#prompt: 'you wouldn't'

[starry-bi-sky]

mmm throwaway conversation between Dan and Danny that popped into my head that I had to write out:

"You spent ten years being a one-man mass extinction event, then went back in time and fought me, and lost." Danny snarls, arms crossed and throat tight. His mouth pulls back to bare dagger-sharp teeth, and his eyes burn with the familiar thrum of ectoplasm heating up behind his eyes. "If I didn't believe you were half of Vlad before, I do now."

His other self -- and really, can he even call him that? He's half of Vlad too. Two halves severed from each other and welded together to make a new whole, -- snaps his head over to him. Wild-eyed and furious, he looks unlike the man Danny fought before, the one unruffled and untouched, unbothered by the world around him. It's familiar, but not like the way a reflection is.

"What's that supposed to mean." The Other hisses, matching Danny's scowl one-for-one with fangs much bigger and sharper than his.

But there's a reason lions fear hyenas. Danny matches the rumble in The Other's chest with one of his own, and shoves his face close to his. "I don't lose."

[darkeneddawning]

Escaped clone au

You know all those fics where Danny and Damian are twins but everyone first assumes Danny must be a clone? How about an au where Danny is Damian's clone who escaped the League after he was assumed dead. Damian could even have been the one to have "killed" him, back when Danny was a newly created, fully brainwashed clone minion and trying to kill Damian himself.

Danny gets adopted by the Fentons and canon goes on as normal, until Dan. Witnessing what would happen to the world should he turn evil really drove home to Danny how dangerous he is.

Even if he was confident he could be trusted with his absurd amount of power (which he isn't), what if the League of Assassins found out about him? Does he still have programming triggers from his evil assassin clone conditioning?

So, Danny does the responsible thing: he goes to Batman to turn himself in.

Cue Danny showing up on Bruce's doorstep with ghost hunting equipment, intel on the afterlife, and an almost unbelievable backstory. Somehow he still managed to be more well-adjusted than Damian.

More thoughts under the read more

Here's how I'm thinking Danny leaving the League went down:

After surviving his wounds but failing his mission, Danny (then an unnamed potential Damian replacement) knew there was no point in returning to the League. As a failure, he was meant to be disposed of. He even thought of simply allowing himself to perish, since that was what the League would do.

But he couldn't help but feel as though that would be a waste of a resource. Surely he could be of more use to the League alive than dead?

That tiny bit of rebellious logic is what caused Danny to go into hiding, only living on based on the off chance he would find opportunities to further the League's goals. Obviously, that mentality didn't last long after being exposed to the real world and meeting one Jazz Fenton.

Being adopted by the Fentons was the best cover Danny could have asked for, since any odd behavior he couldn't hide while he was learning how to be "normal" was totally overshadowed by the sheer bizarre eccentricity of his new parents. He was still the neighborhood weird kid, but even that was a major upgrade from disposable tool, so Danny considered it a win.

Anyway, if anyone likes this idea, please feel free to have at it! Interpret it as you please :)

[skylersprompts]

DC x DP Prompt *23*

He really should sleep more. But for that he would have to cut some of his responsibilities off and that was just not possible at this time. He was in the middle of training as the Ancient of Balance, the GIW was too active and he needed to update the new servers over the weekend for the company.

So really, it wasn't on him for not getting enough sleep. He needed the money, he had to help his friends and without his lessons he wouldn't be able to control his powers.

On the other hand, he may have just said something stupid.

The Justice League may have summoned the Ancient of Balance, because of some threat. And maybe his co-workers had called the IT Department one to many times in the last few days. But it really wasn't an excuse for his greeting:

"Have you tried turning it off and on again?"

Yeah, maybe he needs a little bit more sleep...

[radiance1]

Alfred Pennyworth has in fact, perhaps, in the slightest of chances.

Picked up his Master's habit of collecting children as if they were on sale.

He was spending his time on one of those rare vacations he decided to take, it was nice, to relax with only the vague overhanging worry of something going wrong back at the manor that he's gotten very good at ignoring.

Only to come across a child bleeding out in an alley, heavily injured.

He would not be able to live with himself if he didn't at least try to help them however he could.

Such is how he acquired a child he later found to be a meta who whished to learn the ways of a butler.

---

Danny had escaped from a GIW compound, after having been handed over by his family a while after his reveal. He felt, completely and utterly betrayed, when it happened. His parents, while hurt, he was at least capable of actually seeing them do it, but never would he have thought Jazz would do so as well.

They did it so happily, that he wondered if letting him go really was the greatest thing to happen to this family.

He chained, muzzled, all the ways to bind him they pulled all the stops too, knowing how dangerous he was. He wouldn't have even done anything then, too stunned by his families apart willingness at handing him over to the government.

He hated them.

He hated them so much.

The GIW facility was a terrible, cold, unfeeling place. One where they drilled thoughts into his head again and again until he found himself unconsciously repeating them when his head felt empty, one where his body gained a new mark day by day and pushed through tests, he had no clue of even hoping to comprehend what they would gain out of it.

It was a cold, unfeeling place. Placed in a cell of white and nothing else, with low walls and chains binding his body in place until the time came for another experiment.

It was a room he grew used to. One he even held some kind of strange, twisted affection for.

It was a room that held a tiny piece of safety, of rest. It was a room that taught him to hate.

A deep, powerful, disgusting, twisting hatred that crawled from the depths of his cells, corrupting his blood and carving itself deep into his bones. Forcing it's out of his pores until it practically oozed from his flesh.

It drowned his mind, tainting each and every thought, every memory, every dream, every waking moment until he could feel nothing but hatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehate.

When he was taken out of that he could feel nothing, with the drugs swimming their way through his blood that snapped the thin string keeping him between a person and an emotionless puppet.

He thinks that's what the GIW thinks he is.

And when he was placed back in that room, he could only hate.

It was a cycle. Stuck between feeling either nothing or hatred.

He hated feeling nothing, it made him feel like he wasn't real. Like it snapped the thread that held him between what a real person was and a dream.

So, he allowed himself to drown deep into his hatred. Until the white walls of his far to small room seemed to fade, until whatever sound he could have heard became nothing but dull noise.

Until the passage of time seemed to become just a blink.

He didn't know what day it was, when he saw it. Saw them. He didn't know the time, the date, the day, the hours. He knew nothing.

But he could recognize his family. Recognize one of the objects of his intense hatred that he forced his thoughts too. The people who willingly gave him up just like that and one of the causes for his current life.

He didn't know why they showed him them, he felt it some sick, utterly cruel joke. A joke he didn't know the punchline for, a joke the universe sent his way to make his life all the more miserable.

There were multiple of them. Multiple clones of his family. Som within test tubes, some being pulled out from the tubes, some walking around in lab coats. A waste of talent, they called it in his dad's case, a waste of intelligence in his mother's, and a waste of intellect in his sister's case.

His original family was already dead, he was told. Replaced by clones, clones that took over the legal decision to change his guardianship. Clones walking around twisting and desecrating his family.

'At least it was painless.' One of the clones said, talking with his mother's face. 'Far more than they deserved for having keeping a thing like him' spoken by his father's imposter.

The drugs pumping through his system to keep him calm, to keep him feeling nothing was suddenly pierced through by an intense feeling of horror, hate and self-loathing.

He should've known it wasn't his family. He should've done more! More to protect them! To keep them safe! The could've still been alive if he just knew.

In that moment, watching imposters speaking, walking, talking, breathing, with his families faces. He exploded. Exploded with a power fueled by nothing but his intense hatred for every. Single. Living being in this goddamn facility.

He killed whoever stood in his way. Managing to get his hands on relatively newly designed weapon, an ectoplasmic scythe (that also apparently could revert into an everyday item). Which he used to rip and tear throughout the entirety of the facility. He got injured, of course, he couldn't dodge everything, but he didn't care.

A body stuck between life and death, incapable of fully going one way or the other no matter what happened. Gifted supernatural powers fueled by wrath and twisting hatred and a weapon made by man yet in the range of the supernatural.

They didn't stand a change. He killed them all. No matter who it was, man, woman, clone. He didn't, couldn't care. He could only kill, only maim, only hurt.

And that's what he did.

It was then, when the facility was blanketed with silence tainted by despair, death and hysteria. When previously white walls were covered by blood, and the halls turned into rivers of blood and corpses. That he broke down, the overwhelming hatred he felt replaced by relief then sadness then self-loathing.

His family didn't give him up! But they were killed. Kill because of him. He couldn't stand being in this place, anymore. His body felt as if it were moving on unseen strings as it walked through the halls, the scythe shrinking back what it was when out of combat, his mind too occupied by thoughts and feelings.

It walked through a portal, one to the ghost zone, and then promptly into another portal and spat him out into an alleyway. Which he then promptly collapsed and curled into a ball, curing the shrunken scythe in his palm and he was out like a light.

A few days after he woke up, he found himself growing attached to the human that found him in that alleyway. An old man, maybe, but a nice one. He didn't want to meet anyone, besides that man, so he turned invisible when anyone else come into contact with him.

Alfred Pennyworth.

It was a name he clung onto mentally and a man he clung onto physically as well. He wanted to be like that man, someone so nice and caring, someone who didn't mind that he turned invisible at the sing of another person, who let him cling onto him both invisible and not whenever he wanted to.

He did panic when he heard Alred saying his vacation was over, and such that he had to leave. He didn't want to be left alone again, he didn't know what he would do if he was left alone again.

Until Afred said we were going home.

We. As in, him plus another. Alfred plus Danny.

Home.

Heat blossomed in his chest, seeming to replace the constant, low hum of hate sitting beneath him skin.

Home.

[lurking-loaf]

FazEnt Marketing Team: "Kids like memes right?"

Day 5 of DCA Promptober - artistic license redraw of the "You wouldn't download a car" meme

Since I had to shrink and trim the original art really small to make the gif fit tumblr's maximum upload size, here are the images in non-crunchy form.

The way the two images are laid out above is actually the way they were going to be posted before my 11th hour "Hey! Let's try animating it!" moment. Also, I had zero experience doing any sort of digital animation before this simple one. I'm not sure what the protocol is for using meme templates so I approximated the original text for use in this piece just to be on the safe side. I also redrew the daycare logo itself and changed aspects of it for some reason. Also also, I used the noise brush for the first time to made tv static instead of just finding and using a royalty free image of some sort because it is essential I make things more difficult than they need to be.

[twistedshipper]

Very dark, but satisfying. I enjoy the way you write and expand upon Morgana's s5 character. I've been loving your microfics for the fest as they always end on an impactful note.

prompt: "you wouldn't" • Morgana & Gwen • dark • 5×7 au • mcd

Morgana looked up and saw Gwen enter the room. Dressed in black, the Queen is mourning. But neither of the two is grieving. They cannot do it anymore.

"It all worked out, Milady. The ceremony went smoothly. On the third day I will be the Queen of Camelot." Gwen smiled subserviently.

"Merlin?"

"Lost himself in grief."

"Good. At last. I am getting tired of being cooped up in here." Morgana hesitated, looking at Gwen. She waited for her next orders. Well, there's one. "Thank you, Gwen. You've been a great help to me. Come here."

Gwen immediately hurried to sit on the floor next to Morgana's chair, and raised her bewitched face to her. Morgana took an exquisite dagger from her girdle. An old gift from the late Arthur.

"You are queen now, Guinevere, surely you wouldn't take this dagger and stab yourself in the heart for me? You wouldn't, of course."

Something in Gwen's expression shifted, darkened, but she snatched the dagger with fervour and bared it. "Milady! How could you think such a thing of me...! I would do anything for you!" Her chin trembled. The silver arrow of the blade pointed at her raising and falling chest laced tightly in a black velvet.

"You wouldn't..." Surprised, Morgana drawled, waiting. The corners of her lips curved in a smirk.

A stab, and Gwen fell at her feet. Morgana took a deep breath and kicked her lightly with her boot's toe. Dead. "I'm so sorry, Gwen. But your time is up. There can only be one Queen of Camelot. You couldn't think I'd let you..." She didn't continue the thought, took the dagger and stepped over.

@merlinmicrofic

[spacedace]

Damian doesn't know who Santa Claus is and Danny tries to gaslight him into believing in Santa

Okay but, like, wouldn't even be gaslighting! Santa canonically does exist in the DC universe, I think I remember reading something about him fighting through an army in hell to give Darkseid a single piece of coal once?

So like, Danny doesn't have to gaslight Damian into believing Santa's real, he just has to pull out the proof (Danny has a binder of everything he knows about the Spirit of Christmas for the purpose of when he eventually goes to war with him, Danny hates Christmas so fucking much haha) and show him evidence that Santa is real.

Probably ranting the entire time about how much he hates the guy & Christmas and it's obvious that this is Danny's arch nemesis. His one true villain above all others. Pariah Dark? A nuisance. Dark Dan? Just a tuesday. Santa? That motherfucker is the bane of Danny's existence and he will pay for what he's done (spread Christmas cheer).

And Danny's the newest member to the family. Damian's been encouraged to get to know his new brother and try and bond with him a bit, make him feel like part of the family. So, obviously, the best way to do that is to help Danny in his quest for vengeance.

And of course Tim & Jason end of getting roped in on this. Damian's grown since he's first came to live with his father. He still is a little brat to his older brothers - he's the baby of the family it's his right - but he doesn't actively hate them anymore and can admit when their particular skills would be useful. Tim is the best at strategizing, and Jason is a combat master with access to all sorts of weapons. With all of them working together Santa has no chance, they will destroy him.

Which all just makes me think of something like this happening lol:

“What…uh, what are they doing?” Duke glanced between the chaos unfolding in the family room to where Dick was calmly seated in his favorite chair, sipping idly at a cup of coffee.

“Sibling bonding.” Dick said. There was that specific aura of calm around him that said that he’d already gone through several crisis and all the stages of grief at least twice. Considering the calamity and chaos the eldest batkid had seen over the years - and especially the last few months since Bruce officially adopted Danny and brought him into the fold - it was a bad sign that he’d reached this particular state of Done (TM) before noon. The earliest Dick even woke up was two in the afternoon.

Duke contemplated turning around right then and there - the particular combination of people all excitedly feeding off each other’s feral energy on the other side of the room was a catastrophe in the making he didn’t want to be anywhere near when it finally breached containment and spilled out into the wider world - but unfortunately he was cursed with the curiosity that afflicted all members of the bat clan.

“It looks like they’re plotting to try and kill Santa Claus.”

Dick turned to look at Duke fully for the first time since he’d entered the room. He had the eyes of one that was deeply haunted by the horrors they had witnessed. On the other side of the room Tim was ranting about anti-magic tech while Danny, Damian and Jason argued over what weapons would be most effective against a demi god. There were schematics of what looked worryingly like a rocket launcher looking device that - if the scribbles on the whiteboard someone had drug into the room where to be believed - was going to be rigged to shoot ecto-grenades.

“Danny hates Christmas.” Dick said, and Duke noticed for the first time that his hands around the coffee cup were faintly trembling. “He’s declared Santa is his arch nemesis.”

Duke blinked, glancing over to the others long enough to see Danny start frantically scribbling the words Christmas Nuke on the whiteboard. No one else was trying to erase it. Tim looked worriedly contemplative. Damian and Jason where both nodding in agreement.

He was going to regret this. “But Santa isn’t real?”

Dick’s eyes gained a faintly manic glean, and Duke could faintly hear the sound of porcelain creaking warningly beneath the desperate hold he had on his coffee cup. “That’s what I thought!” Dick said, with enough cheer to make Duke flinch back instinctively. “But apparently he is.” A distinct crack appeared in the cup, coffee dripping down into Dick’s lap. “And apparently they’re going to war with him!”

Well, Duke considered, at least that explained why he caught the four of them burning down the giant Christmas tree in the city center last night.

[blorbocedes]

ok hear me out.... totally crazy idea.... max / lando mind games

Lando stops from where he's grinding against Max's thigh to look up hesitantly. "Hey, you're not like, mad at me from last week's radio, right? Cause Daniel was saying in the media..."

Max is broken out of his spacing out, blinking and then frowning as he registers Lando's words. "I have not spoken to Daniel." His hand curls against Lando's thigh.

Lando nods. Right. Cause it would be pretty awkward of them to be doing this if Max was mad at him. Max's thigh is a solid weight under him and his dick is missing the friction already. They're not supposed to have sex during race week so they improvise. This is basically building core strength for Lando.

"So, we're cool." Lando says nonchalantly, squeezing Max's shoulder in a friendly manner and also to balance himself, gearing himself ready to start back up. His underwear had pooled a small wet spot of precome already.

This time Max stops him. The grip on his waist tightens, stopping his hips from moving. Max holds his gaze in that intense eye contact he likes to hold, that Lando can't shy away from. "Why would we not be cool? It is, of course, your championship to win now,"

Lando's dick is so hard, it twinges in pain. To gain some leverage, he palms Max's half-hard cock through his briefs.

"Which makes it my championship to lose." Max finishes wryly.

"Don't say that." Lando mutters, ears going red, flaming downwards. Lando thumbs Max's bulbous tip to be petty, and Max digs his thumb and fingers into the soft flesh of Lando's waist, who takes the opportunity to continue rutting against him. He knows, okay, Lando knows it's a possibility even as he tells everyone he's taking it one race at a time. There's a chance. But it's also Max. And Max is the driver he rates the most, why it feels so, so rewarding to beat him. 70 points is not nothing, in 9 races, anything can happen. A single safety car can change the entire standings.

Lando grinds against Max's thigh, bare skin against harsh sensations of cotton making him feel all sorts of frayed. This entire year, he wanted to be taken seriously as a title contender and now everybody's treating like it's a done deal, causing major whiplash.

"Why not? It's true." Max says matter-of-factly, appearing unruffled even as his pupils are completely dark drowning out that ocean blue as he watches Lando's breathing get faster and his hands on Lando are practically pulling his hips forward in rhythm.

"You've got the same chance as me, mate." Lando's heart rate is speeding up. He paws at Max's dick, which is now fully erect, and jerks it off in harsh strokes. It's a nice dick, average sized on the girther end, not terrifyingly large like in porn. Very friend shaped. "It's still anybody's game."

By anybody he means just the two of them. But then again, Max knows that too.

"I can only outdrive the car. You have the fastest car. 9 perfect races. Vettel's done it before," The 'I've done it' goes unsaid but heard regardless. "It's in your hands now."

The only trophy in Lando's hands right now is attached to Max. Fuck you, Lando thinks. When he was first starting to jerk off as a hormonal teenager, he was scared he was doing it so much he would rip it straight off. He imagines ripping it off Max, blood spurting everywhere, misses the race, the championship is secured. He doesn't actually want to do that. He imagines getting on his knees, and taking Max's length in its entirety in his mouth - the way he can never quite manage in real life - look up at him, recently as heavenly light shines on him. The pressure is building in the pit of Lando's stomach, he's thinking every thought that crosses his head to find the one that pushes him over the edge into sweet release.

"When you're in the fastest car, everything below first in underperforming." Max is rolling his own hips now too, voice more breathy.

"You think I don't fucking know that?" Lando snaps, emotional regulation out of bounds, as if he isn't very well aware of the mountain to climb, the ones Max has scaled and back. They're all fucking competitors. Second place is first loser.

Max pulls Lando close, their dicks finally, finally making contact through two thin layers of cotton. Still, he can feel the weight, the shape of it under him and it feels obscene. Like pretend sex, instead of the real thing. The touch feels electrifying, even as it's not enough. They're in a kind of fucked up embrace, hips moving in tandem. Max pats Lando's back reassuringly, going down to his spine.

"Come on. We can be World Champion, Lando." His words are mocking, but they do it for Lando who buries his groan into Max's neck, feeling his orgasm being pulled out from him.

Max doesn't let him relish in the afterglow, wastes no time in taking Lando's hand and pulling it down his pants and jerks himself off. He bites Lando's shoulder as he finishes, making Lando twitch, spilling over both of their hands.

Finally, Lando flops over him on the sofa, both of them sharing wet patches on the front of their underwear. When the high from the orgasm subsides, the shame of rubbing one out against his main rival's leg and wanting his approval creeps in.

9 perfect races swims in his head.

He knows Max will do everything in his power to win, it just doesn't occur to him he's one of those things too.

[sincerely-sofie]

New ship dynamic: Guard Dog x Sacrificial Lamb.

It’s undying devotion to someone who was doomed from the start. It’s someone believing in you when you don’t believe in yourself.

It’s the desire to protect that rages and spits in the face destiny. It’s the desperation for a life with someone when you were born to die.

It’s the willingness to bloody your hands so that theirs remain unblemished. It’s a longing to be a person when you are meant to be a symbol.

It’s an insurmountable distance between you and your love the length of a pedestal, the length of columns that hold up the heavens, the length of that wretched gap between the divine and the mortal, the length of an altar that’s never quite been scrubbed clean when everyone knows it will only spill over with crimson again.

It’s asking yourself if you'd fight against fate for them and knowing that your answer has only ever been always.

It's asking yourself if you'd fulfill your destiny even if it means leaving them behind and wondering when your answer became never.

[stealingyourbones]

recently watched a handful of episodes of Supernatural and im kinda impressed with Dean's steadfast belief that all monsters are monsters and can't be redeemed.

With that in mind... there could be some VERY angsty Danny Phantom crossovers with that as the main premise

[puppetmaster13u]

I just had a thought, fueled by the fact I have a fever probably.

Bruce, Batman, is very mom-coded.

Tony, Iron Man, is very dad-coded.

They should platonically co-parent.

[pastafossa]

"Don't Let Go" (Michael Kinsella x F!Reader, Fic)

Time for Day Six of the Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! I chose the angst prompt, "Shh, I've got you now. I'm here." with Michael Kinsella! I originally planned to use all three prompts (the above plus 'love bites' and 'spread your legs for me') but this one just sorta worked beautifully focusing on the angst prompt alone, despite my plan. May come back and do a sequel with the other two prompts eventually. You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!

Ship: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Wordcount: 1.1k

Warnings for this chapter: angst, blood, injury care, mention of reader briefly held hostage, language, mention of domestic violence, some shouting and breaking things (Michael is very angry here, just not at you).

His hands shaking, Michael cleaned you up in the bathroom.

You weren’t sure if that tremor was due to fear, or… or exhaustion, maybe. He probably hadn’t gotten much sleep the past two nights while you’d been missing, held captive in an abandoned building by a group of men who’d been looking to blackmail the Kinsella family. It hadn’t worked out well for them based on the dead bodies you’d seen when Michael had grimly carried you out past his brothers, his hands stained heavily with blood and smelling of fresh gunpowder. 

It was those hands—the very same hands that had so recently dealt out death and destruction—that now tended gently to your wounds. With barely a word save a soothing murmur whenever you winced, he washed away the crusted grime and dried blood from your body in the shower before settling you down on the side of the porcelain tub. Once you were comfortable, he set about cleaning out and bandaging the bloody cuts on your hands and face, the torn skin on your wrists left by the handcuffs, and the burns along your forearm from the cigarettes one man had decided to put out against your skin when you’d spat in his face.

With every injury Michael cared for, however, the more his hands shook, his breathing growing sharper, hissing out from between his clenched teeth. 

No. This wasn’t fear or exhaustion making his hands shake, you realized. This was… 

He rose from where he’d been kneeling in front of you. He stared down at you for a moment with those dark eyes of his, taking all of you in for the first time since bringing you back home—taking in every last swollen bruise and vicious cut, every bandage and mark of pain left behind by those who had wanted to harm his family by using you against him.

…This was rage.

He snatched up the first aid kit, turned, and hurled it with a furious scream. It shattered against the wall in the hall, its impact leaving a crumbling hole in the drywall. Gauze and ointment, bottles of pills and splinters of plastic scattered left and right.

“Michael,” you said weakly. “I’m ok now.”

It was as if he hadn’t even heard you. “I’m goin’ ta find the rest of ‘em and kill 'em for this!” he snarled savagely, his accent even thicker in his fury. Gone was the gentle lilt, the familiar softness he always seemed to gain in his voice when he spoke to you or about you. Now he was every inch the dangerous Kinsella that so many feared, though not you. Never you. Even now you weren’t afraid, despite the way he whirled and paced wildly in front of you, as if looking for the very same ones who’d so recently hurt you. This was rage in your defense, and that made all the difference. 

“Michael—”

“They think I can’t find ‘em?” he spat. “They really think I can’t? I’ll hunt down every last fuckin’ one’a them filthy little cunts fer puttin’ their hands on ya! By the time I’m done wit’ em, there won’t be enough’a their fuckin’ bodies left for their mams to bloody bury!”

This time it was the drinking glass on the counter that paid the price. It flew out into the hall to shatter violently against the wall just beside the mark left by the first aid kit. Glittering shards of glass, some pieces still damp, joined the rest of the debris on the floor.  

“Michael.” You heaved yourself upright on shaky legs, wobbly as a newborn fawn. And it hurt, it hurt to move, cuts tugging, body aching. You tried to blink the dampness away in your eyes, not now, come on. “It’s alright—” “Don’t tell me it’s alright when they hurt ya!” he roared. But the moment he swung back around to face you and saw you on your feet, he spat out a curse. He stormed across the bathroom before you could take more than a step. “Daft woman, sit your arse back down before ya fall over!”

One hand still braced against the wall, you lifted your other arm quickly towards him. He lurched to a stop before he could touch you, an expression of horror twisting across his face, all furrowed brow and parted lips. Only then did you realize what that must have looked like to him—your arm held up to fend him off, trying to stop him from coming towards you, tears in your eyes as if you were… as if you were terrified of him and what he had been doing. 

Gone in a breath was the rage, the fury, replaced by a gutted, heartbroken grief. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d have said he was about to cry, too. “Ya didn’t think I was goin’ to…” he whispered, swallowing hard and taking a cautious step back. “I… I swear, pet, I would never—” 

“God, no, Mikey. I know you weren’t going to hit me,” you croaked, trying to put your arm out again in a more welcoming way, and if your breath started to hitch, tears now beginning to roll down your cheeks despite your best efforts, well, surely you were entitled to that, because it had been a horrible few days and the longer you stood here, the more you began to shiver and hurt. It had only been a few minutes since you’d been in his arms, but your body clearly wasn’t ready yet for even that much separation. Emotion welled up inside you like a dark wave, endless, bottomless. You were terrified you’d drown beneath it without him to help you keep your head above water. “I was trying to… could you come over here and… and hold me? I just need…”

He caught you just as the first choked sob tore its way out of your throat, the strength of the sound so violent, so raw it almost frightened you. One of his arms quickly wound around your waist, pulling you in against the comforting, familiar warmth and strength of his chest. His other hand rose to gently cradle the back of your head, bringing your head down so you could bury it against his neck. He rumbled low, soothing notes into your ear, tender words of comfort as you desperately tried to breathe in the scent of whiskey and leather, gun oil and rain between your heaving breaths and broken sobs.

“There ya go. Shh, I’ve got ya now, pet,” he whispered, laying his cheek against your hair. He shifted the two of you carefully across the floor until he could ease himself down on top of the toilet seat, pulling you slowly into his lap. You went without a fight, clinging to him, the fabric of his shirt held tight between your fists as if it were your lifeline. “I’ve got ya now. Let it all out. I’m here, darlin’. Yer safe with me.” 

“Don’t let go,” you choked out, “Please.” “Never. I promise.”

[nelkcats]

Baby Bird Advices

When a person is facing a difficult moment, or having to make a though decision. The voice of their soulmate will manifest in their head. It's not their actual voice though, it's the voice of the child they were once, which can be confusing because people change over time.

Sometimes all someone needs is a kid scolding them or telling them to take a break; After all, they don't lie to make you feel better but try their best to support you.

However, Jason's soulmate wants a refund, little Robin is definitely not trying his best. He suggested steal the tires of a car once!

Danny didn't know his soulmate's name, one day the boy proudly declared his name was "Robin" which couldn't be a real name, but he assumed it worked. Little Robin gave worrisome advice.

Honestly, Little Robin remained silent for most of his life, sometimes he complained about his parents or his living conditions, but he didn't go further than that.

When he was a child it was a surprise to discover Little Robin, at that time the voice had no name but at the age of 5 he advised him to run, and well, it worked. Robin had a lot of advices on running away, or how to survive on little food, which was extremely helpful considering his... living conditions.

Although the halfa was very worried about the future of the child, he knew the voice of his soulmate would still be there even if they died, Little Robin was still alive? Would he be okay? How did he know so many worrying things? And why did he consider it was a good idea to tell him what to do?

On the other hand, Jason has tried to shut the little Dick in his head from making jokes during his most tense moments. Although he is stupidly helpful, and his knowledge of chemistry helped him on more than one occasion (how did a kid know about chemistry and mechanics, what the fuck?)

[kmesons]

@femslashfortnight day 10: yellow (linda/emma)

I think it'd be interesting if the timelines and locations lined up such that emma encountered some... odd happenings in the witchwood close to perky's buds (i.e., her ex being unwillingly sacrificed to The Hungriest God)

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

i love it when bad is very specifically a good roleplayer by giving other people good prompts. like casually bringing up wilbur now to tallulah. or when he put missa in the petting zoo. or all those times he Tormented the Lesbians so they could protect each other from him. its just so !!!! I love watching roleplayers be considerate of other roleplayers and gleefully hand over something they Know the other person's character can react to. i've seen cellbit do it, too (that time he handed his knife to bbh. oh my god). it's not a rare thing, and it's possible to be a good roleplayer without keeping that sort of considerate back and forth in mind, but its one of my favourite things to notice. foolish does it too, sometimes- i haven't watched him much, but i did take note of when he Made Sure to bring jaiden along with him on a cucurucho quest. and basically every interaction he had with bad when the eggs were missing. its just so so good

[fortune-maiden]

FX Week Day 6: Temple

Day 6 of @fxweek :D

This is actually the very last drabble I wrote chronologically (assuming I don't write any more lol)

In Feng Xin’s humble opinion, it wasn’t fair that the things he should have been smug about were the things he hated the most. “Thank goodness for the Ju Yang temple. There’s always one of those around when we need ‘em,” Mu Qing cackled, leading them to their lodgings for the night. Of course he had a temple in this area – why wouldn’t there be a temple to the fucking fertility god in the middle of someone else’s fucking territory and – “Wait.” Feng Xin suddenly realized something. “Why do you always know where my temples are?” Mu Qing went silent.