perfection. captured exactly as it happens with no faffing about.

always whatever you’ve asked for, whenever you ask.

(simon’s nothing if not inexplicably obedient)

he brings his hand under his chin to spit into the wide span of his palm, wrapping back around his cock and tugging. his foreskin moved over the head, rolling back down and thick veins bulging under his grasp.

you’d almost forgotten the conditions of your request, totally fucking enamoured by the sight in front of you when it caught you off guard.

a guttural moan ripped out of simon’s chest as he twisted his wrist.

his free hand moved to cup his balls, big and heavy, he rolled them in his palm as another groan sounded out of him. what you wouldn’t give to be knelt between his thighs with the whole lot in your mouth.

you knew how much of an ask this was, you really had to work him up to making noise when it was just you two in bed. these days? you couldn’t shut the man up when he was balls deep and his face was buried in the crook of your neck.

but this was another step, this was him on his own with his crew just through the walls. he’d be a plain liar if he said there wasn’t that rumbling trepidation in his chest. he’d put it to bed though.

all he had to think of was you, one hand gripping your phone and the other between your thighs as you watched him through with a hazy smile- that kept him going.

with the thought still heavy on his mind, you didn’t have to strain to hear your name drift off his lips. his hips bucked into his hand as he did, speeding up the motion of his strokes.

you were going to black out, his tattoos flexing and his chest expanding with every stuttered breath. simon looked like a god among men and he fucking sounded like one too.

“fuck, sweetheart- you’re so fucking filthy giving me orders like this”

your cheeks were burning, he wasn’t wrong but you weren’t expecting him to call you out quite like this.

“what does that make me? always so fucking eager to do what you say? make a dirty old man, yeah?”

wheeeeeew that’ll do it, your thighs snapped together around your hand as your eyes nearly rolled back in your head. whenever you thought you couldn’t take any more, he was always there to do you one better.

“only for you, pet- you can always get whatever you fucking want from me”

and you knew he was serious, that’s what made it all the more debilitating. simon was unshakeable, you’d seen him go out of his way to defy orders if he didn’t think the person worth his time.

when it came to you? you could tell him to kill and he would.

(he probably had)

simon’s hips were twitching, back arching in a way he’d rather die than have anyone else know about. his mouth was hanging open beneath the balaclava, your name and a string of expletives falling off his tongue.

so quick you nearly missed it, the hand that was cradling his balls moved to grip the fabric of his shirt and push it up his toned front. you couldn’t call his abs cut and defined, there was aged layer to them, but they were undeniably there.

you’d rested your head on them, pressed your palms against them, even ridden them enough times to know they were there. regardless, he looked fucking perfect under the moon glow as he stroked himself hard and long.

eyes locked onto the camera, broken moans on his lips, you saw his hips lift one last time as thick spurts of cum began to paint his stomach and chest.

scars illuminated under the night sky, mirrored by shiny patches of hot cum splattered across the same stretch of skin. the hairs on his chest were matted with sweat and were now being splashed with how far he was shooting.

you could only watch with your mouth hung open as he tugged himself through his orgasm. soon it was only the sound of his laboured breathing, chest rising and falling as he tucked his soft cock back into his pants.

just when you thought that was it, you found one of his hands lifting up the edge of his balaclava till his lips were exposed. two fingers of his other hand swiped up some of his spend before he lay them on his tongue.

knuckles in your mouth, biting down to suppress a scream, simon readjusted his clothes as he stood and took a heavy step towards the camera.

one hand braced on the window sill, the other gently gripping himself through his trousers- his voice was so fucking gravely it could’ve reverberated round your room.

“what’s next sweet’art? you name it, it’s yours”

[thetoyboxs]

Older Brother Advice #35: As long as Legend doesn't die, you can fight him

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Look what we've become.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[inkskinned]

you're grabbing lunch with a nice man and he gives you that strange grimace-smile that's popular right now; an almost sardonic "twist" of his mouth while he looks literally down on you. it looks like he practiced the move as he leans back, arms folded. he just finished reciting the details of NFTs to you and explaining Oppenheimer even though he only watched a youtube about it and hasn't actually seen it. you are at the bottom of your wine glass.

you ask the man across from you if he has siblings, desperately looking for a topic. literally anything else.

he says i don't like small talk. and then he smiles again, watching you.

a few years ago, you probably would have said you're above celebrity gossip, but honestly, you've been kind of enjoying the dumb shit of it these days. with the rest of the earth burning, there's something familiar and banal about dragging ariana grande through the mud. you think about jeanette mccurdy, who has often times gently warned the world she's not as nice as she appears. you liked i'm glad my mom died but it made you cry a lot.

he doesn't like small talk, figure out something to say.

you want to talk about responsibility, and how ariana grande is only like 6 days older than you are - which means she just turned 30 and still dresses and acts like a 13 year old, but like sexy. there's something in there about the whole thing - about insecurity, and never growing up, and being sexualized from a young age.

people have been saying that gay people are groomers. like, that's something that's come back into the public. you have even said yourself that it's just ... easier to date men sometimes. you would identify as whatever the opposite of "heteroflexible" is, but here you are again, across from a man. you like every woman, and 3 people on tv. and not this guy. but you're trying. your mother is worried about you. she thinks it's not okay you're single. and honestly this guy was better before you met, back when you were just texting.

wait, shit. are you doing the same thing as ariana grande? are you looking for male validation in order to appease some internalized promise of heteronormativity? do you conform to the idea that your happiness must result in heterosexuality? do you believe that you can resolve your internal loneliness by being accepted into the patriarchy? is there a reason dating men is easier? why are you so scared of fucking it up with women? why don't you reach out to more of them? you have a good sense of humor and a big ol' brain, you could have done a better job at online dating.

also. jesus christ. why can't you just get a drink with somebody without your internal feminism meter pinging. although - in your favor (and judgement aside) in the case of your ariana grande deposition: you have been in enough therapy you probably wouldn't date anyone who had just broken up with their wife of many years (and who has a young child). you'd be like - maybe take some personal time before you begin this journey. like, grande has been on broadway, you'd think she would have heard of the plot of hamlet.

he leans forward and taps two fingers to the table. "i'm not, like an andrew tate guy," he's saying, "but i do think partnership is about two people knowing their place. i like order."

you knew it was going to be hard. being non-straight in any particular way is like, always hard. these days you kind of like answering the question what's your sexuality? with a shrug and a smile - it's fine - is your most common response. like they asked you how your life is going and not to reveal your identity. you like not being straight. you like kissing girls. some days you know you're into men, and sometimes you're sitting across from a man, and you're thinking about the power of compulsory heterosexuality. are you into men, or are you just into the safety that comes from being seen with them? after all, everyone knows you're failing in life unless you have a husband. it almost feels like a gradebook - people see "straight married" as being "all A's", and anything else even vaguely noncompliant as being ... like you dropped out of the school system. you cannot just ignore years of that kind of conditioning, of course you like attention from men.

"so let's talk boundaries." he orders more wine for you, gesturing with one hand like he's rousing an orchestra. sir, this is a fucking chain restaurant. "I am not gonna date someone who still has male friends. also, i don't care about your little friends, i care about me. whatever stupid girls night things - those are lower priority. if i want you there, you're there."

he wasn't like this over text, right? you wouldn't have been even in the building if he was like this. you squint at him. in another version of yourself, you'd be running. you'd just get up and go. that's what happens on the internet - people get annoyed, and they just leave. you are locked in place, almost frozen. you need to go to the bathroom and text someone to call you so you have an excuse, like it's rude to just-leave. like he already kind of owns you. rudeness implies a power paradigm, though. see, even your social anxiety allows the patriarchy to get to you.

you take a sip of the new glass of wine. maybe this will be a funny story. maybe you can write about it on your blog. maybe you can meet ariana grande and ask her if she just maybe needs to take some time to sit and think about her happiness and how she measures her own success.

is this settling down? is this all that's left in your dating pool? just accepting that someone will eventually love you, and you have to stop being picky about who "makes" you a wife?

you look down to your hand, clutching the knife.

[starry-bi-sky]

(Part of this post with older brother danyal al ghul)

...Okay, look. Sam knows she's staring. She knows very well that she is staring. And that if she doesn't stop staring it's gonna draw her unwanted attention, and that will only have to make her explain why she's staring. Which she doesn't want to do.

She's trying not to stare, which she thinks she should get brownie points for. She tries to look away, to find a spot on the wall to stare lifelessly at, maybe she can burn holes into some of these annoying socialites' heads. But eventually her eyes drift, and suddenly she's back to staring again.

Can you blame her though? Damian Wayne looks like a very close mini-me of her fucking best friend. Seriously, it's like looking into a mirror to the past. If that mirror to the past had green eyes rather than blue and a distinctive lack of a facial scar.

The first time she sees him when her parents drag her over to Bruce Wayne to butter up to him she has to do a doubletake. Then a triple take. Then a quadruple take, just for good measure that she was seeing what she was actually seeing. She was sure she looked like one of those stress toys that when squeezed had their eyes pop out comically like a Saturday morning cartoon, that's what she certainly felt like anyways.

Look, Danny's come a decent way from being that scowl-y, jerkish little ten year old she first met when he arrived like the wind to Amity Park five years ago (even if he was still occasionally scowl-y and jerkish), but one thing that's stayed the same is how reserved he is about his home life prior to being taken in by the Fentons.

He doesn't talk about it much, and Sam's come to know that he's very good at changing the subject when it gets brought up. Even after being friends for nearly four years, the only thing she and Tuck know for certain is that he has a little brother that he refers to as 'starlight', whom he cares a lot about but left on really bad terms with. And that he's never met his father, but wants to and knows who he is.

He's never told her or Tucker who he was though, and glancing at Bruce Wayne, Sam is realizing why. She can begrudgingly acknowledge all the good he's done for Gotham, but... well, if Danny told her that Bruce Wayne was his dad, she wouldn't have believed him at all.

But she's starting to see the resemblance, as subtle as it is.

And she sees the resemblance to Damian Wayne, her eyes dropping back down to him as he wears a very Danny-like scowl on his face, arms crossed behind his back as his eyes swept around the ballroom. He was five years younger than Danny, and god it was so, so weird.

His eyes turned on to her, and they locked gazes for a moment.

Involuntarily, Sam makes a startled noise and looks away. Fingers tap against her purse, black and purple and unfortunately a clutch that only held her phone and her wallet in it. She would have kept a knife on her, but her parents put their foot down and there was a security detail at the door. Only in Gotham.

Silently, she was hoping that the little Danny-me didn't say anything. Or at least, he hadn't noticed her staring. Which was a tall order if she ever heard one -- and unfortunately, her silent prayers went unanswered as her mother's eyes dropped down onto her.

"Did you say something, Samantha?" She asks in a sickeningly sweet voice, a sound that makes Sam's skin crawl. Her dad and Bruce Wayne's attention also turns onto her, and she glowers at her mom from the corner of her eye.

"I didn't say anything." Sam says, barely keeping her tone polite as she turned her head away. Her mother clucks her tongue, disapproving, but from her peripherals doesn't pester her more

Bruce Wayne, the bastard, takes that time to turn to Sam and grace her with his dime-a-dozen billboard smiles. "I've been talking with your parents this whole time, Miss Manson, you must be terribly bored. How is your schooling going?"

Sam eyes him up and down. On one hand, she immediately wants to be snarky. It's none of his business what her school life is like, she doesn't care for his fucking small talk.

On the other hand, this was Danny's whole father. Someone who she knows that Danny has wanted to meet for, what she's assuming, his whole life. He's never brought it up much, but she remembers that very quiet, solemn conversation she and Tucker had with him where he admits to having never met his dad. But god does he want to.

And... wait. Sam's eyes narrow, and she meets Bruce Wayne's eyes. Does this man even know Danny exists? She drops her gaze down to Damian, who was staring at her suspiciously, and then back up to Bruce, and she alternates between them.

Why was Damian living with Bruce, but not Danny? Why hasn't Bruce done anything to reach out to him - what was going on with Danny's biological family that Danny had to be separated from them, but not Damian? Danny's always been kinda mysterious, but now things weren't adding up.

Was Danny given up? Does Bruce just not want Danny, but wanted Damian? Why the fuck does Bruce Wayne know about Damian but not her best friend -- or does he know and just not care? He's fought for custody for his adoptive kids before, does he just not want to fight for his other biological son? Does he think Danny's not worth it?

She's never cared much about the Wayne family before, other than to hear about the advancements on WE's eco-friendly tech, but Sam thinks she's gonna have to look into why Damian Wayne was living with the Waynes.

Slowly, with a protective anger beginning to burn in her gut and crawl up her throat, a scowl slowly curls at the corner of her lip as she redirects her glare from her mother onto Bruce. "It's going fine," She says curtly, jutting her chin out defiantly. "Me and my friend Danny started a petition to fix the leaky faucets in the girls and boys' bathrooms in order to conserve more water for the rest of the city."

She eyes his face, waiting to see if anything like recognition flashes through it. And- and nothing. Sam breathes in slowly through her nose, trying to quell the red that's blurring the edge of her vision -- does he just, not know where Danny is?

Her parents however, make vaguely displeased expressions. "Our Samantha is... quite passionate about her pet projects." Her dad says, laughing low and nervously, "she's very vocal about silly things like that."

"Her friend Daniel is perhaps even worse than she is sometimes." Her mother adds on, fanning her face with her perfectly manicured hands with a sigh. "I swear, he's the one that keeps dragging her into these things."

Sam's anger turns on its head, and she whirls on her heel like a fire-breathing dragon. "It's Danyal." It rolls out like instinct. Danny's told them both that he hates the Americanized pronunciation of his name, but in a rare moment of restraint, puts up with it for reasons unknown to her. "And Danny doesn't make me do anything, it was my idea."

The name, Danyal, seems to ring some kind of bell in Brucie Wayne's head, because she sees him and Damian quietly perk up like two cats pricking up their ears. Her eyes flick onto him immediately, something dangerous rearing its head. So Bruce Wayne knows about Danny. And he's not reaching out to him. Is he? She's not sure.

She does know that she's gonna rip his throat out if she finds out that he's known about Danny this entire time and has been ignoring him while favoring his little brother. She'll hunt down Aragon herself and steal his dragon-shifting amulet and wreck house on Bruce Wayne if that's the case. Batman and his league of vigilantes be damned. Her parents don't notice her slowly turning head towards Bruce.

But Bruce does, and she makes direct eye contact with him. His smile doesn't falter, he just tilts his head like a curious puppy and looks at Sam's parents. She hopes Bruce can read minds, she hopes he can hear her threatening him.

"Danyal?" He asks, and Sam doesn't know if she hates the fact that he said it correctly or not. She just continues burning holes into him and hoping he might spontaneously combust.

Her mother waves her hand dismissively, tilting her nose up poshly into the air. "Our dear Samantha's little... foster friend from school," she says, not even bothering to hide her disdain, "a creepy little boy with the most garish scar on his face. He's a rude little thing, not good for polite company."

Scratch that, Sam mentally alternates between ripping into her parents and Bruce. She whirls on them. "Do not talk about Danny that way." She all but snarls, and they all but ignore her.

(She's tearing up the upholstery when she gets home. She's going to paint over the fine china. She's going to do something to make them pay for this.)

"Oh yes, he was taken in by that freaky Fenton family a few years ago." Her dad continues in lieu of her mom, and they both shake their heads disapprovingly. "It's just what our city needs, another menace."

"Danny is not a menace." Sam continues, raising her voice while her hands shake with rage. Her parents finally look at her, but she can already tell that they're going to scold her for raising her voice. She bulldozes over them and jabs her black-painted finger at them. "He's got a bigger heart than the both of you combined."

"Samantha, please." her mom says, exasperated. They both give her disapproving looks, Sam thinks about grabbing champagne off the tray of a nearby waiter and throwing it in their faces. "You defend that boy far too much. What do you actually know about him and his family?"

Sam sets her jaw, puffing herself up like a dragon protecting its hoard. She steps into her mom's space. "I know that he loves the stars; you can ask him anything about astronomy and he could give you an entire lecture on the formation, class types, and various gasses that stars are made up of. He can tell you how the Earth was formed, he can tell you about the visible light spectrum and about light curves, and a whole ton of other stuff that I don't really understand. But Danny loves talking about it."

Her face twists and scowls, "I know he cares a ton about the environment and about fixing light pollution, and preserving the forests and natural habitats of animals." She nearly jabs her finger into her mom's chest, "I know he loves dogs, and that there's one he feeds every day on the way to school that he calls Cujo, its a St. Bernard puppy and Danny carries him around whenever he sees him after school, and is in the middle of training him."

It's not a total lie, but it's not the whole truth either. Cujo doesn't need food, but Danny gives him it anyways. "I know he likes spicy food and loves movies but specifically only sci-fi and horror, and he hates most martial arts movies. His favorite superhero is the Martian Manhunter, but Batman comes in at a close second." For reasons to her that were pretty unknown, but it didn't matter.

"I know he loves wordplay and making puns, which I would have never expected from him when we first met, but it's so unbelievably Danny-like that I can't imagine him not making puns." And she smiles a little to herself, she remembers the first time Danny intentionally made a pun once and it got startled laughs out of both her and Tucker.

Her smile suddenly falters, and she swallows. Her lips purse up, wobbling, and she very quickly glances over to Damian Wayne, of whom is watching her with a vaguely bewildered expression alongside Bruce.

She turns her eyes back onto her parents. "And I know that he worries a lot, even if he has a shit way of showing it. I know he had a little brother that he hasn't seen since he was adopted by the Fentons, and he doesn't talk about him often but when he does he he calls him 'starlight'." From the corner of her eye, she sees Damian jerk.

"So- so, so what if he's not 'good for polite company'." Sam's voice, embarrassingly, cracks down the middle. But she's so angry over Danny's behalf that she doesn't really care. "Or that he can be mean, and critical, and stubborn. He's learning, and he's becoming kinder by the day. That's more than I can say about you."

(She remembers when Danny finally admitted to her and Tucker being his 'closest friends'. It was sometime before the portal incident, and it felt like a milestone because beforehand he only really referred to them as his companions or allies.)

(At the time, he'd looked unsure of himself. Skittish like a stray in the back of an alleyway, almost shy in his own way. It had come out stilted, slow, like an infant taking its first steps, and it would have been endearing if it hadn't been heartbreaking.)

Her parents rear back like she'd struck them, and her mother holds a hand against her chest in aghast. Sam doesn't care, she blinks the sting out of her eyes. "Samantha." Her mother starts.

Sam cuts her off, "I don't care what you have to say, you-- you pricks." she snaps, around her, there are gasps. Belatedly, she realizes she's grown an audience, but again she doesn't care. "Danny might be an asshole, but he cares. And I'd rather be around someone whose mean but cares, than someone whose nice but doesn't."

With that, she whirls on her foot and turns on Bruce Wayne, who has been silent the entire time with a surprised expression on his face. He starts to shake out of it when Sam turns to him, but she doesn't give him the chance to speak. "Enjoy your party." She snarls, and then stalks away.

[narikill]

aughdhshfjjsjcjdjfjsbgsknfjs <- leshy in this art probably

[loveshotzz]

{ trying } a new position with them

I have this in my mind with AIRWIY!Steve, ‘cause I know he’s so soft during sex and you do it in missionary or you ride him, but then you ask him if he will take you from behind (feel free to change) and be a little rough🥹

Hi angel! thank you for your request 💗 I hope you enjoy. This is a request is from my All I Really Want Is You series but can be read as a stand alone.

older!steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ established relationship, smut, dirty talk, cream pie, age gap.

wc: 1.3k

authors note: for those that read the series this takes place during the gap between chapter ten and the epilogue. the relationship is still new and they are trying new things 🧡

Something felt different about tonight.

You think it might’ve been the fancy cocktails that were stronger than normal, and the dim lighting of The Violet Hour that danced across Steve’s sharp features. Or his big hand that stayed high on your thigh through the entirety of dinner. Salt and pepper scruff tickling your cheek every time he leaned in to whisper low in your ear. 

Maybe it was the lemon zest still fresh on his tongue when he licked into your mouth at the end of your date pressing you against your front door. Whatever it was Steve Harrington made your body feel like it was on fire tonight, embers burning in the pit of your stomach waiting to combust with every touch. 

The roll of his hips only stokes the flames when he’s buried to the hilt inside of you after barely making it to your bed, leaving a trail of clothes in your wake. His full weight keeps you pressed into the mattress, with your knee hooked over the crook of his elbow. The tip of him hitting the spot that makes your back arch with every slow stroke over and over again, but god, it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

That loose strand falls damp across his forehead, a bead of sweat dangerously close to falling off the end. His eyes never leave yours, the black of his pupils making the gold and moss colored flecks disappear. Lips brushing with every thrust, the whiskey on his breath mingles with the pineapple on yours, while your nails dig half crescent moons into the constellations on his back.

He shifts hitting a different spot when he drives back in, and it makes your jaw go slack. Steve takes advantage, tracing your top lip with his tongue while the tip of his nose bumps into yours. He starts a slow grind instead of pulling out, the dark thatch of hair that frames the part of him hugged tight by your walls rubs against your clit in a way that has his name sound like a prayer. But it still wasn’t enough. Not even when your hands make their way down, fingers digging into the soft dough of his ass to try and coax him even deeper.

“Fuck - honey,” He grunts, pushing in as far as he can, eyes rolling in the back of his head when you nip at his bottom lip, recently discovering how much he liked it when you did that.

“I need - “ You start but a quick snap of his hips steals the breath out of your lungs for a second.

“What do you need?” His brows furrow when you flutter around him, watching the way your eyes glaze over when he hits that spot again, “tell me, I’ll give it to you, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“I - I want- I want you to fuck me from behind.” The words make the grind of his hips falter, the black of his eyes turning into an abyss. 

“Yeah?” Steve sounds breathless when he finally comes back to his body.

Biting your bottom lip between your teeth, all you can do is nod, a shy smile playing at the corners of your mouth despite feeling the twitch of him inside of you. He rolls his hips again, something smug flickering in his eyes when he sees the way it makes your face crumble.

“Whatever you want, pretty girl.” He rubs the tip of his nose with yours before he starts to slowly pull out. Cursing under his breath, the feeling of your walls trying to suck him back in is almost enough for him to cum. 

You shudder at the feeling of being so empty when he sits back on his haunches, long fingers wrapping around his cock, stroking himself as he watches you get on all fours for him. He’s never seen you presented to him like this, and he almost cums again in the span of a minute.

“Jesus Christ, look at you.” He sounds wrecked when he talks, and when you peek over your shoulder at him, he looks it too.

Wiggling your hips, his free hand finds the soft fat of your ass, while his strokes with his other get quicker. He squeezes at the dough of it, groaning when he sees the way you’re dripping down your thighs. The precum that leaks from his fat tip mixes with your slick as he drags himself through your folds, a lewd squelching noise filling your room when he does it over and over again. 

“Steve - fuck - please, please.” Your fingers tangle into your sheets, pushing your hips back into his for more when he adds pressure to your bundle of nerves before catching at your entrance.

“Shhh, It’s okay, I got you, I got you.” He coos when the tip of him breaches your walls, both hands finding the curve of your hips. “Gonna take all of me like the tough girl you are, aren’t you baby?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah” Too cock drunk not to babble when he pushes half way in, the lingering effects of the drinks you had at dinner has your body ignited. You’ve never felt so full and it’s not even all of him.

“God, you’re so wet. Always so wet for me.” He groans with one final roll of his hips, burying himself as far as he can go, the stretch making you keen the heat inside your belly turning white.

He doesn’t move, letting your body adjust to the length of him like this, fingers digging into the soft skin of your sides hard enough to bruise. Your walls won’t stop clenching and it makes him twitch. He leans over earning him a soft ‘oh’ from you at the feel of him somehow pushing deeper, warm lips trailing kisses up your spine, leaving more over the hard plain of your shoulder blade before stopping at the shell of your ear.

“You ready honey?” 

He can’t see the way the deep baritone makes your eyes hit the back of your head, and all you can do is nod. He gives a smug kind of chuckle that you’ve never heard before, pulling himself back up. His hands squeeze at you one more time, a low breath escaping through his nose while he takes in the sight in front of him. 

“Ste-“ His name dies on your tongue when he pulls almost all the way out, before a rough snap of his hips pushes him all the way back in. “Oh my god!’

Steve’s never heard you make sounds like this for him before and he thinks he might lose his mind, something primal unlocking deep inside his brain. The softness he’s always treated you with is replaced by the animalistic need to fill you to the brim. The springs of your mattress squeak loudly under his knees, the head board he helped you set up after a trip to Ikea smacking against your wall with every harsh thrust. 

“Gonna make you mine, yeah? You want that?” He doesn’t sound like the man who leaves you silly notes with all his gifts, his voice is rough just like his touch. The hair on his thighs rubbing against the wet backs of yours.

“Please, yeah, it’s all - fuck, fuck, yeah it’s all I want Steve, please.” You're babbling now too close to worry about how you sound with your cheek pressed to the mattress as he holds your hips up. The grip on your sheets is tight enough to pull them off the corners of your bed, and the fire that's threatened to consume you finally does when the tip of him hits a spot he’s never found before. “Oh god, i‘m gonna - Steve! -i’mgonnacum!”

He keeps his unrelenting pace watching the way your eyes screw shut, and your jaw go slack. A shudder rolling through your body, toes curling while your walls milk him with the strength of your orgasm. 

“Oh fuck - honey.” Steve’s loud when he paints your insides white, the warmth of him filling you up until it drips down your thighs is enough to make you moan with him at the feel of it, aftershocks running though your fingertips that grasp at anything.

The blunt ends of his nails dig into your hips, his body staying ridgid as he tries to get a grip. Yours is limp in his hands, eyes slowly blinking while everything comes back into focus. When he finally regains enough brain power, he leans forward again, trailing lazy wet kisses up your spine that make the corners of your lips twitch before he stops at your ear.

“So we’re absolutely going to get drinks there again.” 

[ghostbsuter]

John Constantine was in prison.

No, not a normal, mortal prison. Those wouldn't be able to hold him like this one does.

No, he's imprisoned in the Infinity Realm.

The warden of the establishment is Walker, someone whose blood sings Witch Hunter.

If that wasn't bad enough, with every second, it gets worse. Angels decided to interfere in a realm not in possession of their God.

Who's idea was it to go against the Infintiy Realm? Are they nuts?

"John Constantine," One of the messangers steps forward. There is no weapon in sight, yet.

"Under the scrutiny of Heaven, we were sent to retrieve you for a trial." Their voice clipped, blond hair shimmering a soft green and John is sweating buckets.

"Your deals with various demon folk and such shall be judged unter gods court and—"

A loud bang echoes through the hall, Walker's men are surrounding the beings of heaven and particular brave soul steps forward.

The lad is young, can't be older than Bat's Robin. He walks with an air of authority, white hair floating against gravity's rules and towering before the flock of messangers.

"How dare—"

The boy, the godling– growls.

He blocks their view of Constantine, staring them down.

Some of the angels fall back, wings arched and ready for a fight, weapons still not in sight however.

"I am Phantom, King of God's of the Infinity Realm." The child with a title too much for such small shoulders bear, introduces himself.

It sends the flock into mild panic. Constantine is just a bit satisfied at the change.

"Returns to your god and tell him this, every Constantine bearing the title Laughing Magician is under my protection."

For such a small stature, his voice is booming, the command thinly veiled as a threat and icicles forming around him.

"Tell him that if he ever dares to breach my territory once more, I will not hesitate to call war upon heaven."

The main angel of the flock, the one that had read out Constantines sentence, hesitated only for a moment before urging the others to leave.

Posture stiff and movements jerky.

They didn't expect to be told off like this, John muses.

He only slightly dreads when phantoms attention drifts to him finally, a light knock on the metal bars and the whole wall was gone.

"Follow me, John Constantine."

And John does.

He'll sweet talk himself out of this on the way to his doom. Like always.

—

("Unpopular belief, but I actually quite like you." Danny had stated once in the garden, sitting on a table and drinking tea. John hadn't touched his cup nor desert at all, cannot trust those of the infinite after all.)

(A rip into the green before them had created a portal, a gateway.

"Leave, Laughing Magician. Hold onto that necklace, it will ward off anyone with the intent to harm and deals as a warning to those working for the immortal."

And as John steps forward, his eyes meet toxic green.

"We will see one another again, sooner or later. Farewell, Jester."

The portal spat him out in his apartment in New York, if it wasn't for the protection charm, Constantine would have believed it to be a mere dream. A warning.)

[lost-in-fandoms]

Winter Warmers Day 31: NYE countdown. Maxiel. About 1.5k words.

"Max, Maxy, Maximum, Maximus Prime!"

Max turns away from his conversation with Alex just in time to catch Daniel around the waist as he stumbles into him, the drink in his cup sloshing over his wrist.

"Hello, Daniel," Max says, unable to stop himself from smiling, readjusting his grip so that he can hold Daniel more comfortably.

From the corner of his eye he catches Alex moving away, probably deciding that their conversation is over now that Daniel has Max's attention. Which is a very fair assumption, given that in all the years they've been friends, Max has always dropped anyone and anything to focus on Daniel.

Some might call it pathetic, to still be in love with his best friend after so long, but Max doesn't really care about what other people think. He just cares about Daniel's warm weight in his arms, and the fact that when all the people at this party will have left their house, Daniel will still be there, probably moving stuff around to pretend he's helping with the clean up.

"Are you having fun, Daniel?" he asks, trying to maneuver them towards the kitchen, both to clean up Daniel's wrist before he complains about the stickiness and to not feel like every single person is staring at them.

Well, every single person other than Charles and Carlos, who seem to be trying to get acquainted with each other's tonsils.

"Yes," Daniel answers, letting himself be dragged away, stumbling unhelpfully on his own feet.

Once they're in the kitchen, occupied only by Logan and Oscar, heads bent over a phone, a half empty bottle of wine next to them, Max hoists Daniel on the counter, right next to the sink, swiping away a few empty paper plates.

"Stay still, please," he tells Daniel, grateful he doesn't have to shout as much over the music anymore. They should probably start lowering that actually, if they don't want the cops called on them again, but it's new year's eve, for sure old Meredith could let it slide this once.

He plucks Daniel's cup from his hand, something of not clear nature inside it, and wets a couple paper towels, gently wiping at his wrist and hand.

"Maxy," Daniel says, dropping his head forward to rest it on Max's shoulder. He's making Max's job harder like this, but Max is not going to complain. He just hums, showing Daniel he's listening.

"I have decided on my resolutions list," Daniel tells him, sounding slightly more sober than he did before.

Max drops the paper towels and grabs an empty cup, filling it with water from the sink and handing it to Daniel, coaxing him to raise his head to drink it.

Daniel had been talking about his resolutions list for more than a week. Max is not sure why he's so set on having new year's resolutions, since in the past eight years he's known him not once Daniel has been the kind of person who follows a plan, but he's been listening anyway every time he brought the topic up.

Max doesn't understand why he's having so much trouble creating the list either. Sure, Daniel does have his moments of perfectionism, but seeing him actually get stressed about this had been puzzling.

"Yeah? Can I know it?" he asks, dropping the now empty cup when Daniel hands it to him before opening his arms, letting Daniel comfortably slump into him again.

Somewhere on his left, Logan and Oscar leave the kitchen, closing the door behind them, cutting off a little more of the noises of the party, making Max feel like he's in his private Daniel bubble for the first time this evening.

He's not ashamed of saying that he's a bit possessive, greedy about having his fair share of Daniel's time, but he's gotten better with the years. The last time Daniel had been in a relationship, Max hadn't even tried to scare them off, but they had gone anyway after a couple of months, leaving a very mopey Daniel behind. Max had keyed their car.

"First thing, I want to learn how to play the banjo," Daniel says, way too loud way too close to Max's ear.

It makes Max smile anyway, knowing this point will be abandoned in a few months at most, just like every other instrument Daniel had tried to learn, getting bored with each one of them.

"Good start," he encourages anyway, because he's nothing but disgustingly soft when it comes to Daniel, even worse when he's tipsy like tonight.

He gets rewarded by Daniel pulling back to beam at him, before going back to Max's shoulder.

Sometimes holding himself back from kissing him takes all of Max's strength.

"Then, I want to improve my handwriting."

Yep, just as Max had thought. Another task that will be abandoned, like all the other times Daniel had tried before.

"I can read your handwriting," Max tells him, because it's true. No matter the kind of drunken chicken scratch he finds on the grocery list, Max has learned to interpret it all. It's not that hard really, when you manage to recognise the subtle differences between the squiggles. Part of the game is actually learning what is supposed to be a word and what is a doodle.

"You can, because you're great," Daniel mumbles against his shirt, as Max tries to pretend he can't feel himself blushing, "but I am so tired of people complaining about it."

"People should just learn how to read," Max tells him, unhappy with someone making Daniel feel like he should change. Which is very stupid, because Daniel is perfect, chicken scratches included.

It makes Daniel laugh, waist moving under Max's hands, his wet bottom lip dragging against the exposed part of Max's shoulder.

"Do you have any more?" he rushes to ask, trying to distract himself from the feeling of it.

In the other room, the music gets lowered, and for a second Max thinks it's the cops again, until he hears someone scream two minutes!

They should probably rejoin their friends, celebrate midnight with them, but Max is quite comfortable where he is, and he doesn't want to see Daniel grab someone to kiss, even if just to laugh about it afterwards.

He had long learned his lesson, after one year he had tried to angle himself in Daniel's line of view, just for him to reach around him and grab Charles instead. Max had gotten way too drunk that night.

"One more," Daniel says, voice even lower now that the music is off and they're so close. He sounds more hesitant suddenly, nervous fingers fidgeting with the hem of Max's shirt.

"Do you want to tell me?" Max asks, just to be sure. Sometimes Daniel needs a little push before he opens up, but it's always a very thin line between getting an answer and being shut out with a joke instead. This time Daniel nods.

"I want to suck your dick."

Max chokes on his spit, trying to push back Daniel to be able to see his face, feeling his eyes go wide.

It wouldn't be the first time they joke about it, but Daniel doesn't sound like he's joking, and if this is a prank Max is going to get very drunk again and probably go cry in the bathroom, but...

But when he manages to push Daniel's head up, he's blushing and he's looking at Max from underneath his lashes, fear and determination mixing on his face.

"You mean it?" Max forces himself to ask, sounding breathless. His heart is beating too fast, so loud he's sure Daniel can hear it too.

Daniel nods, one corner of his mouth turning up in a shadow of his usual smile.

"My last resolution is to stop lying to myself about my feelings for you," he says.

It echoes around his brain, bouncing around and amplifying: feelings for you feelings for you feelings for you feelings for you.

In the other room someone starts the countdown, and Max reaches forward, cupping Daniel's jaw with his hands.

"Are you gonna buy me dinner first?" he asks, just to see Daniel smile properly.

"Can I do it next year?"

Max rolls his eyes, but he still chuckles, weak for Daniel always, even when it's his bad jokes.

Three, two, one...

On the other side of the door sound explodes, their friends cheering and screaming, but Max barely hears it as he presses his lips against Daniel's.

(George screams when he opens the door to come grab the champagne chilling in the fridge and finds them making out against the counter, Max's thigh between Daniel's. The new wave of cheers that follows it is so loud Max starts mentally preparing his apologies for old Meredith and the cops, even as he copies Daniel in flipping them all off.)

[ganondoodle]

(OC redesign?)

so here is Shargons (he/they) possible redesign (of his humanoid form; basic, with clothes and one with the coat)

also wrote a few basic notes about him on there but my hand hurts now so i will write more about him in a reblog if theres interest ( •̀ ω •́ )y

[myokk]

eloise and her daughter🥺

[deoidesign]

Quick re-do of a 4 year old piece

[starry-bi-sky]

more clone^2 memes because i think they're funny

[moeblob]

Yeah! I haven't read any fics focusing on them but I have seen that they exist! And also there's like a five sentence interaction in a fic I read ages ago that lives rent free in my brain. I think about it all the time when I draw Sixty.

[tackykachowch]

By the way, did we ever talk about how stupid it is that they made Silco the reason Felicia died? I don't mean that he killed her personally, but that he jumpstarted violence on a peaceful protest. Because that's sooo who Silco is, right? A character who makes impulsive and poorly thought out decisions, right? A character who goes into a fight headstrong without carefully planning his moves and strategy and just YOLO-ing it, right? Right?? ......sigh

And don't even THINK about giving me the whole "wElL hE cHaNgEd SiNcE tHeN dUh" crap. Even s2 is smart enough to show us him writing something in a notebook in a flashback, which implies that he was the brains behind the Lanes' creation/revolution as a whole. And if he was he would never sabotage his own plans with something so stupid as throwing a single molotov at enforcers. Literally who does that???? Silco we know would probably organize an attack under the guise of a peaceful protest, but not just. Straight-up ruining just a regular peaceful protest. That's stupid. And Silco is the last character in arcane that would do something stupid. Literally the whole plot of season 1 relies on him being intelligent and sneaky with his plans are you kidding me.