#kind of unedited

[flamingpudding]

All right you got my creative juices running with part five of Klarion is Dan yes the first series I ever came to you with

To find him Klarion isn't the only one living in the DC dimension in like the word of protective mother Danny is he sent one of clarion's older siblings to go with him Larsal/Lassie

She was one of the clone children that was created long before Danny knew that was trying to clone him she was one of the first failures

She doesn't really have a physical form as much she is more of like a big pit of water that has like a spiritual like form like Dr Fate

She hates Vlad so much that the entire League of assassins who's also hit him even though they don't know who he is but know that Danny got from Clockwork was about her and visiting

Klarion knows about the quote as the same thing last knows about him being a villain they keep each other secrets cuz they know they make Mom disappointed

When they do have somewhat of a physical form it's a cowgirl with a horse made entirely of Lazarus Pits

Along with that Vlad making surprise visit after feeling someone's littering his name more than usual it's like a call about anytime he knows his children or Daniel is talking about him

Also Batman's freaking out after I think that one of Danny's kids is such a little hater that they made a cult just despite their father which makes the Justice League think Vlad really that bad

This is just the funny idea and I know it's not a good prompt I'm still trying to think of more sorry

Oh I love this! Thanks you!

This is going to be fun in a way I hope! Enjoy~

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Danny barely avoided getting questioned further about his relation to Vlad when he noticed the green post-it note and made a grab for it. "Oh would you look at that! Pop is sending us a message!"

Okay maybe he said that louder than necessary but he needed to change the topic. He didn't need more people on to torment the fruitloop. His own kids were already giving the man enough grief as it was. He didn't need distant cousins or an entire hero society of another dimension coming after the fruitloop too. Not that he would mind that much but some mercy towards the redeemed man would probably be appropriated.

Either way Danny focused his attention on the note only half heartedly listening as Klarion continued his family tree explanation to his little hero friends. He blinked at the note several times before laughing happily. "Would you look at that! Lassie is going to come by! Your Granpa Clock is giving us a heads up, so I can prepare a fresh batch of ectoplasm for her to stay healthy!"

Whatever Klarion was explaining right now was abandoned as he sat up straight. "Lassie is coming too?"

"Well of course she is." Danny hummed happily, thankful for the chance of seeing both his kids that liked to life in the same dimension.

"Lassie?" Red Robin piped up questioning. Oh looks like this is one of Klarions siblings they hadn't gotten to yet regarding explanations.

"Yes my fourth oldest but unofficial second oldest." Danny nodded with a proud mother smile on his face. "She lives in this dimension too to keep an eye on Klarion so he would stay safe and dosen't over do it."

Klarion on the other hand groaned. "I don't need Lassie to baby sit me!"

"Klarion, sweety you were new to the whole living alone in another dimension thing. You spent the longest in FarFrozen and the Ghost Zone with me because of your destabilisation." Danny reprimanded him softly and the teen heroes snickered behind Klarions back to which the witch boy turned to glare at them with a greenish blush across his cheeks.

"So what does that sister of yours look like?" Impulse asked to change the topic and because he took a bit of pity on Klarion for the way his Mom was apparently embarrassing the witch boy. His question resulted in Klarion flipping though the photo album before stopping at an image of Klarion next to a pit of green something. Impulse arched an eyebrow and was about to comment when he got pushed roughly to the side by Red Robin.

"THAT'S A LAZARUS PIT!"

The way Batman's chair clattered to the ground as the man stood up looked every bit like he was going to rush over to the teens spoke for the shock that Red Robin shout had caused. The Ghost King and Klarion on the other hand looked rather calm as they barely reacted to the shout and Danny even motioned to Batman to sit back down again, as the chair that fell rightened itself again.

"Calm down. Lassie is a good child. She wouldn't hurt a fly." Danny told them smiling, not realising that both Batman and Red Robin were giving him increadulous looks behind their mask.

"A.... good child?" Batman repeated his slowly his voice even more tinged with his usual gruff gravel in a way that both Superman and Wonder Woman side eyed him worried while Flash snacked on a pack of melon flavoured ships he snacked from a table.

"She doesn't have a physical body, that is why she is relying on the pits of natural ectoplasm your dimension has. There was a little problem with her physical form and we just couldn't restore it and she refuses to get a unoccupied clone body like Klarion has." Danny explained further not minding the stares he or Klarion were getting.

"Pits of natural ectoplasm?" Batman reiterated, his tone clearly questioning, to which Danny only blinked a couple of times surprised. "I thought your dimension knew what they were? Sure the way you guys use them is strange and Lassie did sound a bit concerned when she told me about it but I didn't think you guys weren't aware what they were."

"No that is not...." Red Robin started but then but himself of as he turned around hurriedly in a defensive position as he noticed someone coming in through the window. He wasn't the only one. All the heroes reacted as one at the new presence, however what they didn't expect was a member of the League of Assassins blinking up at them stunned after climbing in through the window lifting their hands palm up in a gesture of peace.

"Woah hey there calm down! Klarion what the fuck? Why are there so many heroes in your Apartment?" The LoA member spoke up and all eyes turned to Klarion who instead only deadpanned. "I told you Mom was visiting to meet my 'friends'"

"Lassie, what did I tell you about possessing bodies?" The Ghost King piped up in a disapproving tone and they heard the distinctive tone of someone knocking their head against the table, probably Constantine.

"Sorry Mom but there are not Pits of ectoplasm near baby brother I could use to form a body." The LoA member, apparently possessed by Klarion's elder sister replied sheepishly. To say Red Robin was weirded out was an understatement. Usually if he encountered LoA members they were aggressive and most likely there to take him or one of his siblings out.

"That's an League of Assasin member...." He muttered under his breath to which said member laughed. "This guy was the closest to me to use for the moment. Don't worry I will release him later and he won't even remember a thing. I got my little sheep's well trained."

"Little sheep's?" Wonder Girl repeated a hand on her hip as she stared sceptically, to which Klarion face palmed and muttered a low "Sis shut up...."

"No Lassie, don't shut up." Danny intone from the kitchen table he was still sitting at with the other adults, his head was now resting on his hand as he stared at his two kids who visibly flinched.

The LoA member, possessed by Klarions sister, scratched the back of is head nervously as they faced the Ghost King. "Ah Mom, uhm hehe you know funny story..."

The heroes were pretty sure that the room had gotten several degrees colder and they weren't sure if that was because of the mood of a parent about to interrogate their child or because of the Ghost Kings power. (At a later time Constantine swore it were the Ghost Kings powers.) There was a awkward moment of silence the heroes weren't sure if they should be present for that or not especially when Danny stood up and walked over to the teens.

On reflex Wonder Girl, Superboy, Impulse and Red Robin made room for Danny to walk past them as they watched on torn between curiosity and pity, because clearly Klarion and his sister Lassie must have done something they weren't supposed to do. And honestly they were more curious what they did, after all the Ghost King hadn't been that faced when it got revealed that Klarion was more of a Villain than a Hero to them.

"Lassie, what did you do?" The teen heroes couldn't see Danny's face but from the tone they had a feeling that Danny was arching an eyebrow at his children.

Lassie laughed awkwardly once more. "So... you know how grandma Pandora kind of thought us about how our own emotion can influence those around us exposed to our ectoplasm over a long period of time?"

"Lassie..."

"I might have raised something akin to a cult on accident and passed on my personal grudge and hate towards the fruitloop along to them and they might now have the subconscious drill of attack on sight if Vlad ever makes an appearance in this dimension...." The LoA member slowly spoke up which had several of the adult heroes blinking in disbelief.

Batman especially was in shock of hearing about this since had the most interaction with this 'cult' as apparently one of the Ghost Kings children liked to call the League of Assassins. The bat suit wearing hero was about to interject and ask more but stopped when the Ghost King let out a suffering sigh like the most tired parent in existence. "And you didn't think about telling me this sooner because?"

"We don't like to disappoint you Mom." The two children of the Ghost King replied simultaneously like one united front. Danny in response gave his kids a light chuckle. But before Danny could go on any further Red Robin decided it was probably a good time to interject and remind the Ghost King of their presence.

"I got a question if you don't mind..." He lifted his hand like he was in school as he pulled the attention towards him. His curiosity won over his caution of the situation. "Klarion if the Lazarus Pits are actually 'ectoplasm' as you mentioned before, and are largely influenced by your sisters emotion. What happens to guy that bath regularly in them or someone that got thrown in there and game back out rage filled?"

"Red Robin!" Batman call out reprimanding instantly knowing where Red Robins line of question was going.

The possessed LoA member on the other hand blinked at them before scratching their head sheepishly. "I think I know who your talking about. I am still sorry about that second guy. When he got dunked into my ectoplasm, I kinda just came back from a visit home and had a bad fight with Vlad and was especially rage filled towards him."

"So does that mean...?" Red Robin inquired further ignoring Batman's silent glare towards him for even bringing these questions up and just as Lassie was about to answer Danny interjected.

"Lassie, go fix your cult." Another green note at materialised out of nowhere and had fluttered in the air before him and caused the Ghost King to face palm the moment he read it's context.

"Mom?" Both Klarion and Lassie asked with a shared worried glance.

"Vlad has come into the dimension for some reasons and is currently getting chased down by your cult."

There was a stunned silence after which Klarion and Lassie, in the body of the LoA member, broke out laughing hysterically which only caused Danny to lightly glare at his children. Meanwhile the teen heroes weren't sure if they should feel sorry for the old man called Vlad but considering all the red flags they had picked up from what Klarion told them, they felt a little like the man deserved that.

The adults on the other hand felt slightly torn, well mostly Batman. It was clear that this Vlad was a bigger threat than both Klarion and the Ghost King were making him out to be, considering the entire existence of the Lazarus Pits hated that man. But on the other hand as heroes they probably should feel obligated to help the man especially if, according to the Ghost Kings words, he was currently gotten chased in their dimension by the League of Assassins.

Danny on the other hand never felt more like a tired mother than he did right now. Sure he knew about his unofficial second oldest hatred towards Vlad but this certainly was a new level of hate. Especially since she apparently 'accidentally' (he doesn't by that at all) raised an entire cult that subconsciously hated him too.

[justinegreenpie]

Move over Game of Thrones, we all know who's the real king of medieval fantasy!

[felucians]

un bisou

Fandom: Marvel X-men | Gambit/Remy LeBeau x Reader

Reader is gender neutral with no physical descriptions. Rated PG-13 because Gambit would be the type of guy to grab anyone's ass during a kiss, he would test the boundaries and we all know it. Reader is a mutant with celestial Sun powers - technically based on my OC's powers which manipulates the Sun, specifically it's fire.

Summary: Takes place during Days of Future Past in the original X-Men series, where Bishop accuses Gambit of an assassination that destroys the future, reader is the only one to believe him. Pre-established relationships between Rogue/Gambit, Reader/Gambit and Reader is a member of the X-men team. Title is French for "a kiss". Wordcount: around 800 words.

"Don't nobody trust Gambit, eh?"

Rogue can't meet his eyes, her gaze downcast and guilt etched onto her features.

Gambit won't look at you, at your eyes glazing over in tears as your shared family denies him, believes that he could be the assassin. He didn't hear your whisper of "I do" as he loudly announces to the room, "Then Gambit don't need nobody."

He stalks away, glowering as his trench coat flows behind like a cape, and then the room is silent as his footsteps fade.

The lights black out and you're finally unfrozen, "How dare you? All of you? Not trusting one of our own, our team. Who are we if we cannot trust each other? What kind of family is this?"

The Sun hesitantly flickers through the windows, as solar flares begin radiating from your arms, anger burning through your body.

Rogue is first to speak, "Calm down, Sugah—"

"Calm down? When you all just turned your backs on him?"

Jean fixes you with a soft, understanding gaze and whispers "Go" in your mind - your chair hits the wall, leaving a dent with flashes of celestial energy trailing behind.

You don't even realise your feet carrying you through the hallways, yelling his name throughout the mansion, praying to anyone listening that he's still here and you find him before he leaves here, before he leaves you.

He's standing, paused at the doorway to the X-jet, breathing heavily with angry mutters of Cajun creole - blurring English and French seamlessly. Gambit looks up at the sound of your footsteps, a flash of vulnerability in his eyes that left in a second, replaced by a harsh piercing glare, "Porquoi êtes-vous ici, Dulcinée?" (Why are you here, sweetheart?)

The nickname is spat out, venom seeping out from the endearment that would usually bring a soft flush of heat to your face. You try not to flinch. Emphasis on try, because you do, and his face somehow looks even more pained at that. Words evade you as your throat dries, refusing to respond, so you take a deep breath and a soft gulp before you respond, grateful that you could understand his mother tongue.

"I'm here because I trust you, Remy."

He falters, searching your eyes desperately to spot any falsehoods, any inkling that you were spying on him for Charles - he doesn't find any. He finds pure raw love, the kind you knew you felt but could never truly verbalise.

Everyone on the team could see your soft spot for Gambit, and he knew it too. Sure, he flirted with every woman he came into contact with and he couldn't stop thinking about Rogue - but there was something about you that left the Cajun torn, as if he also loved you but didn't dare bare his heart to anyone, as if his shield crumpled, then his world would collapse and destroy everyone he cared about with it.

But here, with only you left, dangerously close to him in the enclosed space of the doorframe's entrance, he couldn't remember why he kept those walls up. He allowed his eyes to flicker to your soft lips, watching intensely as you involuntarily catch the bottom one in between your teeth. Your heart is hammering in your chest and before you can think to pull away, to move down the hallway or into the next room, his big hands are splayed on your soft hips, your spandex suit in bright terracotta separating your skin to skin contact.

He's surprisingly soft, as his lips meet yours and he tastes like spice and tobacco. It infiltrates your senses, enveloping you in a blanket of warmth and desire while you gasp, allowing him to deepen the kiss further, to let Remy explore your mouth, your taste, your emotions. His gloved hands grasp around your waist as the other dips down to your ass, giving it a small squeeze. His smirk brushes his stubble against your cheek at the soft breathy moan you let out from his actions - you would swear Jubilee was in here with the amount of fireworks lighting up your veins, the passion and love igniting your whole body in flames.

Gambit pulls away, and his face is almost unreadable and then it's sad. It's a goodbye kiss, you realise as he walks past you through the door to the X-jet - and you almost let him.

He's so lost on his own emotions and thoughts from the kiss that ghosts his lips that he doesn't notice you slipping into the darkened room after him, only to be blinded by the harsh lights as Bishop and Wolverine reveal themselves, entirely unaware of everything that just transpired between you both...

[briebo-is-a-dragon]

welp. a tumblr post made me absolutely feral and so i kind of wrote a 2800 word microfic in like 3.5 hours, have this utterly unedited short little thing about a therian dragon rider and her dragon LMAO

Every step towards the stables eased the weight on her heart, allowed her to breathe just that little bit easier. Concern radiated across the bond as she approached, but no words were exchanged. They both knew she’d be there soon enough.

Her keys clinking together were almost deafeningly loud in the otherwise silent hallway, sending her heart racing as she carefully and slowly unlocked the gate. This late at night, there was nobody needed to guard the entrance to the stables – after all, who would be stupid enough to try and break into a building filled with sleeping dragons?

There was a spike of amusement over the bond at that thought, and a smile involuntarily tugged at the corners of her mouth as she slipped inside, locking the gate behind her.

It wasn’t long after she approached the familiar archway, a curtain of beads drawn across it. It was quite massive, as was necessary for a creature of her mounts size, the top of it some four or five times taller than her arms could reach.

She thought she could hold out for longer, hoped that she could at least put on a good face despite the turmoil that the dragon would so obviously be able to feel over their bond, she didn’t want to cause worry.

As she pushed through the beads, parting them with a hand she could not bear to look at, she called out.

“Fa-hir—” Her voice immediately cracked, hitching on just stating her companions name.

The beast was a blur, yanking her off her feet and into an embrace before she could even so much as breathe.

“Oh little hatchling,” the dragon rumbled, “What is hurting you?”

Fahir was warm, and so so much larger than her. From her vantage point, in the creatures arms and on her side, she could only truly see its silver underbelly. In moments, however, its golden snout was pressing into her hair, gently nuzzling her in a way that made the tension melt from her body.

She buried her face into the dragons chest, skin against scales, as she allowed herself to indulge in the bond. Her view of what constituted her became fuzzy, indistinct, blurring and mixing with that of her companions. If she closed her eyes she could almost… she could feel the scales on her skin, the wings shifting nervously, the tail gently wrapping around the soft little things leg in her arms—

“Amara.”

Amara opened her eyes, her vision still taken up entirely by the underside of the dragon holding her. Despite all her swirling negative feelings, she couldn’t help but smile at hearing that name.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, only to be cut off by a snort from above her. The scent of raw beef and smoke tickled her nostrils as the breath washed over her.

“Do not thank me for using your name, little thing, I won’t allow it.”

Nobody else knew to call her by that name, nor to even think of her as ‘she’, but Amara knew that the performative ease with which the dragon presented her acceptance was, in of itself, part of the intended affirmation.

Another gentle nuzzling brought her out of her own thoughts.

“Speak, little thing. Why run all the way here so quickly, and in so much pain?”

Amara could simultaneously hear and feel the dragons words, being as close to her chest as she was. The vibrations of her speech resonated in her bones, causing her brain to rattle around pleasantly in her skull.

It did little to help her answer the question, however.

Her mouth flapped open and closed as she attempted to find how to describe the ache in her soul, to attempt to put words to the vague feelings that haunted her evenings and tore at her heart. It was only when she looked up, into her companions eyes, that she finally began to speak.

“I just- I- Being so far from you, from the bond, having it be so weak—”

Amara caught herself, taking a breath as her eyes drifted downwards and away from Fahir’s snout.

“It reminded me of all the ways in which I’m not like you, and- that… hurt.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt concern swell over the bond, curling up within the dragon’s embrace. Fahir’s voice was a sad growl that Amara felt in her chest, the dragons snout ever so gently pressed into the back of her neck.

“Oh, dear hatchling, I am so sorry.”

The tightness of the dragons arms was slowly replaced by her tail. It advanced from Amara’s ankles, coiling around her in an affectionate, possessive embrace.

“It’s nothing you need to apologize for,” Amara mumbled into Fahir’s scales, “It’s just- well- inevitable when I’m like this. Just because I want to be like you, doesn’t mean that reality can’t have sharp teeth when it reminds me of what I actually am.”

Fahir’s warning growl sent goosebumps prickling over her spine as the dragon tightened her grip around her rider.

“Amara. What have I told you about saying such things about yourself?”

She squirmed uselessly within the dragons coiled tail, letting out a noise of protest before quickly giving up. She’d had this sort of confrontation many times before, she knew she couldn’t escape unless the dragon let her.

… Amara hoped the feelings associated with that thought weren’t too transparent over the bond.

“You told me not to, Fahir, as you wouldn’t accept me being in denial, but—”

“No. No buts, or ifs, or interruptions. I won’t have them. I know what you are, little thing, and I won’t hear otherwise. Especially not from you.”

Amara couldn’t help but feel her exasperation rise as she shot back at the beast.

“But look at me!” She managed to wrench an arm free from Fahir’s grip, and waved it in front of her snout, “How does this at all resemble a dragon? How does any of me? I don’t have scales, nor claws, nor wings- I’m just human, Fahir, as much a-as that might- h-hurt – It’s the truth. It’s just…”

She trailed off as a massive claw was pressed to her lips, stopping her outburst in its tracks long enough for her to realize she had tears in her eyes. Again.

“Did you come to me tonight with the express purpose of harming yourself, Amara?”

The dragons tone was dangerous, a low no-nonsense growl that made her head spin and her hair stand on end. The claw wasn’t removed from her lips, and so she was made to speak around it.

“N-no, I- um, I apologize, Fahir,”

“Hush. You need not apologize to me – I was not the target of those statements.”

The claw migrated to beneath Amara’s chin, and tilted her head up until she was looking down the dragons snout and into her vivid blue eyes.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you, hatchling?”

What poured over the bond was almost oppressive – utter confidence in her words, a demand for her attention, a piercing request for her honesty… Amara wasn’t certain that if she opened her mouth she’d be able to form actual words.

Instead, she gently nodded her head – Fahir had told her before, even if she hadn’t been able to believe it. The dragon’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, I am going to tell you again.”

A second claw joined the first, this time softly tracing her cheek. A hint of adoration zapped Amara over the bond, of utter possessive affection, and it took all of her will not to let out some manner of reaction.

Fahir’s voice lowered until Amara felt it almost entirely in her chest, resonating in her skull and making her teeth rattle in their sockets.

“I see a dragoness, still perhaps unable to step out of her shell – fleshy and human in appearance it may be – but burning so bright and clear that I cannot fathom how anyone else could be so blind as not to see it.”

Amara let out an animal whimper, melting into the embrace as Fahir squeezed her for a brief moment, claw now tracing her jaw.

“It is how I’ve seen you since I first laid my eyes upon you, little treasure, and if I could somehow force you to see it too I would in a heartbeat. However, I cannot, not in a way that won’t stick unless you believe me.”

The claw under her chin dug in just a little bit, enough to remind her of its sharpness but not enough to draw blood.

“Do you remember what I told you when you asked why a dragon as old as I would stay here in the stables, allowing a stranger to ride me, when by all means I had the strength to leave if I wanted? When all the other dragons here are children who still yearn for the thrill of fighting and battle?”

Amara let out another incoherent noise, causing Fahir to break character to chuckle.

“Use your words, little thing – this I’d like to hear you say yourself.”

It took some effort to reorganize her brain, as scrambled as it was, though Amara somehow managed. The process and concentration involved only seemed to amuse Fahir further, if the feelings over the bond were anything to go by, which made it all significantly harder.

“Y-you said that you being here was a choice,” Amara murmured, averting her eyes, “And that you could leave if you chose, but that you staying here was evidence of my being interesting enough to keep you in one place.”

The dragon hummed in satisfaction, right before the claw once again applied pressure to the underside of Amara’s chin once again, and the amusement quickly fell away.

“So then,” Fahir growled, “Do you think that I am coddling you? That I am lying to you, when I say these things? Do you think I’d have any reason to?”

Amara let out a sharp exhalation, thoughts running through her brain at a rapid pace. So many of them ended up in some form of denial, only to meet the surety of Fahir’s words and confidence over the bond together and be overturned.

“No.”

The pressure of the claw under her chin released, coming forward to join the other in gently tracing down the side of Amara’s neck.

“No objections? No buts or ifs, hatchling?”

“No, Fahir. Thank you.”

Finally, then, did the veil of seriousness fall away. Warmth and adoration flooded the bond, and Amara was pressed tightly into Fahir’s chest, where her long neck met her shoulders.

“Perfect,” the dragon hummed, “Thank you for indulging me, little thing, and you are welcome.”

Amara smiled even as she buried her face into the dragons scutes, closing her eyes. However, it wasn’t long before that smile wavered.

“I’m sorry you had to do this with me again, Fahir, I just- well, you know how I feel better than I do a lot of the time,”

Amara melted underneath the gentle nuzzling from above, the dragon letting out a content rumbling noise.

“Do not apologize, little thing. Your doubts are deep-rooted. Though I may need to remind you on occasion, each time they become a bit looser I’d think.”

Amara simply grunted in response, allowing herself to relax into the dragons chest as Fahir gently laid them both on their side once again. The beast was warm, and comfortingly so. Her size meant it came nearly from all directions, quickly allowing one to relax into the tight embrace.

After a few moments – or a few minutes, she always found it hard to tell in times like this – Amara stirred.

“I think I’m going to leave, Fahir, but thank you for your help.”

Wordlessly, the dragon unravelled from around her rider, allowing her to stand up and brush herself off.

“This was an immense help to me, I- yes. Thank you.”

Amara felt stiff, giving an uncomfortable bow before turning to leave the room.

Her companion was oddly silent, simply watching her as she somewhat awkwardly shuffled over to the exit, lost in her own swirling thoughts.

It wasn’t until she felt the tugging sensation around her ankle, when she was just at the archway, that she realized that Fahir had not actually fully let go of her.

The dragon yawned theatrically, tapping the end of her snout with a claw.

“No, I think not, little thing.”

The grip around her ankle tightened.

“Pardon?” Amara whispered hoarsely.

Deviously slowly, the dragons tail began advancing up her body.

“I don’t think I’m going to let you leave, Amara. Not until you actually want to, that is. Did I ever tell you that you were being a disturbance to me?”

“No but- ah—"

Before she could finish her rebuttal, she was yanked off her feet and back towards the dragon.

“Hush, hatchling. You want to stay, yes? Be honest.”

Amara averted her eyes, nodding.

“Alright,” Fahir purred, “Then you are staying.”

She let out a noise of protest, but was quickly silenced as Fahir began drawing her claws over her scalp.

“What have I said about your desires, treasure?”

“That dragons claw at what they want with all their might, and don’t deny themselves,” Amara mumbled as she was reduced to putty beneath the dragons attention.

“Indeed. I think I’ll soon have it ingrained into you well enough, and you’ll be happier for it.”

Fahir hummed with satisfaction as Amara so easily yielded under her touch. Soon enough, however, the dragon yawned in earnest.

“Mm, may I try something with you, Amara?”

She blinked away the haze she’d been under, looking up at her companion.

“What is it?”

A claw traced its way along her jaw as Fahir let out a contemplative growl.

“The bond helps comfort you when you’re feeling particularly disconnected from yourself, yes? I could feel you sink into it when you first arrived.”

Amara nodded, if not hesitantly then embarrassedly.

“Then I would like to try something. Please, relax.”

Then, almost as there was a mental hand grasping hers, Amara felt herself being pulled. Gently and ever so slowly, she was led across the mental link she shared with her dragon, and the edges of her being became fuzzy and indistinct.

She came to the threshold that had already been her comfort prior, the extent to which she was able to sink into Fahir’s side of the bond. Once again, the phantom sensations of wings, of scales, of claws, all began to form. Ghostly and indistinct, but very much present.

The pulling almost seemed to stall at that point, as if allowing her to acclimate – or, rather, to receive contrast for what occurred next. The pulling became a tug, and suddenly she tumbled, and the phantom sensations became so very real.

Amara gasped with Fahir’s lungs, feeling them expand as she breathed in so much more than she was ever used to. Her wings shifted, stretching to the edges of the room she was in. Her wings, her lungs—

Her eyes were sharp in the darkness, what had previously been gloomy and indistinct becoming sharp and bright. The moon played against her golden hide, glinting off each individual scale.

She could feel a draft play over her scales, and shivered despite the warmth emanating constantly from her core. It was so completely alien compared to how it felt against skin.

And then there was the little thing in her arms, sleeping so soundly. The little dragoness, as seen through Fahir’s eyes, curled and wrapped up in her tail. Little treasure. Amara wanted to cry.

She had never felt comfort like this, had never felt right like this.

Fahir’s voice spoke gently in her mind.

“Is this comfortable, little one?”

Amara nodded, only realizing as she did it that she was still being given the reign over Fahir’s body. The chuckle came mentally, and yet was familiar nonetheless.

“I am so, so very happy, little treasure. Now, let us rest.”

Slowly, Amara could feel herself being brought out from being in control, and with it came the reminder of her fatigue. She had not slept at all that night, and it had already been late when she’d come to Fahir’s room in the stables. Rest… Rest sounded good.

Mentally, Amara allowed herself to nestle against Fahir within their bond, a mirror of them in physicality. In this in-between space, she could both feel the dragons chest rising and falling behind her back, while also feeling the sensation of that breathing as if it were her own.

She drank in the hybrid sensations greedily and deeply, allowing herself to truly relax for perhaps the first time in her memory.

Amara slept, and Fahir curled up protectively around her.

[sunshinechay]

So I finally caught up on My Stand In after being 3 episodes behind due to irl reasons.

The last three episodes have been a lot and while I’m sad to have missed the weekly discussions, I’m also kind of glad I watched all three at once because it gave me the opportunity to get to watch Ming’s progress rapidly rather than waiting (which my ADHD brain is very happy about) and the one thing really stuck with me through all three episodes.

Of the three who knows Joe is Joe, Ming is the only one to figure it out completely on his own. He doesn’t overhear anything, he isn’t told by anyone. Even the priest (is that what he is? Citation needed) won’t give Ming the straight answer he seeks. Joe is neither dead nor alive but a secret third thing, his soul has transmigrated to another body entirely.

Before, when he didn’t know, we got the small kernels of change. Ming is much more straight forward than he used to be. While he was never one to mince words, he is more truthful and up front, even with Joe 2.0. He is honest with him from the start about exactly what he wants. He doesn’t tell Joe the real reason why he wants it, but that’s understandable given that no one else is willing to believe Ming when he says Joe is still alive. So why tell this new stand in why you want him to be so.

Then he figures it out. He puts together the context clues and believes the impossible because he’s the only one who never gave up hope that Joe would come home, would come back to him. Joe does come back to him and Ming immediately sets out to ensure that Joe exactly where he stands in terms of how Ming feels about him. Ming needs Joe to understand exactly what he wants. Ming is probably always going to be the type of person who will use underhanded tactics in certain situations, but it’s completely understandable why he uses the contract to keep Joe with him.

Ming offers up explanations where Joe didn’t ask for them, because he knows that Joe deserves them, whether or not he asks for them. He wants Joe to understand that he regrets a lot of his past actions, including what he did for Tong at the end. Ming had all but admitted that if he could go back and change it, he would.

Ming is willing to confront so many issues head on. He is learning to deal with his emotions in a way that is more productive for them all. He has started to feel more of his emotions out loud in a way he didn’t before. He promised himself he would change if Joe ever came back and so far he has kept his promise. He will better himself and he will grow. He will no longer be stagnant.

He is even willing to tell his father that he is dating Joe. The mere mention of it clearly terrifies him more than he has the words to express, something that Joe picks up on right away and tries to protect both of them from. Preemptively breaking up with Ming to try and save them both a worst heartbreak than simply breaking up.

Tong had spent so much of the show attempting to prove again and again that Ming is under his thumb. He knew that Ming was in love with him in the past and still believes he is now, but he is wrong. Ming will no longer allow himself to be manipulated by Tong and by extension his mother. So he will shoot their ace out of the sky by doing the one thing that terrifies him the most. He will tell his father that he is gay. That he is gay and dating a man. A man named Joe.

He will accept what comes next because the only other options is to lose Joe and Ming absolutely will not do that for a second time. He is willing to lose everything, as long as it means he doesn’t lose Joe.

[necrotic-nephilim]

"Can you two manage not to tear each other apart while I'm gone?"

Bruce, Jason, and Tim (With JayTim or maybe even BruJayTim)

send a quote and a ship and I'll write a short fic!

god, this one was so good. so, you get the catch-22 of this being a bit longer, 4.5k, but with the warning, i have not edited it so it might be a little rough. but the whole point of this is quick fun so! this is basically Tim and Jason trying to kill each other bc they're under the influence of a toxin. both have a relationship with Bruce and are mad about it. it does end in some short JayTim porn and an implied BruJayTim ending. you could argue dub-con, but it's mostly consensual. enjoy <3

Tim honestly would’ve preferred if it was fear toxin or Joker venom.

Those, he at least knew the tricks for dealing with. How to keep his heart rate down, how to focus and not give in to his body’s adrenaline response. And even if none of those failed, the worst of the fear toxin was just something Tim could wait out while playing distracting music.

This was different.

Anger was different.

“It looks like someone took Crane’s compound and modified it,” Bruce, the lucky bastard who had managed not to inhale the substance, was stood perfectly calm in front of the Batcomputer. “It’s difficult to tell though without a direct sample.”

“If you would just let me look at it maybe we could get somewhere,” Tim hissed through grit teeth, aiming a lethal scowl at Bruce. His nails were digging into his palm. He frowned and tried to take a break. “I’m sorry.”

Bruce looked over his shoulder at Tim with concern and pity. “Are you sure you don’t want to be tranquilized until I synthesize the cure?”

“Bruce, if you try to get close enough to tranq me, I’ll probably try to rip your larynx out with my teeth,” Tim said. The itch for violence sat right underneath his fingertips. He was desperate for it, already twitching at the thought.

Logic and reasoning were hard to hold onto. Every straight thought Tim had was immediately consumed by the fire of fury, burned into something unrecognizable.

Tim didn’t feel like himself when he was angry. That was the worst part. He never liked his anger before and now, it was the only part of him on display. An ugly and twisted thing.

“He could just shoot you with a tranq dart,” Jason said smoothly. “I’d pay to see it.”

Jason was also affected by the rage toxin, though compared to Tim, he looked barely bothered. His head was tilted back to rest against the back of his chair, eyes closed. Both hands were in his lap, fingers calmly laced. His hands were forced together by the same cuffs that Tim was also wearing. Tim had suggested the cuffs when he tried to claw out Bruce’s eyes because Bruce put a hand on his shoulder. Despite Jason’s lack of reaction, it was universally decided to also put Jason in the cuffs. The handcuffs were chained to the chairs Tim and Jason were sitting in, with at least six feet’s distance between them so they couldn’t try to grab each other.

Which Tim had done at least a half a dozen times by now.

“If you’re not going to have helpful input you can keep your goddamn mouth shut,” Tim snapped, holding himself still in the chair from trying to launch across the room again. His muscles were so tense from clenching them that he was starting to shake.

“Tim,” Bruce said softly, giving him a look. Bruce was perfectly fine if Tim snapped at him. But when Tim snapped at Jason, he got a stern reprimand.

Which only pissed Tim off more.

He didn’t understand how he was fine with Bruce sleeping with both of them now. The thought was ridiculously enraging, how he could allow Bruce to even be around Jason Todd. It usually didn’t bother Tim, and was one of the things Tim accepted about Bruce. The lack of monogamy.

But now? Staring at Jason’s smug face that Tim itched to break? It made Tim’s blood boil.

He was more important and useful to Bruce than Jason could ever be. And Tim didn’t have a pile of bodies on his ledger. He actually knew he to behave like a person and not a wild animal.

Ironic how they looked now, then.

Jason’s face split into a feral grin. He leaned forward. “Yeah, Tim,” his tone mocked the one Bruce used. “Let’s behave ourselves.”

Tim could see it in Jason’s eyes. How angry he was, how he was holding back everything that Tim couldn’t. His little show was a facade and Tim damn well knew it.

He wanted to rip Tim apart just as badly.

Now it was Jason who Bruce gave the look to. “This is easier for you to control than it is for him, Jason. Don’t try to provoke him.”

Tim hated how he was spoken about as if he wasn’t even there. Like he was some hapless child throwing a temper tantrum that Bruce was indulging, but sharing quiet whispers about with the real adults.

Like he thought Jason could control himself better than Tim just because Jason had experience with the Lazarus Pit, making him less susceptible to anger manipulation.

At least that was the working theory, currently. Jason’s working theory was simply that he was better than Tim. It was when he said that, that Tim suggested the handcuffs. He had enough of his wits left about him to know he’d sort of regret killing Jason Todd, no matter how badly he wanted to right now.

Jason just shrugged at Bruce’s words and relaxed back into his chair, crossing his legs. “He shouldn’t be so easily provokable then.”

“You know damn well-” Tim started.

“Timothy.” Bruce put a command in his voice that he rarely used with Tim. It made Tim straighten on instinct. The endless patience Bruce had was getting worn more and more thin with every jab and insult traded between Tim and Jason. He looked like he was at his wit’s end. “Don’t listen to him.”

A slow, deep breath did nothing to calm Tim’s nerves. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood and then resisted the urge to spit it at Bruce. “B, I love you, but you have no idea how hard this is. Especially around him of all people.”

The look that crossed Bruce’s face was pained. They always danced around the elephant in the room, that was Bruce accepting Jason back into the fold a little too quickly for everyone’s comfort. It was his soft spot showing. Even when Tim wasn’t under the influence of a drug he didn’t like it and had tried several times to warn Bruce that Jason was a lost cause.

It’d caused a lot of arguments on their best days. Weeks of not speaking to each other on their worst.

And because Tim was the dutiful partner, the loving Robin, he always gave in first. Bruce needed him. In some ways, romantically. But in most ways, Bruce just needed genuine companionship from someone who wasn’t batshit crazy and murdering drug lords like it was a sport. That was Tim’s job. A job he liked, even.

Not that he was too fond of it right now.

They both knew, deep down Bruce had desperate wants of Jason and Tim getting along. The soft comments Bruce made about how well Tim and Jason could work together in a hypothetical always held an unspoken meaning. It wasn’t actually about Tim working with Jason on the field. It was about the fantasy of them being in Bruce’s bed at the same time, loving each other the way they loved him.

That would happen over Tim’s cold, dead body.

“I know,” Bruce said quietly. He reached out for Tim, then seeing the look in Tim’s eye, seemed to think against it and pulled his hand back. It only made Tim angrier. Angry Bruce didn’t currently trust Tim to give him affection. Angry Bruce was right not to trust him. So goddamn angry that despite craving comfort, all Tim wanted to do was bite the hand that fed him. A frustrated growl came out of Tim’s throat and he kicked the ground.

“You know,” Jason drawled, studying Tim with his barely contained madness, “I’m glad for it, honestly. I was starting to think you didn’t have any bite in you at all, Drake. Least we all know what it takes for you to finally snap.”

Tim opened his mouth for a biting insult, but looked at Bruce. He took a deep breath. “I hope all this self-restraint you’re showing is a lesson you keep when all this is over. The last thing we need is for you to go on another murder rampage because someone hurt your feelings.”

Jason’s eyes flared. His hands curled into fists. “Oh, you have no idea the self-restraint I show. If you want to see on a real rampage I’ll fucking-”

“Enough!” Bruce slammed a hand on the console. He ran his hand over his face and sighed. “I have more files on fear toxin in my study I need to find.” Bruce looked between them, giving them both a hard stare. “Can you two manage not to tear each other apart while I’m gone?”

“Ask him,” Jason shrugged. He was trying to sound nonchalant again, but he spoke through grit teeth. “I’m just fine over here.”

Tim just held up his cuffed hands, showing where the chain ended, keeping him firmly connected to the steel chair. “I couldn’t go anywhere even if I wanted to.”

Bruce nodded. He passed one more look between the two of them. “I’ll be right back. We’ll figure this out, I promise.” Again, he looked like he wanted to reach out. To which of them, Tim wasn’t sure. probably both, which sent an involuntary wave of disgust through his body. If Bruce touched Jason in front of him, Tim was probably going to puke. Bruce turned on his heel and walked out of the cave. They both watched his figure slowly disappear from view.

Before Tim could even turn to Jason and say something, he was tackled to the ground by a blindingly fast and heavy human body.

“What the-” Tim started, raising his hands to protect his face when a fist tried to come down on it. “How the fuck-”

Jason was wearing a grin that had gone completely mad, in every definition of the word. He had easily pinned Tim to the ground, a knee on Tim’s chest. Jason’s hands were still cuffed together but somehow, he’d undone the chain connecting him to his chair. Which boded particularly poorly for Tim, who was still chained to his chair, giving his arms a limited range of movement to defend himself.

Of course, Jason had picked the lock without either of them noticing.

“Thought you were the smart one, Drake,” Jason sneered. His hands were forced together, so when he reached for his waist with one hand they both had to move away from Tim’s face. “You really fucking thought I’d willingly hand over all my weapons to Bruce in a room with you?” He pulled a small, switchblade out from under his waistband and flipped it open. “I wouldn’t have even if I wasn’t drugged.”

“I knew you were acting, you fucking bastard,” Tim snarled. He didn’t have a weapon. It had been his suggestion to hand all of them over to Bruce because Tim was trying to be reasonable.

He should’ve fucking known better. There was never any reasoning with Jason.

Tim still had his bare hands. He launched them toward Jason’s throat. They managed to curl around flesh, nails just starting to dig in, when Jason stabbed Tim in the hand. Tim yelled, yanking his hand away and taking the other one with it.

That was the other shitty part of the anger. It made pain harder to ignore.

“Had to convince Bruce it was okay to leave you alone with me,” Jason said, shrugging slightly. “Figured I would only get one chance.” He raised the knife and tried to bring it down on Tim’s face. Tim managed to stop him, getting the knife tangled in the chains. “For fuck’s sake.” Jason shifted his weight. He pulled the knife free and brought up his over leg, using it to pin down the chain under his boot. Without any slack, Tim’s hands were forced against the ground, tugging uselessly.

“I will rip you apart with my teeth if I have to,” Tim growled, trying to snap at Jason’s face to prove his point.

Jason easily dodged and laughed. “I’d like to see you try. Maybe It’ll make you interesting, for once.” He brought the knife down and held it to Tim’s throat. “Grayson, I could’ve understood. He’s a pretty guy. Got a good sense of humor on him. Even Gordon. I don’t like her, but I could’ve respected it.” Jason’s face twisted into an ugly look, staring down at Tim with utter contempt. “But you? I have to share Bruce with you of all people? My goddamn replacement? That’s just fucking insulting.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten yourself killed then,” Tim shot back. “You were easy to replace.”

“Yeah, provoke the guy with a knife to your throat,” Jason pressed the blade against Tim’s skin until a drop of blood was sliding down his adam’s apple. “I’ll show you what a dead Robin looks like.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You really think Bruce will forgive you for killing me?” He tugged at the chain as hard as he could. It still wasn’t budging. “He’d tear you apart.”

“Yeah, I really do,” Jason mocked Tim. He leaned in close enough for Tim to smell mint on Jason’s breath. “He always does. He’ll just blame it on the toxin. We both know he always forgives me no matter what I do.” His grin was a ghastly thing. “Can you say the same, Drake?”

Tim just growled. He headbutted Jason, not caring about the knife. If he was going to die, he would at least leave his mark.

Jason jerked back, rubbing his nose. Tim had hopefully broken it. Blood was already starting to pour down Jason’s face. Jason had the audacity to laugh. “Cute.” He rubbed his nose for a moment, feeling the bone. “You know I’m not going to kill you, though. That would be way too nice.”

“Nice?” Tim scoffed. “Did you finally learn the meaning of mercy, or something?”

“For you? Never.” Jason brought the knife to Tim’s face. “I just want to make you wish you were dead.” he dug the blade into Tim’s temple and Tim yelled, feeling it cut through his skin all the way down to his jaw. “What part of you do I have to mutilate to make Bruce stop loving you?”

Tim didn’t say anything. He was too busy trying to blink through the pain of a shallow cut that should’ve felt like nothing. Instead, it felt like a hot iron had branded the entire left side of Tim’s face, melting most of his skin off.

“What’s so pretty it could make Bruce like someone as pathetic as you?” Jason pressed on. He put another cut across Tim’s face, slashing through his cheek. “You’ve got a nice face. Is that it?” He leaned back so he could rip Tim’s shirt apart, exposing Tim’s chest. “We both know Bruce is a physical guy. Maybe it’s something else.” The blade trailed across Tim’s chest, looking for the next place to cut.

Tim managed to get leverage against the concrete with his feet. He pushed himself up as hard and fast as he could, throwing Jason off of him. Before Jason had the chance to recover, Tim launched himself forward and wrapped the chain around Jason’s throat.

“Maybe his love for you is only skin deep,” Tim pulled the chain as tight as it could go, watching Jason’s face turn red without oxygen. The rational part of him knew he was taking too much pleasure in watching Jason struggle for air. The rest of him didn’t care. “But Bruce actually loves me.”

Jason snarled. “He’s loved me longer.”

He wildly stabbed at Tim until the knife sank into Tim’s forearm. Tim screamed and let go, giving Jason slack to breathe, getting a hand under the chain and yanking hard on it. Tim didn’t fall off of Jason but instead fell into him. Their bodies were pressed together, and Jason used it as an excuse to wrap the chain around Tim, forcing them against each other.

“Can’t get away from me now,” Jason whispered into Tim’s ear. He ripped his knife out of Tim’s arm.

“You really want to be this close to me?” Tim asked. He tried to headbutt Jason again but didn’t have enough damned room to move. “Your fucking funeral.”

“I’m the one with the knife,” Jason said in a sing-song voice. He wiggled his arms between them and brought the knife against Tim’s crotch. Tim had his pants as a layer of fabric protecting him, but he still went rigid. “Is it here? Is this what Bruce likes so much? Go on. Tell me how he likes to fuck you, Drake. Bet you’re real fucking vanilla about it and he has to be all nice to you.”

“You sound jealous,” Tim tried to bite Jason, who kept pulling his head away. “You’re the one who needs to hear him say he’s proud of you just to come. I’m not the one of us who cries during sex.”

“How the hell-” Jason’s whole body jerked in anger.

Tim knew his grin was feral. “Trust me, I know all the embarrassing details. Bruce talks about it all the time.” That wasn’t entirely true. Tim had just overheard it once when Bruce forgot to turn off his comms. But the lie was far more embarrassing for Jason.

“I could make you cry,” Jason sounded angrier than Tim had ever heard him, which was a hell of a feat. “He’s just not fucking you hard enough. Putting you in your goddamn place like you deserve.”

“You want to fuck me, now?” Tim taunted. “I thought you hated me.”

“Too vanilla to know what hatefucking is, Drake?” Jason shot back. He pressed the knife harder into Tim’s crotch. “I could make you fucking beg for it.”

“Like hell.”

“You wanna find out?” Jason asked.

Tim paused his struggles. He pulled back and gave Jason an incredulous look. “You’re not actually serious.”

“Either I kill you, torture you, or bitch you.” Jason shrugged. He dug the knife down enough to cut open Tim’s pants. The fabric tore loudly. “I’ll let you pick.”

“I’ll kill you first,” Tim shot back. He refused to take the offer seriously.

He didn’t know what his answer would be, if it was a serious offer, so it was better for Tim to not think about it entirely.

“Scared you’ll like it?” Jason was just mocking him now. “If I ruin you enough, you’ll come crawling back for me instead of Bruce. And besides,” Jason lowered his voice to a purr, “we both know he’d pay to watch. Bet he’d even help me hold you down.”

Against his will, Tim shuddered. His anger was clouding his judgment, making it hard to figure out what other emotions were there. Maybe there was arousal. Maybe it was fear.

Tim always had trouble telling the difference.

“Have you always wanted to fuck me?” Tim avoided everything Jason was saying. It made him too dizzy to think about.

Jason just gave him a shrug. “Can’t say I haven’t wondered what’s so special about fucking you that he keeps doing it. Is your ass really that good or something?”

Tim snorted. He had no idea Jason didn’t know. “He doesn’t fuck me in the ass.”

“What?” Jason’s brow furrowed.

“If I had a dick down there, you’d have cut it by now,” Tim pointed out, looking down at the knife.

Jason frowned. He dug the knife deeper, ripping open a bigger hole in the fabric of Tim’s pants until he could force his hand inside, thankfully the one that wasn’t holding the knife. Tim tried to kick, but he couldn’t stop Jason’s hand from groping until it found his cunt, pressing against Tim’s underwear.

“Son of a bitch,” Jason said. “Well, that makes you even easier to fuck. Now I don’t need prep.”

“You’re not fucking me,” Tim snarled, trying to get away from Jason’s hand. his skin was too hot, to have Jason that close to his most sensitive areas. He didn’t want to know what his body would do if Jason got past the thin barrier of fabric between him and Tim’s skin.

“You haven’t actually told me no yet,” Jason pointed out. He managed to cut apart Tim’s underwear, a cold reminder of how close the knife was to his cunt. Thick fingers pressed against Tim’s hole until two managed to sink in. “You’re wet.”

“No, I’m not,” Tim gasped, even though he could feel it. The easy slide of Jason’s fingers inside of him, the way there was no resistance from his body. He still wasn’t ready to admit to himself that he wanted this. Not when he wanted Jason dead just as badly. Tim opened his mouth to say something more, but Jason brushed a thumb over his clit. “Oh god.”

“if I’m being honest with you,” Jason hummed, starting to move his fingers inside of Tim, “I think it’s a lot easier to be horny than angry right now. That’s the only damn feeling that works to fight this.”

He was right and Tim hated him for it. The anger thrumming under his skin pulled back, just slightly, to make room for arousal. It made Tim want to give in, just so he could have anything to latch onto besides cold, empty fury.

And Jason’s fingers felt good inside of him. They arched right up into Tim’s sweet spot, making him gasp and jerk.

“How quick do you think I can make you come?” Jason asked. He worked his fingers and thumb together, finding a good pace. Like he knew exactly how Tim liked it.

“Fuck you,” Tim groaned, throwing his head back.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Jason said.

They both knew he wouldn’t. Tim didn’t want Jason to stop. If Jason stopped, Tim would probably grab the knife and gut him.

“I hate you.” Tim’s hips were moving against his will. He was acutely aware the knife was still down there too, but he put a small amount of trust in Jason to not let it trust.

“It’s mutual,” Jason agreed. He shifted his hips until they were pressed against Tim’s thigh. He was hard. Tim could feel the outline of Jason’s cock as Jason started to rut, grinding against Tim for friction. A low moan came out of him, going straight to Tim’s core.

Jason was kind of handsome, at least. Especially with blood all over his face.

“Now are you gonna come for me or what?” Jason growled into Tim’s ear. “Show me exactly how much you hate me, Drake. I want to fucking feel it.”

“You’re a bastard who doesn’t deserve Bruce,” Tim whined as Jason’s fingers worked him. Rubbing his clit and thrusting into his sweet spot. It was a sweet, torturous distraction from his rage, but it still didn’t make the feeling quite go away.

“Agreed.” Jason shrugged, seeming unbothered by the statement. He groaned again, pressing his forehead against Tim’s. “I’m still better than you, though. You’re the little bitch who’s never going to forget what being fucked by me feels like. Maybe I’ll be nice enough that you’ll enjoy it and jerk off to it every time you’re wet.”

The thought of jerking off to Jason repulsed Tim. Yet it was the same thought that sent his orgasm through him, like a shock to his core. He yelled, so loud it echoed through the cave. His hole clenched around Jason’s fingers as his body worked through the spasms of pleasure.

For one glorious moment, Tim didn’t notice his anger. He just had the beautiful crescendo of pleasure crashing down on him, making his body sing.

“Isn’t that fucking adorable,” Jason gasped, grinding harder against Tim. You’re finally not annoying for once. No wonder Bruce fucks you. It’s the only way someone can enjoy being around you.”

The words were mean and Tim wanted to snap back, but he was boneless. Every insult from Jason was a new aftershock of pleasure down Tim’s spine.

Tim opened his mouth to find something to say, but he was cut off.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bruce stood at the mouth of the cave, staring at them with wide eyes. He looked just as angry as Tim felt, stalking over to where they were pinned and bloody on the floor. “Jason if you hurt him-”

“I’m fingering him, actually,” Jason corrected lazily, still grinding his hips.

Bruce stopped walking. “What?”

Jason thrust his fingers inside Tim to make his point, pulling a cry out of Tim. He was oversensitive from his orgasm and couldn’t get away from the pressure against his g-spot. “You should be proud of us. We’re getting along pretty well.”

Sure they were. Like Tim’s face wasn’t cut up and Jason’s nose wasn’t broken.

“You…” Bruce trailed off, breath caught in his throat. Tim watched his pupils dilate.

“He’s enjoying himself. Just came on my fingers,” Jason said. He pressed the knife against Tim’s thigh as a warning. “Right, Drake?”

Tim bit back a remark. He nodded.

“I promise to behave if you let me fuck him,” Jason looked up at Bruce. He was definitely lying. “We should both fuck him. See how much he can take. I’ll even keep the cuffs on just to be nice.”

Tim couldn’t stop the soft moan that came out of him at the thought.

Bruce looked between them. His eyes settled on Tim. “Are you-”

“Yes,” Tim said. “Please?”

As soon as Tim said the magic word, Bruce was by their side, taking his clothes off. Jason groaned in victory. He grinned against Tim’s cheek. “Now we can have some real fun.”

[starcatching]

siyeon doing sua's no dot challenge 💀 221120 warsaw fancam by me

[whitherwanderer]

Everything's so farrrrrr... 😩

[morrigan-sims]

may i please have your name?

I've always found the aesthetics of fairies kind of boring, unless you were going for like, an unsettling, uncanny, potentially horror-adjacent, fucked-up ancient fey vibe, so I was very surprised when my hands clicked on the fairy wings in CAS. But the sim is decently pretty, so I guess I can't be too mad about it.

[sweet-peachie]

Thinking about a yandere with a depressed darling.

A yandere who's patient with you no matter how bad it gets. On easier days, when it's just the lingering inexplicable sadness that has you staring off into space every now and then between conversations, he's quick to jump to another topic to distract your mind. When he sees your gaze lower and your brows pinch in thought, he makes your favorite meal under the guise of having been craving it himself. When you're both sitting on the couch and he sees your leg bounce, your fingers trembling against your thighs - he feigns tiredness and leans against you to 'absentmindedly' take your hand in his.

A yandere that on harder days, ones where you can't even muster up the energy to get up from your shared bed, stays there with you for hours on end. Arms wrapped around your waist and his face buried in your hair. If you're lying down, he'll let you rest against his chest and listen to the sound of his heartbeat - the soft sound lulling you into a state of calm. If you're sitting up, he'll keep his arms around you and gently rock the both of you back and forth, keeping his weight pressed against you to keep you grounded. You enjoy silence? No problem, he finds the quiet peaceful too. You need background noise to distract yourself from your thoughts? He's going on and on about anything and everything he can think of.

He tries his best to only leave your side for absolute necessities at the start of these periods. He knows that taking care of you when you're down makes you feel guilty, so he never makes it seem like he's only doing something just for you (even if he knows he is).

He's feeling pretty hungry. No worries though, he'll just go ahead and order some food from that restaurant you both (read: you) like. No, you don't have to get up from the bed to get it from the door, he needed to use the bathroom anyway so he'll just grab it on his way back!

(He was never really hungry. Hell, he could survive off of the smell of you alone if he could. But he'd be damned if you didn't get at least one full meal in today.)

A yandere that never judges you for your lack of motivation to take care of yourself sometimes. You don't feel like you can take a shower today? That's perfectly fine, a missed shower or two never hurt anyone! You felt too drained to brush your teeth before you went to sleep? That's alright, he's feeling pretty tired too so you're both in the same boat! Even if you're someone who prefers to eat in bed because you don't have the energy to eat at the dining table, he doesn't mind one bit. Crumbs aren't an issue for him, and having to wash the sheets is only a small sacrifice to make sure you're comfortable. Hell, if you didn't feel so iffy about it he'd even feed you if you asked.

A yandere that never in his wildest dreams would ever shame you for something you can't control. But, he does care about your health, of course, so he wouldn't allow you to skip too many days of hygiene without stepping in. One of his favorite things to do with you is shared self-care. If you don't take a shower that day, you can both just take one together the following day. He takes great care in washing you off, lathering your hair in your favorite scented shampoo and conditioner before turning around and letting you do the same to him. If you don't feel like brushing your teeth or washing your face that night, that's perfectly fine, he's already setting up a playlist for you two to dance to in front of the mirror when you both get it done tomorrow instead.

A yandere that, although he makes sure you're comfortable during your more difficult days, still wants to help you gradually recover. If your lack of motivation and tiredness spans over a few days or more, he'll slowly but surely coax you out of bed. First it starts out small, like using the restroom or grabbing something from the other side of the room. And then it moves on to leaving the room entirely, getting you to stay outside for longer and longer intervals until the emptiness is finally pushed to the back of your mind once again - dormant until the next time it rears its ugly head. But that's okay. Progress is slow, and it's far from perfect. And he'll tell you just how proud he is that you've taken a step further, no matter how small it may seem.

A yandere that doesn't consider you a burden for the way you feel. Who doesn't ask what caused your mood, even if the shift was sudden. Who doesn't judge you when you fall back into old habits (now, with larger intervals in between) - your hair getting tangled, your skin oily and your clothes stained. Because no matter what he'll be there with you every step of the way, and he'll happily help you up again and again.

[t-u-i-t-c]

Bakuage Sentai BoonBoomger

The Rampage is Mine

[amphibianaday]

day 1317

drawn one frame at a time without looking at the previous frame. over a period of 72 days so i was more likely to forget

for this version i tweaked the positions to make a nicer more steady arc, and added a final frame to better blend between the first and last frame. and made it loop better!

[marcusagrippa]

you met him when you were ten, and some might say it was by chance but you know it was not. fortuna was his uncle’s mistress, after all, not his. there were scraped knees and bloody noses and a gravitational pull that scared you (something apollonian, maybe - a disc around the head that only you could see), young as you were, and you lost a tooth that day but gained a friend. he was almost a head shorter than you and half the size, and he wheezed when he talked and his bones were the wrong shape and you could fit your thumb and forefinger in a neat circle around his wrist with room to spare, but something old in you knew that the world would be brought to its knees by those grey eyes and slim hands. 

you ran away from the house where you saw your father’s skull crack open on the kitchen floor and he taught you greek on the temple steps below a red-faced god, and the first time it happened it was over aristophanes, of all things. you were twelve but looked older and he had a limp and his hair was too long and when you kissed him he didn’t stop you, he barely even blinked, he just smiled and went back to correcting your pronunciation after you pulled away. you’d wonder later whether you’d dreamed it but at night you knew that there would always be a part of you stuck in that moment - under jupiter’s gaze with a hand in his hair and greek on your lips. 

the first time you begged him you were sixteen and your brother was in libya. you didn’t think suicide was contagious, but it couldn’t hurt to make sure, so you asked him for mercy over dinner and he said he’d think about it, of course, you had to understand that his uncle was a very busy man with a lot to worry about, a lot on his plate, but he’d see what he could do. you both climbed the tower that evening, the one he nearly fell from as a child, and he watched the sun set over the city’s skyline but all you could watch was the way the shards of fading light touched his face. you’re still not sure if he knew just how deep you’d already managed to fall but it didn’t really matter when he met your lips with his own that night. the second time was better - longer - and he tasted like wine and honey, and it would not be the last.

you were seventeen and at sea and he looked like he was dying, all sunken cheeks and pale skin and sweat-soaked hair clinging damply to his forehead, and your shared quarters smelled like vomit for a week while the ship crossed to hispania. his voice was weak and that halo had dimmed and when you held him in your arms to try and quell his trembling he was lighter and frailer than a bird. you were scared. the strength was there, the strength was always there, but it was buried under feverish sweats and wracking coughs and hatchling bones that felt like to snap at the gentlest touch. you stayed - because you always stayed. you wiped his brow, held back his hair, soothed him and cared for him even in the height of his delirium. that voyage was when you found out about his nightmares; the ones that tore through him more savagely than the fever and left him sobbing and shaking like a child in your arms. they sent words spilling from his lips, words you can’t remember (don’t want to remember), frenzied and hoarse and almost incoherent. 

you wonder now if curses can flow backwards in time. you wonder now if he deserved it. 

the news came the week after the prophecy did. (the astrologer had kissed his feet - fallen to the floor and kissed his damned feet, and you had seen the strange distant look on his face as he was revered and worshipped, and that was the first time you remember that ice stab of fear piercing your chest as you watched him.) the letter fell from his hands like last summer’s dying leaves and he had stumbled, because who wouldn’t, really, in that situation, and when your hands hooked under his arms to keep him up you could feel the way he shook. that was that, then - the idyll was shattered. the future was set. alea iacta est. 

the lists went up a year later and you knew without words that your sword would be the one bloodied by the end. 

you were twenty-one years old and on your knees in front of him. his hand was in your hair and his eyes were dark and you swore you could feel the drained life still caked under your fingernails, and when he forced your head back to make you look up you couldn’t tear your eyes away - he would be a god, you knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt he would be a god. (if only you had known what kind.) a few soft words and a sharp tug and you found yourself pressed to him, mosaic tiles digging into your shins, neck aching as he held your gaze. a quiet question and a whispered reply - ‘yes, caesar,’ you said, but the words under the surface were all too clear. don’t think them, don’t speak them. the name was a promise, you thought, and the promise was not worth the struggle to take back. 

he took you in the temple against the column and for a little while, with your face pressed into the hollow of his neck and your fingers digging into his skin, you could imagine with the sun within you that nothing had changed at all. 

[crazyexdirkfriend]

snippet from an unfinished multichapter by me, Tony ao3 user artreactor, from 2016

--------

If someone had told Jake English at the beginning that, aged twenty-two, he'd still be dating Dirk Strider, he would have completely believed them to be quite honest.

Of course, his reasons for being in a relationship with Dirk now are far different from what they were when he was fifteen. At that age, Jake honestly believed that entering a relationship with the other would be the commitment equivalent of tying an anchor to his leg and throwing himself into the Pacific Ocean. Dirk's despotic nature was inescapable, suffocating and he was always more likely to drown from it than from a silly anchor. Once he let Dirk kiss him (with blood in his mouth, under his tongue, prying it from cold, dead-) there was no way Dirk would ever let him go.

But Dirk letting him go is precisely the reason that he now has an iron clad grip on Jake's hair, plaiting it with the intensity he used to direct into aggressive courtship.

There's a certain safety in knowing that there is an entire universe, made with the aid of his own hands, sprawling outside their room. Any time he wants, Jake can simply run down the stairs of their communal living quarters and escape into seemingly endless vast fields and plains of green. Knowing that he's here because he wants to be and not out of some disheartening feeling of inevitability makes him far more comfortable with Dirk's presence and that's obviously one major step towards a healthy romantic relationship. Dirk would let him go if he wanted to and that's really all it takes to make him want to stay. Jake is not a fussy guy.

For example, Dirk is probably doing a terrible job of fixing his hair right now and Jake won't even bat an eyelid if he looks in the mirror and he's suddenly missing a few inches. He's been growing his hair since the game ended but of course it's never going to get to the length Jade's is, let alone how long his grandmother's was. Getting a comb through it most mornings is difficult enough and once it gets below his shoulders the knots simply have to be cut out. It's far too much hassle to maintain even if the idea of having floor length hair sort of gives him a fuzzy feeling in his stomach.

“Are you almost done?” he asks, impatient and he hears Dirk click his tongue behind him.

“Almost,” he replies and Jake feels him triple tie an elastic hair tie around the last of the plaits. Jade gave him a little over one hundred after becoming tired of watching him fail to remove hair from his plate during meal times but he's lost all but seven at this point.

When Dirk's hands leave his hair, Jake shakes his head, feeling the plaits thwack against his cheeks and neck. Dirk dutifully leans back to narrowly avoid a bobbon to the face. He grins, almost apologetic. “Thank you once again, bro,” he says, “Although I think you're starting to have a knack for this. Perhaps you missed your calling?”

“I've enough hair stress of my own,” comes the easy reply as Dirk lies back on the sofa, pushing his legs forward in a way that forces Jake to either stand up and move away or defiantly lie down on top of him. Jake chooses the latter.

“Of course you do. You've only what, eight more years of a not receding hairline to enjoy?” He earns a shove to the shoulder for that. It's an irrationally sore subject but all he can do is titter.

“I've always got hats, broski,” he says but there's a tilt of worry in his voice that makes Jake choke out another chortle.

He didn't ever expect to find continuous streams of bro puns charming or endearing let alone expect to pick them up himself. He always thought he'd be more of a romantic cliche nickname kind of guy. Darling, honey, sweetheart, love. But Dirk awkwardly stammered out a “babe” three years ago and hasn't tried since and Jake's surprisingly satisfied with that.

“But if you wear a hat, what are you going to do with your shirts?” he asks, pulling out the collar of Dirk's tank top before letting it fall back against his collarbone. “You can't possibly be thinking of changing your brand this late in the game, surely?”

“Don't sweat, I'm not delusional yet. Wearing a hat on my shirt is still the vastly superior thing.”

“Good. I was worried perhaps you were going both loony and bald.”

He shoves Jake off of him and he rolls on to the floor. It's completely worth it and Dirk's scowl is almost audible over the exaggerated laughter from the ground.

They stay like that for a few moments until Jake's tittering dies down and his chest stops heaving. Once that happens, Dirk casually rolls off the sofa, landing on top of the other with a soft thump. Jake's breath leaves him again, stifling whatever complaints were bubbling up in his mouth. Before he can catch his breath again, Dirk leans in, rubbing their noses together in that silly, endearing way he does to allow Jake time to move away if he wants to.

It's been six years, yes, but there are still times where Jake does not want to be close to anyone, let alone close enough to breathe in Dirk's second hand air. Those times come more often than he would especially like but they come with the battle scars. Jake supposes it's a testemant to their maturity that now he can vocalise when he needs space and Dirk will give it to him, no qualms.

But today is not a day Jake moves away. Instead, he tilts his head, moving in to press his lips chastely against Dirk's. They stay like that for a few moments, shallowly breathing through their noses, before he pulls away, grinning widely. It's a beat before Dirk's face splits to match.

The serenity lasts a further thirty seconds before Jake finds himself crushed under Dirk plus an added weight that could only be Roxy if her grin looming over Dirk's shoulder wasn't any indicator.

“I can't breathe,” Jake complains, wheezing. Dirk's elbow is stuck into his ribcage and his hip bone is poking his thigh.

“If you couldn't breathe, talking would also be an impossibility,” Rose says simply, upside down from Jake's view as she stands with the toes of her shoes pressed against his scalp.

“Yeah, besides, you weren't complainin' about breathing when your tongue was down DiStri's throat,” Roxy croons and Jake's ears go pinker than her lipstick.

“No offense, but I'd rather macking on my bro be the cause of my suffocation than being crushed under your weight, Lalonde,” Dirk says but she only laughs.

“Rose, get in on this!”

“I couldn't possibly have the deaths of two so young on my conscience.”

Roxy somehow convinces Calliope to join in when she walks through the room and it's only when they're distracted with things Jake feels like he should be averting his eyes for that Dirk manages to heave both of them off him in a swift roll. Rose gives Jake a hand up to the sounds of Roxy wrestling Dirk to the ground for accidentally rolling Calliope into the coffee table. Jane is shouted in less than two minutes later to survey the prisoner, caught between Roxy's knees as she sits firmly, and triumphantly, on his chest. The resident detective solemnly notes that the only punishment fit for the crime of accidentally tossing a cherub into a piece of furniture is twenty years hard time, which apparently means enduring ten minutes of furious tickling. Jake thinks it's all slightly ridiculous.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

[candywraptor]

blondes Ch. 10 WIP

That weird feeling twisted in his stomach, that odd melancholic pang and he realized with a flutter of alarm what it was. Loss.  Alastor had known grief in his life, the absence of something that was supposed to be there - the disappearance of the familiar and wanted. But he had never wanted for Lucifer Morningstar. The opposite - his desire was that he left the Radio Demon alone, served his purpose and got out of the way. So why did it matter if he was gone?  What an odd, stupid thing to feel.

Link to fic.

I'm gonna start posting WIPs every once in awhile - for everything not just blondes.

If you don't want them - or are worried about spoilers (there should never be any but for the very cautious) - you can block the tag "wip-ped cream"!

This is a huge chapter - it's going to end around or over 20k. Editing is going to kill me - but it's a fun chapter!

Well. "Fun" is an odd word but you'll see!

[onlyzhuyilong]

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