#love for all of the writers out there
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"Who do we know that did drugs? I got it!" Batman said, calmly.
Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne stood in the Batcave, looking over some data on the Batcomputer.
Dick: None of us have done drugs or made drugs, but we need someone who's versed in it. Who?
Bruce (excited, sudden realization): I got it! Call Jason!
Dick: He blocked you again?
Bruce looked a bit sheepish, but quickly recovered.
Bruce (defensive): You’re not calling him?!
Sighing, Dick reluctantly pulled out his phone and dialed Jason’s number. Jason answered, but before Dick can say a word, Bruce suddenly knocked him to the ground and snatched the phone from his hand.
Bruce: Are you still friends with Roy? We need to learn how crack is made. We’re tracking someone!
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Then, Jason started laughing—slowly at first, then breaking into fits of uncontrollable laughter. In the background, a weary sigh can be heard that isn’t Jason’s.
Jason (laughing, catching his breath): I’ll ask him. Hey Roy—
Roy (in the background, exasperated): Fuck you!
Jason (chuckling, responds to Bruce): I think he can help us.
Bruce: Oh, thank God.
Dick, now back on his feet, glaring at Bruce with a mix of annoyance and disbelief.
Dick: You could’ve just asked for the phone!
Batman: Get over it.
Roy: You know I was on heroin not crack!
Batman: I will send you $6,000 if you are honest with me and tell me you at least know how it's made.
Roy (huffing as Jason laughs harder because he knows what's about to happen): Okay, you're going to need a pen.
#batfamily#batfamily fanfiction#batman#jason todd#dick grayson#roy harper#yes roy harper was addicted to drugs#don't worry jason only laughs to show he loves roy#i know roy is annoyed but it's all out of love#batfamily shenanigans#batfam shenanigans#batfamily headcanons#batfamily funny#batfamily comedy#headcanon batfamily#roy harper and jason todd#roy haper and jason todd#roy harper arsenal#microfiction#flash fiction#script fic#batfamily fluff#dc fanfiction#batfamily flash fiction#writers on tumblr#batfamily wholesome#batfamily adventures flash fiction#batfamily adventures script fics#batfamily adventures the series#batfamily adventures microseries
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"I live a lonely life without you. And I may be troubled, but I'm gracious in defeat."(in dreams - ben howard)
fanart inspired by the fic "buried my love in a shallow grave" by iamcringebutiamfree on AO3 / @grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks !!Set right after Jon made it out of the buried. I love it so much🍊💙
#jonmartin#the magnus archives#tma#magpod#art#jmart#jonathan sims#martin blackwood#i love alll their works ive read so far some of the best jmart out there#banger after banger#its all so cozy and sad and also hopeful at the same time#have to thank all the talented jmart writers out there actually im so well fed#teaholding#tma spoilers#tma season 4#post buried coffin#more martin in his lonely era
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woke up to the sweetest post ever why are you so cuttteee 🥹💗🥹💗🥹💗🥹💗🥹💗
Shout-out to all of the wonderful writers of this fandom, you are amazing and we're all immensely grateful for what you do, the time and effort you put into the fics, and the care you show for your work!!! :D
To name a few: @aeyumicore @chaos-in-deepspace @starmocha @anxiousgoddest @lalunanymph @cute-little-crow @rose-tinted-kalopsia @beneathashadytree @misaamoure @comatosebunny09
Of course this also goes to anyone who I didn't mention, feel free to reblog this and link a fic of yours that you want to promote, peace and love on Tumblr LaDS!!! <3
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kidnappers of outer space, beware
#star trek#star trek tos#leonard mccoy#jim kirk#spock#mcspirk#bones mccoy#captain kirk#khan noonien singh#space seed#a piece of the action#bread and circuses#honestly love how many trek writers are just like let's kidnap mccoy#fun for the whole family#sometimes he talks his way out of it sometimes he gets rescued#they all get kidnapped once in a while it's fine#cyberphuck#tumblr things#things i found on tumblr#textpost meme#yes i am saying the line at the bottom like buffybot says#vampires of the world be-ware
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Three CaitVi fics I've read over the holigays
be but sworn my love (E) by antant616
This fic is literally the trope of: slow burn but they're fucking the entire time. Also, CaitVi here are exes who are forced to play Romeo and Juliet in a play and ooooo the drama! I'm HOOKED.
Dear Stranger, (T) by becasbelt | tumblr
If you want to cry, read this. Absolutely beautiful canon-compliant fic. And for real, just read all of Anne's works. They're amazing ❤️
lucid dreams ‘bout you (M) by rosetattoos
Oh GOD I've never been so happy to see an update for a fic before. The last time this librarian!cait fic updated was like two years ago, and I gave up waiting for it. But lo and behold, what a GIFT for the holidays!!
#personal tag#caitvi#read them yall READ THEM NOW#my backlog is so long its never ending and thats such a good problem lol#IVE ONLY READ SO LITTLE FICS DURING THE HOLIDAYS IM SO SAD#but these three are special to me i love them so much!!!!!!!!#also yeah im an AU enjoyer sue me lol#please give all our lovely writers some love!!!!!!#CAN YOU GUYS BELIEVE WE HAVE OVER 11k CAITVI FICS???? I CANT#we are so lucky#also no gifsets for a bit! im kinda burnt out making things so much and wanna enjoy doing other stuff for the meantime#like trying to finish all my backlogs of caitvi fics lmao#maybe a few days? idk we'll see
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Concerned love interest?!?? Yes please with extra angst in top!
"It's 2 am! where are you?"
"I'm your best friend, of course I care!"
"Where. Is. My. Wife/Husband?!" (In marriage of convenience trope)
"You need to stop, I'm serious. I don't want to lose you"
"I'm right here. You're safe. I'm not leaving. Stay with me"
"You said you were okay! You promised!"
"You idiot!" (With extra concern)
"You stupid stupid idiot! I'm so glad you're okay"
"you're safe now"
"you told me not to worry. You told me you were fine"
"It'll be over before you know it. Just push through"
"Please don't cry"
"Let it out. Cry all you want. I'm right here"
"stay" "always"
"Holding everything doesn't help, you know?"
"Why do you keep lying to me?"
"Why are you awake right now?"
"You said no secrets! You promised! I was terrified"
"Please look at me"
"[out of breath] I know I shouldn't be here, and I might have gotten the wrong idea from the call but-" [gets cut of by sudden hug] "[relaxes and hugs back] I'm right here, I always will be"
#okie dokie#here it is#I can't believe i just let this all out in like 5 minutes#i really love these#need more#concern prompts#tumblr writers#tumblr writing community#writing inspiration#writers#writing#writing prompts#writers on tumblr#writing prompt#writeblr#character dialogue#writing dialogue#love interest dialogues#ao3 writer
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Felt a bit nostalgic watching RT shut down…Here are the og faves again for old times sake 💙
#rvb#agent washington#agent Carolina#lavernius tucker#michael j caboose#epsilon#my art rvb#ahhh a lot of feelings…of course I stepped away from rt as a company a long time ago#but RvB is special to me!! it was my first fandom experience ever#and the community here on tumblr specifically was so instrumental to me growing up#I really could not have asked for a better community of artists and writers to grow up in. I know it sounds like platitudes when I say#that everyone was super nice and talented but REALLY. People were so kind to me and somehow I became well known despite#my art and writing and me in general still being immature and hashtag cringe#I found my creative legs and#people would respond to my stuff with walls and walls of support in the tags and we would do exchanges and events every year#I made my first lyric comic and it’s still doing extremely well on YouTube even today!! my dad who passed away recently always loved it#and my favorite RvB writer came out of hibernation to write me a bunch of text wall asks about it#I’ve never had another fandom experience quite like RvB#I still keep in touch with many of my friends from that time period even though we’ve all moved on the other things#these guys will always always have a place in my heart#so long reds and blues….
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let me see you stripped down to the bone…
- stripped by depeche mode
congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?
pairing : homelander/afab reader
word count : 5.6k
warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni
special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!
writing tag
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Homelander is an asshole.
That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.
As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.
Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.
In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.
Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.
None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.
You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.
Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.
The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.
Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.
Why should you respect them?
Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.
You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.
Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.
You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.
His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.
Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.
Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.
You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.
While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”
You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”
He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”
You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”
“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”
Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.
“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”
He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.
“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”
At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.
You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.
“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”
Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.
“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”
Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.
Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.
He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.
“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.
You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”
Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.
“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.
As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.
The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.
When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.
“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.
From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.
Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.
Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...
Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!
At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.
This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.
You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.
Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.
You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.
You can’t stop thinking about him.
It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.
He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.
Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.
It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.
It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.
Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.
You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.
Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.
Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.
Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):
Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?
You are unacceptably late.
Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.
Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.
You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.
The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.
You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.
Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.
It will have to do.
When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.
Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”
“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”
You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.
“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.
A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.
“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”
Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”
Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.
You also hear it lock.
What the hell does she think is going to happen?
You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.
Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.
He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.
“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.
“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.
“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”
You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.
Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.
You’re such a fool.
He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.
You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.
“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”
You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.
“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”
Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.
You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.
“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.
An impressively dangerous thing to have.
“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”
You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.
“What do you want from me?”
Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.
His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.
That’s when the glass behind you shatters.
You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.
Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.
When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.
Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.
You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.
Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.
Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.
Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.
That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?
He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.
Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.
It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.
Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.
In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.
You’re not wearing a stitch.
A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”
Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.
What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.
This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.
His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.
“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.
That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.
He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.
Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.
Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.
You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.
Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.
You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.
He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.
Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.
How could you have ever denied yourself?
You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.
It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.
After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.
You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.
“Take off your gloves.”
Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.
At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.
“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.
Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.
Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.
The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.
You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.
Your wants.
It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.
“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.
Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.
Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.
His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.
Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.
It’s still not enough.
Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.
You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.
You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.
You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.
Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.
You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.
What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.
Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.
Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.
He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.
A visible sheen coats his lips.
“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”
His breathing is labored. So is yours.
He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.
“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”
You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.
“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”
You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.
You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.
Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.
#homelander#homelander x reader#the boys#antony starr#my writing#let me see you stripped down to the bone#oneshot#god it feels so good getting this out#i’ve been going through a painful writer’s block so 🥹#thank you everyone who helped and anyone who reads#this is my first full-fledged homelander fic so i’m a bit nervous but! very excited 🖤#love you all 🥰
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Me throughout 2020-2021-2022-2023:
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Me the moment AO3 has been down for more than ten hours:
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#someone put me out of my misery#i don't want to live on this planet anymore#mimi talks#GOOD THING THAT SOME AO3 WRITERS ALSO POST THEIR FICS HERE#HI. I LOVE YOU ALL#AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA#ao3#archives of our own#pain and suffering
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As Good as Good Gets (DP X DC Snippet)
Richard "Dick" Grayson is the golden child. In the eyes of the public, and in the eyes of the league. Dick is a sweet, caring son, a man who went from being a sidekick to being a hero. The pipeline from Robin to Nightwing had many people applauding his dedication to keeping Gotham safe.
No one knew the full story, not truly. No one but Bruce Wayne himself. And maybe a certain butler. Many don't know that Dick only became Robin to stop him from hunting down and killing the man who killed his parents.
No one really knows about the harsh fights and arguments he has had with Bruce. The times when Dick would find himself cut off from the Wayne name for a week or so. No one knows that the first person Dick warmed up to was Alfred. Having been bribed with cookies.
Things weren't always this good, trusting, happy relationship between Bruce and Dick. It had been a rough ride, a complicated one. But that was okay, because it got better.
Dick stopped being so moody and angsty. He grew up, he learned, and he changed. He became an older brother, found people that needed him. Needed him in a way that the citizens of Gotham didn't need him.
His brothers like to call him annoying. A goody two shoes who Bruce trusted more than everyone else. They couldn't fathom how someone like Dick could be so stupid and bubbly at all times.
All times, except when shit hits the fans. Despite the name calling, despite coining Dick as the stupid Wayne. They all knew better. They knew that when it mattered, Dick Grayson always pulled through. He was a force to be reckoned with when needed.
The whole Wayne family was a force to be reckoned with when called for. It didn't have to be under the guise of costumes and vigilante acts. Whether he was Officer Grayson or Nightwing, Dick was a man with his morals and values.
One night on patrol as Officer Grayson, Dick found someone who needed that force. A force willing to protect and care for the innocent. The hurt. The damaged, yet still good.
It started like any other night. A call of shots fired by an empty warehouse. There was no sighting or knowledge of any rouges being there, so Dick took the call. Told the team he'll contact them if it seems more than just a civilian incident.
The warehouse was dark, reeked of copper and oil. It didn't take long for Dick to find the trail. The liquid he found looked like the person had been dragged before walking. There was a clear struggle, even with the mess and emptiness that was the warehouse.
That wasn't Dick's biggest concern. The concern lay in just how much blood there was. Too much for any normal person to lose and still manage to stumble through the warehouse.
It wasn't just blood. It wasn't that much, but Dick could spot the strangeness in the liquid. The mixed in green that had an eerily similar color and glow as a certain pit.
Without thinking, Dick followed the trail. Barely remembering to make contact with his family. Give them an update on what he found. Words telling him to stay put for backup went in one ear and out the other.
Something in Dick's gut was telling him he couldn't wait. He needed to find the source. Whoever was currently bleeding out in this warehouse. He silenced the comm, moving further through the dimly lit building.
Then Dick found it. Or more so, he found him. It was just a boy. A boy that reminded Dick too much of the youngest Wayne. A boy sat against a wall, looking pale and weak.
Red and green coated the front of the boy's shirt, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. An attempt to stem the bleeding. A puddle had already started to form beneath the boy, and Dick moved without thinking once again.
He quickly found himself kneeling beside the boy, hands carefully reaching out. Before Dick even touched him, the boy flinched. Eyelids suddenly opened, wide and terrified blue eyes landed on Dick's.
In just that one look, Dick knew what he had to do. The haunting, terrified, and pained look in the boy's eyes told Dick everything he needed to know. The boy was in danger. Someone had hurt this kid, and it was clear it wasn't the first time.
The boy struggled weakly against Dick's touch, terrified whimpers, and barely coherent pleas spilled from the kid's lips. It had Dick's heart aching, clear as day the poor kid has been through hell and back.
It took a lot of reassurance, gentle touches, and promises of help before the kid let Dick take a look at the bleeding wound. A promise on Dick's soul had been the final thing that earned him any semblance of trust. A strange promise, but Dick was willing to make it.
That concern turned to pure anger the moment Dick managed to pull the sticky shirt away from the wound. The sight of a Y-incision cut perfectly into the skin, stitches tight on the skin, but blood still leaking heavily from the wound.
It didn't take long for Dick to realize why. Despite the perfect surgical care of the wound, a good couple of stitches had broken. Leaving gaping spots for that red and green liquid to pour out of.
The boy was deathly silent, tears streaking down his cheek as wide blue eyes stayed trained on Dick. In that moment, Dick knew he had to help. Had to get the kid to safety, patch him up, and find out what kind of monster would do this.
It didn't matter if the kid was human or not. It didn't matter if the kid had special abilities or not. No one, absolutely no one, deserved to be vivisected.
The kid was shrouded in mystery, but that mystery only seemed to grow and become clearer when Bruce had entered the scene. The boy had tensed, eyes flashing a bright glowing green.
Lazarus pit green.
It set a pit of dread in Dick's gut. His mind brings forward memories of Jason. Jason, after his revival, after his dip in that cursed pit. The same flash that his brother would get if he got too angry. Too emotional.
As much as Dick wanted to focus on finding who did this, if it had any connection to Ra's al Ghul. He couldn't. Not when the kid tried to get up, to pull away as Bruce and the others made their way closer.
Right now, Dick only cared about making sure the boy was okay. Fixing those stitches, getting him a meal, and a warm bed.
He needed to get this kid someplace where he felt safe and secure. Comfortable and protected. Dick wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the promise he had made, but he wasn't letting anyone get to the kid.
That included his family. As strange as it seemed, Dick put himself between the others and the kid. Shooting them all a glare that they had only ever seen a handful of times.
Dick lifted the poor boy up in his arms, cradling the crying child close as he led the way out of the warehouse. Ignoring the questions or confusion coming from Bruce and the others. As Dick walked, feeling the trembling boy clinging to him, he made a rather obvious realization.
Maybe the eldest son really was more like Bruce than he expected. Just a few short moments the the boy, a boy that Dick didn't know his name, and he was ready to pull out adoption papers. To give the boy a safety he so desperately needs.
Give him the chance that Bruce had given him all those years ago.
#danny phantom#danny fenton#phandom#dc x dp#batman#dick grayson#nightwing#dp x dc crossover#dp x dc#dp x dc prompt#Dick really saw Danny and pulled a B99#“I've only known this boy for 10 minutes and if anything happens to him I'm killing everyone in this room and then myself”#bruce wayne#could easily mix in Ellie and Dan#after all Dick Grayson's gaggle of adopted kids is bound to grow#the others think they're free from the adoption impulse since Dick is picking up the mantel#not exactly for this idea; but I have these little idea of what the batfam adopts from the DP universe#like Damian latches onto the more animalistic characters; immediately falls in love with Cujo#wants to get to know everything about Wulf and Frostbite#meanwhile Jason latches onto Skulker because holy shit look at that arsenal; the two just sharing their best tips and weaponry choices#No explainations for the next onces cause I don't feel like typing em all out but...#Barbs with Technus and Ghost Writer#Tim with Johnny 13 and Nocturne#Alfred with Lunch Lady and Overgrowth#I could seriously go on and on and no I will not explain myself#(maybe)#queued post#every time I post one of these I'm always wondering where and how tf I picked the name#like I've got a draft right now called “Bullets & Babies” smh#picking out names are so hard but I got tired of just putting “DpxDc random snippet/prompt” as the titles lmao
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uh oh
#art#obey me#obey me raphael#jtta ik#forcing myself to have a go at shading things. if i never try i will never get better!!!!!!!#mind if i brain dump real quick bc i've been thinking lately about how i refer to myself as a writer but never an artist#whenever i mention it i always say 'i draw stuff' or 'illustrate' instead#it's not like i feel particularly inferior about how i draw bc of course! i haven't gotten around to even touching an art course!!#but to me 'artist' encapsulates a sort of abstract skill and i always feel like i draw much more objectively#it is just The Thing That I Am Depicting and that's prob why i have such trouble with shading and any non-literal colouring#the best thing i've made so far is that one satan thing and i have yet to remember how i managed that#anyway i've been trying some new stuff out!! slowly but surely#that's all mostly stuff i'll keep to myself though#anyway if you actually read through all that Thank you i love you
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I love being a writer, I really do, but when the plot I’m writing gets complex, my brain hurts and I want to crash tf out
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#I’m ready to crash tf out rn#I love writing complex plots#but when something doesn’t make sense#then I have to hyperfixate on it till I fix it#just writer things#writing problems#writing memes#and when you have multiple complex characters who are all involved in said plot#then it gets even crazier#my brain is soup#endless soup
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WHAT IS UP WITH THE HOGWARTS LEGACY FANDOM?????????????
I am so fucking fed up with this fandom & honestly it makes me lose any desire to post anything here anymore.
So many people here look at EVERYTHING as a damn competition and it’s NOT. It should be a place for people to brainrot together, talk about theories, and enjoy seeing what other people draw and write etc. Have I sometimes felt insecure bc I don’t get as many notes as other people?! Yes of course…but I always focus on the connections and the lovely people I’ve met and like talking to bc that’s why I post in the first place. I didn’t spend 4 months posting my fic to 10 kudos and 1 comment with basically no feedback bc I care about popularity😆😆
I’ve never been part of a fandom before this one but honestly everything feels so immature here, especially lately. Is it NORMAL to send hate to people who interpret the characters differently than you?! Or send hate to people who ship something you don’t like???? Is it NORMAL to start a confessions blog that’s for people to vague post about others & give everyone reading it anxiety??? (And NO, it’s not “leveling the playing field” wtf). Is it NORMAL to be so close minded, that you’re always trying to start shit with other people?!!??
It is SO FUCKING EXHAUSTING & honestly I try my hardest to NOT feed into any negativity and I’ve never posted the hate I’ve gotten because quite frankly, it’s ridiculous.
I genuinely love seeing what all of you post and always try to comment when I have the mental energy, because I love having a sense of community and you’re all very talented.
#also if anyone is in contact with asallowgrave please tell him#I have a gigantic monster comment I was about to post when I found out he deleted everything😭😭😭😭😭😭#genuinely the best writer I came across in FOREVER & it makes me so sad#anyways most of you are absolutely lovely & I love that I’ve met you and that we talk#but some of you need a huge check on your attitude#like wtf is up with all of this#hogwarts legacy#hogwarts legacy fandom#sorry this is incoherent probably but like#I woke up and I saw so much shit in my 10 min scrolling this morning#and this isn’t about anyone in particular bc I don’t know who’s sending and spreading all of this hate#this is supposed to be a fun space for a hobby damn
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Inspired by that one person who continued a fic after their best friend died...
Jason Todd had an ao3 account. Jason Todd had balls of steel and logged into the batcomputer. (Trying to figure out his username but I keep thinking BlueBird or CrimeAlleyBoy)
Bruce was well aware of this. He didn't think to log it out of the batcomputer, keeping the tab open just for Jason. He's read some of that stuff that Jason has written (mind you, the kid was an avid defender and writer of WonderBat). He found it rather cute and it wasn't like Bruce has never read fanfiction about himself (both Bruce and Batman).
And Jason? He wasn't really sure if Bruce knew but he didn't really care that much. And besides, being Robin made sure he was prepared for anything the Ao3 curse was going to throw at him. If that damn curse sent Riddler then his fist would be the solution.
There were around 20 fics in that damn account, ranging from his OTP that was WonderBat, some SuperBat, and the crack fics of Bruceman. (Jason would never allow himself to tell Dick his username but he sure as hell has his older brother beta read all the Bruceman fics. That man was one of the OGs and he wouldn't disgrace his brother.)
He avoids the Ao3 curse until it appears in the form of the Joker.
When Jason dies, Bruce keeps the tab open, making sure that the account doesn't log off. Because that was a part of his son. (When he missed Jason a tad too much at times, he'd read one of those ridiculous fics that would make his two eldest sons laugh.)
When it's around two months after Jason's death, Bruce gains the courage to post an announcement on his son's account, making sure his fans were well informed and not anticipating for the next chapter.
I'm sorry to announce that this account will no longer be posting any updates. This is the author's father and I must unfortunately inform you that my son has passed away. Thank you for being there for him and reading his stories...
The post is along those lines.
(Tim was an avid reader of that account and was utterly devastated when Robin's death was further confirmed through this post. Yes he knew this was Jason's account. Of course he did!)
But Jason comes back from the dead.
Sees his account again after getting out of the league. Sees Bruce's announcement and maybe it makes him feel a little better.
But Jason's a menace and the day he started posting fics was the day he vowed that he wouldn't let the Ao3 curse take him. He even announced that to his readers in his first story (WonderBat obviously)
He posts an entire fic of oneshots consisting of Batman with numerous members of the Justice League. In his end notes, it says:
Not even death can stop me. I write WonderBat in the face of Death and told him to fuck off.
The next few posts consist of Batman/Justice League, even a few Bruce/Justice League (yes, that includes Batman). And Bruce, with Jason's account still logged into the batcomputer, is mortified when he sees Tim shamelessly read a 5+1 fic of BatLantern on that huge ass screen.
#dcu#jason todd#red hood#batman#bruce wayne#tim drake#red robin#ao3#Jason was an Ao3 writer and was known as one of the best WonderBat and Bruceman writers of all time#Dick was his Bruceman beta reader#I swear to god he wrote a regency au of the Justice League with a love triangle between the trinity and ending as poly#Bruce sees all the 20+ BatLantern fics he's posted out of pure spite#Jason doesnt give af if anyone from the hero community has read those fics#yes a lot of them have read it aka Tim Dick Cassie Steph and a lot more#Dick was the OG Bruceman shipper#Tim shipped BatLantern out of spite
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okie here are the farmer doodles i started like last month and didnt bother finishing until now
#tlt#tlt shitposting#harrowhark nonagesimus#gideon nav#griddlehark#FARMING BAYBE#inspired by all the farming fanfics out there love you writers kiss kiss#funni chicken
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"MelJayVik can never work."
Just say you're weak and you hate challenges. 🙄
Also, what challenge? The SECOND Mel understood just how much Jayce cared about Viktor, she was LOCKED IN. My girl had no hesitation.
"We will find Viktor." "Don't worry Jayce, he will come back to us."
Don't play with my girl Mel, her mother is Ambessa, the flexibility was built into her genes. 💀🔥
#You see something controversial and you give up#I see something crazy and say CHALLENGE ACCEPTED 😎#they are not even the whackiest trio#Mel is an absolute sweetheart#and Viktor does not hate her as so many people like to say#they just get annoyed by how easy it is for both of them to manipulate Jayce 😂#meljayvik#meljay#jayvik#arcane netflix#arcane jayce#arcane mel#arcane viktor#y'all are just cowards#just like the association too scared to love Jayce when he was getting all the heat#Mel and Viktor would be too epic if they were placed side by side#the writers were cowards too (at least they had the excuse of a small budget and limited time)#and some of you guys needed timebomb spelt out for you#like honestly#you won't accept anything unless it kisses on screen 💀#that kind of behaviour would not weather the storm of old fandom culture
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