#take this mess!

[dyrewrites]

Pale Blood - Five

&lt;- <<

Delmas was right about the bed not being big enough for two but, to his surprise, Den didn’t want to be two when the fun had ended. When Delmas pulled away and made to stand, to collect the clothes scattered on the floor, Den set those strong hands on him. He yanked him back to the mattress, wriggling with him tight in his arms until they were both beneath the sheets.

“Oh no, I’m not done with you yet,” Den explained as he climbed over and settled into the small space in front of Delmas. “It would be a crime to waste such a cuddly physique.”

Delmas stared at the mess of hair splayed across his chest and into the smiling face it belonged to but the words and the actions refused to connect, “you want to cuddle?”

“You make a perfect big spoon,” Den said, pulling away enough to gather his hair into a more convenient position.

“Oh, do I,” Delmas stated more than asked and Den laughed, short and quiet as he wriggled closer. It was an intimate gesture, which wasn’t something that happened, at least not to Delmas. When he sought the distraction of another it was rough, anonymous and detached. It was an unspoken agreement for a one time engagement. That was the whole point. To forget the day, to let go of the worries carried, not pick up more. What Den suggested with his tone, with his body language—with his soft cooing and the gentle way he snuggled closer and arranged Delmas’ arms around his shoulders—was a desire for more. A desire he did not reflect but the closeness was comforting. “Alright,” He conceded, “I guess we can cuddle.”

Den giggled, pressing closer and sending shivers through them both. The heat of his skin, and the steady pulse beneath it, bubbled the next into a hungry wave and Delmas wrapped his arms tighter and edged closer.

“Cuddle,” Den repeated, but there was a purr beneath it and a wiggle in his hips.

Delmas considered chasing that wiggle with one of his own, of whispering for more but he hesitated. Someone to hold so close, so quiet, may not have been what he’d wanted when he carried Den to the room but in that embrace he found the want for it—the need. Den fit so well in his arms, so easy to hold. He was warm, he was comfortable and Delmas closed his eyes and curled tighter around him. He hadn’t realized how tired he’d been, but that closeness drew it out and the comfort melted the tension still lingering in his muscles.

“See, perfect big spoon,” Den whispered and it was Delmas’ turn to giggle, sleepy and quiet. As the big fang drifted off to sleep, filling Den’s ears and puffing his scalp with hot breath and gentle snores, he considered what he’d signaled by making him stay. What message it sent and what consequences might come of it. 

Sure, he’s cute and fun and deliciously generous but is this too far, too fast? He worried. He’d intended to meet him, to feel things out…to lead him upstairs, tear off his clothes and climb him like the mountain he is—and hey, three out of five’s not bad.

The cuddling, however, had been an afterthought—one that surprised him as much as Delmas. All he wanted when he burst into Luster at dawn, wounded and seething, was to take it out on someone else. Someone big, to match the size of a problem he couldn’t fix, a problem he was forbidden to speak against...until he saw the fang.

A fang he had seen before, even if he hadn’t seen him.

Earlier that halfnight he had learned that his younger brother, responsible for running hearts for the pack, had begun taking jobs on the side. They were also for the pack, for the family, but they weren’t for the good of anyone. Their mother—the wolfmother—had asked all her pups for something she had never wanted before; Blood. Not any blood either, she wanted what the fangs were fetching. She said it was special, that the blood from the leechpit was stronger than even the hearts they bought off the local morgue. It shimmered, she’d said. One of her dogs—fangs enthralled by so many sips from her veins that they took on wolf-like qualities—had brought a bag with him on their last rendezvous, and it showed her things. Majestic things in colors she’d never known and she demanded more. 

Den assumed it was fae-blood, or tainted with hit, and refused to be a drug mule for his mother. Seven of his eight brothers and sisters refused as well, all but the youngest; lucky number nine. 

Nash would break the world for mama, Den fumed, and he just might. Delmas made for a welcome distraction, and the comfort of his embrace was euphoric, but Den still worried. In the muffled quiet of the waking city outside their sweaty sanctum, he fretted for the future of his pack, of the slums and maybe…the whole city. 

The wolves had a no interference deal with the fangs, which was thinning from how often the wolfmother lured and broke their supple bodies in her bed—Den labeled it addiction, and spurned her many partners, despite their similar tastes. Stealing blood could only lead to a war none were prepared to fight. An opinion Den shared, in tones louder than he should have, which earned his mother’s teeth in his neck and claws through his chest.

The wolfmother didn’t suffer defiance in her pups and, though she allowed Den to live, she sent dogs to watch him. They were instructed to ensure he didn’t defy her in more ways, like sharing her intentions with the leechpit. 

And this was precisely what he did.

It was easy enough to plant scents to confuse them—their noses were still fang noses, after all—and when he lost them, he sought one of the leechpit’s bloodletters. The dayshift reeked of thralls, useless beyond their master’s instruction, and so Den trailed the one that worked halfnights. The scent of her witchblood kept him at a distance, hidden as he couldn’t know how she’d respond to a massive halfbeast—no matter how polite—but it didn’t stick. He needed information, witch or not, and so he made to intercept her as she left her apartment…but she wasn’t there. 

By the time Den found her, the dogs had too. They had followed his scent to her and, instead of doing the sensible thing of reporting to mother, used it as an opportunity to get the blood and impress their mistress. 

 I was across the street, Den recalled, nuzzling into Delmas’ arms, close enough to watch them drag her into the alley but I didn’t get the chance to intervene…because you showed up. 

Den had watched the cab, hid his laughter at the wail of the dogs and stared as the fang ducked out of the car. He couldn’t see his face, but his scent reached him. There was a certain chill to the scent of fangs but that one carried more. It was earthy and sweet, closer to the aroma of the Wylds and Den wanted to chase it, to breathe it deeper but the chance had passed. The fang led the witch into the cab, with a concern too bare for Den’s tastes, and he retreated into the growing cool of halfnight.

But that halfnight wasn’t through picking on him. The wolfmother’s disappointment dripped through his netlink.  Through her snarled and growled reprimands Den learned that, while he trailed the bloodletter, the dogs had trailed him. He never lost them; they allowed him to escape, intending to attack the witch with or without his scent as lure. Den would be beaten again before sunrise, for his attempt to go against his mother, but no more dogs would shadow him—she didn’t want to lose any more of her pets.

It was pure coincidence that he ran into the same fang that saved the witch, the same scent that captivated him—after an hour or more of licking his wounds in Luster—but Den didn’t believe in coincidence. He was certain there was a reason why the first fang he’d seen in that club for Mother Night knows how many sunrises was the same that chased his spies off. That the fang wanted him back was confirmation. 

Kismet, Den swooned as the weight of that halfnight, and their acrobatic meeting, crashed against his muscles. Thanks to Delmas, he would have the chance to speak to the witch again and find out what was so special about the blood she peddled that it could enthrall the wolfmother. Until then, however, Den was content to enjoy the big arms wrapped around him. He could revel in the afterglow of what they shared and the luck that the fang who saved his ass happened to have such a cute one of his own.

~ * ~

Now, I know this is probably becoming an annoying habit—my interjecting—like that, precisely, but I need you to bear with me. This isn’t an easy tale to tell. There’s a lot of moving parts and knowing everything, everywhere, in every time at the exact same time…it’s overwhelming—confusing—asinine. 

I know what they’re doing, thinking—feeling—smelling. I know it all but I can’t be too sure on the when. It could be happening then, or now, or later but it’s the same to me.

That, of course, makes it difficult to share with anyone else, or to ask for help that I can’t remember if I need—or can use. And it’s been so long, so very long, since I’ve had anyone to talk to that I…I get carried away—lonely. 

Know that something is waiting for you—me—us at the end of all this. 

We just have to get there in time, whenever that time is. 

~ * ~

Bosch’s home was not the stately manor he would have preferred—and believed he deserved—but it wasn’t stuffed into the ass-end of a run-down skyscraper either. 

He hated the city, the slums most of all, and would do about anything—and had—to be welcomed above it. To luxuriate in one of the glittering gold and silver palaces that orbited the hazy peaks of the city’s greasy monoliths…but those heights were out of reach. Instead, all his scraping and clawing had earned him was a modest swath of land just outside city borders. It was close enough to get reception from the netlink grid, and for power and water, and far enough to enjoy smog-free air. Even if it required greater protections from the suns, and was a terrible commute, it was better than any other fang from the slums could claim.

There were, however, downsides to being so close to the barrier—a magical construction meant to keep the terrors of the Wylds from seeping into the city, which meant nothing to anything smaller than a mountain or weaker than a god. 

Those downsides came in many flavors, such as the massive wolf that stood at his door. It was taller than he was, even on four legs, and snarling with eyes so orange it hurt to look at them. He knew it couldn’t speak in the form it was in, but he didn’t care. What Bosch cared about was that the damned thing was there at all; in the middle of the afternoon. At a time Bosch preferred to be in his bed, hidden from the suns.

The wolf shifted then, its bones cracked and its flesh squelched and Bosch grimaced. It was never a pretty sight, the shift, what with all that hair and teeth and stretching…everything. Even when a man stood in the wolf’s place, a fully clothed one at that—a skill Bosch attributed to the magic of Mother Night, who adored her wolf children more than her cursed fangs—he was still a wolf and Bosch didn’t want him there.

He had to lean out of his doorway, and crane his neck too high, but he told him so, “Whatever you’re sellin’, pooch, I ain’t buyin’.” Bosch slammed the door but the boot that jammed it said they weren’t done. He looked up at the monstrosity of a man and waited.

“Del,” the wolf snarled and Bosch raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The wolf grunted, “You’re the big boss, ain’t ya?”

“That depends,” Bosch said and leaned against his doorframe to keep eye contact, “whose askin’?”

“The one lookin’ for yer runner and, if I gotta find him myself, he ain’t gonna be runnin’ no more,” the wolf smiled, a smile that curled too high on his cheeks and his eyes flared brighter as he added, “you neither.”

Bosch bit his bottom lip and nodded, slow and decisive, holding the fear far from his eyes as he tapped the netlink in his ear.

000

They woke late in the afternoon, and spent more of it heating the room and breaking bedsprings—and Delmas would ride the high of riding the wolf for much too long—but there’d been breaths between to share more than sweat and teeth.

They spoke of life, of work, of family and found they shared similar complaints regarding each. After they put their pants on, to remove further temptation, Den revealed that he knew Delmas was a fang before he approached him. Delmas, in turn, revealed the same of him, though admitted he hadn’t worked it out until he pinned him. Their laughter, and the looks that followed, revealed what neither would speak—they weren’t ready for goodbyes.

Delmas curled back up into the meager bed and patted the slender space before him. Den smiled as he made to join him…and a shrill beeping interrupted. 

Delmas groaned at the clothes yet coating the floor, and the blinking red light in his coat pocket—he refused to wear the netlink but Bosch required that he keep it on him, if not in, at all times—and crawled to the edge of the bed to fish it out. 

“Yeah,” He clipped into the pin-sized device, holding it to his ear.

“There is a wolf at my door,” Bosch sneered through the link.

“You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can handle it,” Delmas couldn’t keep the grin from his voice, or the gasp at Den’s exploring fingers.

Bosch huffed, “He’s here for you.”

“Well, tell him I’m busy,” Delmas said and bit back a moan as Den nibbled his ear.

“Busy my ass, you little slut!” Bosch screeched and Den fell back, holding his ears. Delmas held the netlink at arm’s length, wincing as Bosch kept his volume, “The suns are too bright for me to put up with your shit right now. I don’t care how tight your whore’s ass is, you get down here and you deal with this fucking wolf!”

The line died and Delmas stared at the netlink until its light died too, then he stuffed the thing back in his coat. Den pulled him back by the shoulders and held him there with kisses along his neck, kisses far too sweet. 

“Your boss’ got a mouth on him,” He said, rubbing his fingers into Delmas’ shoulders. He massaged deep into Delmas’ skin, up the sides of his neck and then down along his collar bone before teasing the thin hairs on his chest.

“Mm-hmm,” Delmas moaned, grabbing Den’s hands as they began to wander too low. “And he may be a mouthy ass, but he’s also a resourceful mouthy ass…who will send his thralls after me if I don’t do what he asks.”

Den pressed closer, draping himself over Delmas’ shoulders and asked, “Want some company?” Delmas tilted his head to look into Den’s eyes, but didn’t answer the question. Den sighed, “He did say ‘wolf’, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Delmas said, and then dropped his head, “which means you might know who it is…”

“There ya go,” Den said, pushing back and patting Delmas on the back. 

When he stood to put the rest of his clothes on, Delmas followed suit—his shirt was torn at the neck, with a gouge or two in the chest, but still mostly whole and he smiled when he pulled it on—but stopped at his coat and stared. It was a nice coat; dark, thick, long enough to be dramatic when he needed to be but it had a stain. A big, ugly splotch he knew would never wash away. 

So there’s a wolf looking for me, Delmas thought, running through the previous halfnight, one high enough on the foodchain to know who Bosch is…and where to find him. “Fuck,” he said, slipping his coat on and rushing from the room. 

Den chased him, hopping to get his shoes on, and shouted, “What’s the rush, can’t your boss handle one wolf?”

“Not this one,” Delmas shouted back.

At the base of the stairs, Den caught up and asked, “You know who it is?”

Delmas didn’t answer and Den kept on his heels through the club.

It had transformed during their morning above it. Soft light pooled inside, warm and yellow-tinted. Music played over unseen speakers but it wasn’t the electronic beat and crackle of the dawn before. It was gentle, instrumental and it flourished in the comforting ambience the room commanded. The dance floor was replaced with hardwood and an elaborate rug, round tables and comfortable chairs—each topped with white cloth and hardlight candles that flickered in mockery of real flames. The bar was littered with patrons holding fat coffee mugs in varying states of emptiness and the bartender—turned barista—was fully clothed and half-hidden by steam. 

Delmas and Den weaved through the tables, avoiding the knowing looks of those seated at them.

Outside the tinted glass of the double doors, the city was blinding and Delmas fished dark glasses out of his pocket. 

“It’s Nash,” he said, once his eyes were shielded.

Den jerked and stared up at him, “My Nash?”

Delmas shrugged, “Are there a lot of giant wolves named Nash?”

“What would he want with your boss?” Den asked, shifting his gaze to the street and searching through the flood of afternoon traffic for the telltale yellows of a cab.

“You said your boss has been jonesin’ for blood and Nash is getting it for her…which he tried to do last halfnight. From me,” Delmas had not shared that part of his story when they shared all else—so close and vulnerable between the sheets—and he averted his eyes and fussed with his hair as the shame of it burned.

Den didn’t care that Delmas kept things out, he hadn’t shared everything either, too embarrassed to mention the dogs or the bloodletter witch—or that he’d wanted Delmas even then. What Den cared about was that his baby brother towered over even the giant he stood beside and bore the strength to match it, “How far is your boss?”

The cab creaked to a stop in front of them and popped its rear door up. Stale urine and sour cigarettes wafted out and Delmas cringed as he ducked in, scooting to make room for Den. 

“Too far on an empty stomach,” he said. “Leechpit down on Main,” Delmas all but groaned to the cabby as the pain in his gut twisted harder—distracting him from the familiarity of the returned voice and the sight of Bosch’s address already keyed into the vidscreen.

000

There weren’t many things that frightened Odea—witches of her bloodline were ritually purified of such weakness—but even the purring warmth of her cats could not ease the dread bubbling inside her. Despite how few words Odea allowed her, Renna had spoken terror through the netlink. And that terror refused to loosen its grip on her throat. She’d changed her room’s purple lights. Shut them off and opened the curtains to let in the faded yellows of the afternoon, but it didn’t help. Everything she passed whispered to her of Daughter Dusk, her walls all but moaned for the Goddess.

“It can’t be as bad as all that,” She told her cats as they paced with her through the small apartment. “The others would have called if it were. After all, if this Renna could find me, so could they.”

Her scars itched with renewed memory. Sharp daggers and sharper claws tore her skin and bled her veins. The scent of her Sisters bloomed then, it dragged from the recesses of her mind more hidden horrors and she shuddered. Their hands, their mouths, their heat and sweat, it jittered inside her until acid flooded her mouth and she made for the toilet. 

But they haven’t, she assured the spasms in her stomach as they begged to retch more takeout, they’d have made themselves known if they had—and her skin knew too well how they would do so.

She hadn’t done enough, she knew she hadn’t. She shielded herself against the many tricks of her Sisters, but they were ever-learning, ever-growing and she could never prepare for it all. Full-blooded witches had issues around technology, but the Sisters were unique—Daughter Dusk kept them safe, kept their practice ‘modern’—and so there were no places free of their influence.

“I can’t go back,” Odea whimpered into the metal basin, cringing at the colors her stomach had made of the chemical blues swirling inside. She ignored the furry heads pressing into her sides, lost to worry, “No matter what danger is looming, or what havoc it’s wreaking on the Wylds—on the magic—I can’t…” She wept then, adding the earthy scent of her tears to the stench of the toilet water.

It had been over a year since she fled the Sisters, and their depraved rituals, but the desire had taken root long before. Odea, as all Sisters of Daughter Dusk, held powers of protection, of knowledge but most coveted of all was their power to heal. They could steal the pain and sickness of another and take it into themselves. Daughter Dusk cared deeply for her Sisters and would ensure what ailed them did not do so for long. This made them miraculous healers but magic was an exchange and Daughter Dusk was as capricious as any fae.

What the Goddess took from Odea, that planted a seed of doubt—which sprouted too late—was her mother. 

Niamhe—or Nia, as most knew her—had been a devout Sister all her life. She practiced the rituals every night, made the pilgrimage to the Wylds for the numerous solstices to endure the rites of the Daughter directly and even devoted more of herself in halfnight when the moons fell. Nia led covens, she apprenticed young witches, she devised grander rituals to keep the Daughter relevant as Morne advanced but all Nia wanted in return, all she dared to ask of her Goddess…was a child. Nothing prevented the Sisters from reproducing—it was encouraged, in fact, as all children born of witches were witches themselves and Daughter Dusk’s greed knew no bounds—but Nia’s body would not comply. She had tried. She had laid with more men than she cared to recall in the fleeting hope of bearing a daughter. A daughter worthy of the one she worshiped.

Daughter Dusk would not grant Nia’s wish—the cost of a life would be too great and she did not waste valuable Sisters—and so Nia found another way. 

Odea’s mother told her that she met a Somite, and that she had charmed him as he found her, as he made to capture and bound her in the searing fields. Nia had spun a fanciful tale of devotion that ended in heroism and sacrifice. Her father died protecting his love, and their unborn child, from his sanctimonious brothers and Nia fled to the Wylds to live under the Daughter’s protection. —As most tales whispered to children in the low light of sleep, the one of Odea’s origins were myth; lies planted in her mother’s memory through no fault of her own…but lies all the same.

Nia would grow ill before Odea finished her initiation and was placed in a coven of her own. It was an illness they could not afford to treat, and one no witch dared try. Something in her had begun to feast on her mind, on her memory. It would move to her organs if not stopped and Odea could not stand to watch her mother deteriorate for a moment longer. She offered all she had, begged and pleaded for Daughter Dusk to take whatever she desired if only she could keep her mother. Daughter Dusk accepted her generous offer and Odea performed the ritual. 

It was one she was instructed to do alone, with none but her mother present, and she would not know the cost until it was completed—as was customary of such pacts. In days of starvation and agony Odea had her mother back, breathing and whole. Her mind was even returned, sharper than before. The disease festered in Odea for a mere week before the Daughter took it…and her payment. Odea held no interest in the act that produced a child, but she daydreamed of other methods to pass her bloodline on, to birth a daughter of her own. Methods lost when Daughter Dusk visited her in her dreams one halfnight and left her bleeding for seven after.

Yet it was not that act which turned Odea from her Goddess, or her Sisters. She accepted the cost as fair. Her mother lived, after all, and she could miss the unborn for only so long—but Daughter Dusk had been spurned, scorned, and she demanded more.

It was an accident. Odea did not see the other driver through the sudden fog—a fog it would take years to realize wasn’t natural—and she swerved when she shouldn’t have. Her mother lay, unresponsive, in a hospital bed for months before her organs gave out. It was a slow death. Slower than she knew the cancer would have been and Odea blamed herself. That blame carried her through the rigors of initiation into her mother’s coven—as it was the practice of the Sisters that an heir take the place of any lost—and through the torturous rites and spells that followed it. 

Due to the circumstances the young witch endured—though never admitting her part in them—Daughter Dusk granted Odea reprieve from her rituals. She even offered a modicum of leniency when she abandoned her mother’s coven, and all the Sisters, brief months into her service with them. 

But that time was passed. Someone had been sent to retrieve Odea. A Sister, if not one of her coven, and Daughter Dusk was not known for her patience…or her forgiveness.

Odea shuddered and retched again, gripping the bowl with the force of it—a force too great to be mere nerves—as her cats yowled their sympathies beside her. It doesn’t matter if it’s as bad as she said, she realized. If I don’t go…I’m dead.

->

[dilfslayer1080p]

"he died for our wins" - 2024, LIDL Oil paint on LIDL canvas

[chloesimaginationthings]

Abby will have beef with toy Bonnie in FNAF 2..

[turtleblogatlast]

Leo learns something about himself 🏳️‍⚧️

Based roughly on this old post.

Bonus:

[Leo is taking the fact that he was born biologically female simultaneously very well and also not so well but overall he’s mostly coping with the fact that it was Draxum that just essentially gave him the turtle equivalent of ‘The Talk’.]

[jameszmaguire]

I think it would be better for everyone if I were to be left alone in the future. Don't you?

[egophiliac]

don't think I'm not still deep in the episode 7 brainrot. because OH BOY AM I

(also one more extremely, obnoxiously self-referential thing, I'm -- I'm so sorry)

[spacehomos]

Kaos

The Gods

[mothwingwritings]

I know a lot of people like to hone in on Sylus' more dominant and teasing side, and while I do love those aspects of him what I really really love is the softer side of Sylus that he only shows to you. ♡

The Sylus that avidly listens to everything you say, drinking you in with with a dopey little grin on his face as you fill him in on everything and anything happening in your life. The Sylus that lets you decorate his chic and mature office with all the plushies you have won together from the claw machine, looking at them fondly as if they were great treasures you have scored. The Sylus that will gladly wear stupid matching kigurumi's with you in public and have fun doing it, reputation be damned. The Sylus who absentmindedly plays with your hair while you are sitting together on the couch watching a movie, sighing in contentment as his long fingers massage your scalp. The Sylus who has memorized all your favorite foods and works hard to come up with new recipes to delight you based of what he already knows you love. The Sylus who's hugs completely engulf you, squeezing and holding you like a lifeline, almost as if he's afraid to let go. The Sylus who stays glued to your side until you fall asleep each night, even though you know his day has hardly begun and he has more important things to be attending to-you always take precedence. The Sylus that wants nothing more than to see you happy and thriving, and will do whatever it takes to make that a reality.

He truly makes me weak. (╥﹏╥)

[lucabyte]

On autonomy, and what it means to be Obliged to Help.

Bonus:

[sheikfangirl]

"Shhh Link... I'm right here. We're home. It's okay... "

♥ Hurt & Comfort time ♥

Post-Totk Link is still plagued with nightmares of the Light Dragon, Gloom Hands, Phantom Ganon...Puppet Zelda...loneliness.

He wakes up at night screaming, hyperventilating, sobbing. But Zelda is there and she comforts him with love, kindness and patience! Like Link did for her Post-Botw.

It's gonna take time...but Link is gonna be fine ♥ Zelda too.

They are all gonna be fine and live happily ever after!!!

And Hateno domestic fluff resumes.

Gotta love when Zelda comforts her knight

[aethersea]

I do think Blazing Saddles handled its one depiction of native americans very poorly, and the full extent of its representation of chinese workers on the railroad is they were literally just there. not even one single speaking line. unclear if this is worse or better than the redface.

it's fucking phenomenal at lampooning antiblack racism though. extremely blatant, extremely funny satire, which is constantly and loudly saying "racism is the philosophy of the terminally stupid at best and morally depraved at worst, and we should all be pointing and laughing at them 24/7"

plus the main character is a heroic black man who has to navigate a whole lot of bullshit but is constantly smirking at the extraordinarily stupid racists and inviting the audience into the joke. the one heroic white character is a guy who was suicidally depressed until he met the protagonist and they just instantly became buds, and he's firmly in a supporting role the whole time and happy to be there. the protagonist saves the day with the help of his black friends from the railroad, and uses the position of power he was given to uplift not only those friends, but all the railroad workers of other minorities too, in an explicit show of solidarity.

anyone saying "Blazing Saddles is racist" had better be talking about its treatment of non-black minorities. it had better not be such superficial takes as "oh but they say the n-word all the time" or "they have nazis and the kkk in there!" because goddamn if that's the full extent of your critique I very seriously suggest you read up on media analysis. there is too much going over your head, you need to learn to recognize satire.

[liauditore]

do you guys ever think about that time she said her backstory was that she was only partially zombiefied and was fully conscious mentally while she ate and killed her family. and that she was a princess. i do alot.

[flamingpudding]

Guys it's just merch

Danny watched with a smile hidden behind his mug of hot cocoa his new family. Originally he was only going to mess with them a little, since he wanted to keep his civilian live he gained with them but at the same time wanted to kind of provoke them to tell him about their night time jobs on their own.

Not like he could just flat out tell them he knew about their vigilantes lifes and that would be embarrassing to explain.

It's not every day that Danny's powers fluked on him, but with the stress of the past months, it happened. Right at a moment, he had to be clumsy and trip over his own feet and accidentally phased through a grandfather's clock, finding a hidden passage. Well at least he learned that way that Batman hadn't placed him with some other rich fruitloop that wasn't his godfather but well... with Batman himself and his family out of mask.

Yeah no, he did not want to explain that and hoped they would do that themselves. But apparently, they took Danny's statement of wanting a normal life a bit too serious.

Which brought him back to his current entertainment in the form of messing with his siblings.

"I don't get what the problem is guys. It's just merch." He chuckled slightly at the face Damian was making. While Jason chose to kick Tim under the table.

"Soooo how much merch on Red Robin do you have with this shirt now?" Dick asked instead with a bright smile, Danny still hadn't figured out how to tell what emotion he hid behind them sometimes.

"I think this is my third shirt of him." Danny mused, placing his cup back on the table and tapping his lip in a thinking motion. "Though I was going to pick up a couple of custom-made jackets of Red Hood and a Nightwing plush later today."

He acted like he did not hear the triumph like hiss of 'yes' from Jason as well as the very upset huff of Damian.

He just grinned at the amusement about how they apparently were competing over how much merch he owned of each of them.

When he found a Robin figure and several Robin pins mysteriously placed on his desk the next morning, he broke out laughing. Yet still just to mess with them gushed about his newly gotten merch to his family while sharing a knowing look with Alfred who knew he was just messing with them.

If there was a surprising amount of Batman merch, suddenly mixed into what he already owned the following week without his knowledge. Well, he wasn't going to complain about free stuff.

But he still would get a good laugh out of their reactions on the day he decided to full on dawn every piece of Batman merge instead of theirs.

[soosoosoup]

treasure planet au: cabin boy duties

[polariscroquis]

"I've got a message for you that you better believe."

The world is a better place with cowboy Terzo in it 🖤 I told you guys Missionary Man would be worth it

I tried a slightly different style and I'm keeping some of the changes on the next one! This was actually one of the first ideas I had, but I was postponing it I'm really bad at drawing a decent ass

Also, I'll gladly draw an entire rockstar wardrobe for all the Papas.

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I'm very bad at self-promotion, so I'll just leave some links below where you can ~also*~ support my work if you feel like it! "^^

Youtube | Ko-Fi | Webtoon

*comments/likes/reblogs are already support and I'm very very grateful!! 🖤

[isjasz]

[Day 336]

Practicing hugs 🫂 (bc I realized how bad I am at drawing them LMAO)