#this fic has ruined me

[begesus]

Hey War Games art, cause I had to yk?

I think this scene is from chapter 9???? Village shopping episode. Sokka, more oblivious that somebody’s into you than a dating sim MC.

Also @lovelyelbowleech thanks and keep doing the lords work. I will likely be drawing more scenes from the fic to cope between updates.

Bonus:

[frownyalfred]

Batfamily/Superfamily angst fic where one of the Supes (Jon? Kon?) takes off too quickly/recklessly next to one of the Batkids and accidentally ruptures their eardrum and Bruce goes on the warpath for Clark about it.

[prahacat]

when the horrors catch up and you take an evening off to batch-process

[flowercrowngods]

who did this to you. part 3

🤍🌷 read part 1 here | read part 2 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie. now with robin!

The number rings in his head, echoing off the inside of his skull and sinking lower and lower until his heart strings join the symphony that leaves him shaking as the memory of Harrington’s slurred voice is drowned out by the dial tone that feels harrowingly like a flatline right now. 

Said I’ll go blind. Or deaf. Or just… die.

Eddie doesn’t really feel like his body belongs to him anymore, or like there’s anything left inside him other than panic and fear and that stupid, stupid shaking that he can’t suppress even as he bites his knuckles. Hard. 

The pain helps a little not to startle too much when the dial tone stops and a female voice begins speaking to him. Still he almost drops the phone, cursing under his breath as he pulls his hair to collect himself and get his voice to work. 

“H— Hi, hello, Mrs Buckley? This is, uh. I. I’m. A friend of Robin’s, could you, uh—“ 

“Oh, of course, dear,” the woman says, and Eddie feels his eyes beginning to prick with how nice she sounds even through the phone. 

Does she know Steve, too? Would she worry if she knew? Would she curse Eddie for not taking him to the hospital right away? Would she blame him if anything happened? 

“I’m sorry? What did you say your name was?” she asks, repeating herself by the sound of it. 

He blanks, for a whole five seconds, before he spots a note stuck to the fridge saying Don’t forget to eat, Eddie :-)

“Eddie,” he croaks. “Uh, Eddie Munson.”

“Alright, Eddie Munson, I’ll see if I can grab Robin for you. You have a good day, dear, yes?” 

No. “Thanks.” 

The hand clenched in his hair pulls tighter and tighter until the tears fall and he can pretend it’s from pain and not from— whatever the fuck is happening. 

He waits, phone pressed to his ear with a kind of desperation he’s never really felt, and never wants to feel again. He doesn’t even know what to tell Robin; what to say. It’s not like they ever hang out or have anything to say to each other, so why would she— 

“Munson?” Robin’s voice appears on the other end, a little too loud for Eddie’s certain state, and he does drop the phone this time, scrambling to catch it and only making the situation worse as it dangles by his knees. 

He drops to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and reaching for the phone again. 

“Hi.” 

“What do you want? How’d you even get this number? I swear, if you—“ 

“It’s Blue. I mean, Steve. Harrington.” 

That shuts her right up, and Eddie clenches his eyes shut for a moment, hoping to keep the tremor out of his voice if only he takes a moment to breathe. 

The moment stretches. And Robin’s voice is wary and quiet when she speaks again. 

“What about Steve.” 

Eddie rubs his face, leaving more dirt and grime to fill the tear tracks, and clenches his fist before his mouth. 

“Eddie,” Robin demands, dangerous now. Nothing left of the rambling, bubbling mess he knows her to be on the school hallways. “What. About. Steve.” 

“He… He’s hurt.” 

There’s a bit of a commotion on the other end, before Robin declares, “I’m coming over. You tell me everything.” 

“You— I mean, he’s in the hospital with my uncle, so—“ 

“I am. Coming. Over,” she says, enunciating every word as though she were making a threat. Maybe she is. But the certainty in her voice helps a little, anchors him the same way that Wayne’s calmness did. “And you tell me everything.” 

Eddie finds himself nodding along, knowing intuitively that there is nothing that could stop her now. Knowing that he doesn’t want to stop her. 

“‘Kay.” It’s a pathetic little sound, all choked up and tiny. She doesn’t comment on it. 

One second he hears her determined exhale, the next she’s hung up on him and Eddie is greeted by the flatline again. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans his head back against the wall. 

Breathing is hard again, but it’s all he has to do now, all that’s left to do, so he focuses. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. His lungs are burning and there’s something wrong about the way he pulls in air and keeps it there, desperately latching onto it until the very last second, his exhales more of a gasping cough than calm and controlled. 

It takes a while. Longer than it should. But with Harrington’s blood still on his hands, with his heartbeat in his ears so loud he can’t even hear the words Wayne used to say about breathing in through the mouth or the nose or… or something, he— 

He’s fine. He’s home. Wayne’s got Blue, and Buckley is on her way, and… He’s fine. 

People don’t just die. 

They don’t. 

He’s fine. 

Eventually, Eddie manages to breathe steadily, the air no longer shuddering and his hands no longer shaking. It’s stupid, really, being so worked up over someone he doesn’t even really know. Sure, everyone knows Steve fucking Harrington, and everyone sees Steve fucking Harrington — whether they want it or not. He has a way of drawing eyes toward him even if all he does is walk the halls with his dorky smile and that stupidly charming swagger he’s got going on. Always matching his shoes to his outfit.

Eddie can relate.

Always reaching out to touch the person he’s talking to; clapping their back or shoulder, lightly shoving them in jest, ruffling their hair or chasing them through the halls, moving and holding himself like teenage angst can’t reach him. Like he belongs wherever he goes. Like he’s so, so comfortable in his own skin. Like the clothes he wears aren’t armour but just a part of him; a means of self-expression. 

Again, Eddie can relate. He can relate to all of this. 

It’s almost like the two of them aren’t so different after all. Just going about it differently. 

And now he’s… Bleeding. Slurring his speech. Wheezing his breath. And Eddie feels protective. Eddie feels responsible. Like he should be there, like he should get to know more about him. About Steve. About Blue. 

But he can’t. And he won’t. So he gets up with a groan that expresses his frustration and the need to make a sound, to fight the oppressive silence that only encourages his thoughts to run in obsessive little circles, and he hangs up the phone that’s been dangling beside him all this time. 

He needs a smoke. 

He needs a smoke and a blunt and a drink and for this day to be over and for time to revert and to leave him out of whatever business he stumbled into by opening the door to the boathouse and, apparently, Steve Harrington’s life. 

But unfortunately, the universe doesn’t seem to care about what he needs, because just as he steps outside and goes to light his cig, he catches sight of a harried looking Robin Buckley, standing on the pedals of her bike as she kicks them, her hair blowing in the wind to reveal a frown between her brows. A wave of unease overcomes Eddie, an unease he can’t really place. Maybe it’s the set of her jaw, or the tension in her shoulders, or maybe it’s the worry and anger she exudes. 

It never occurred to him before that Robin Buckley might not be a person you’d want to set off. And not because of her uncontrollable rambles. 

“Munson!” she calls over, carelessly dropping her bike in the driveway and stalking toward him. 

Almost as if summoning a shield, Eddie does light the cigarette. Pretends like the smoke can protect him. 

She doesn’t stop at the foot of the steps, though, climbs them in two leaps and gets all up in his space with that unwavering look of determination — so unwavering, in fact, that it almost looks like wrath. Cold. Eddie wants to shrink away from it, not at all daring to wonder what could make her look like that upon hearing that Steve’s hurt. 

I don’t wanna die, Munson. I never… I didn’t. With the monsters or the torture.

But those are the words of a semi-conscious teenage boy beat to a pulp, they can’t— There’s no way. Eddie misheard him, or Steve was talking about some kind of inside joke, using the wrong terminology with the wrong guy. It happens. It happens when you’re out of it, really! The shit he’s said when he was shot up, canned up, all strung out and high as a kite… He’d be talking of monsters, too, and mean some benign shit. 

But the way Harrington looked, none of that was benign. The bruising all over his face, the blood still dripping from the wound by his temple or his nose, the way he held himself, breath rattling in his lungs, or— 

“Hey!” Buckley demands his attention, giving him a light shove; just enough to catch his attention, really, and just what he needed to snap out of it. Still the smoke hits his lungs wrong and he coughs up a lung, further cementing his role of the pathetic little guy today. 

“Hey,” he says lamely, his voice still croaking as he crushes the half-smoked cigarette under his boot. “Sorry.” He doesn’t know for what. But it feels appropriate. 

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at him as she crosses her arms in front of her chest. 

“Tell me,” she says at last, and even though there is a tremor in her voice, she sounds nothing short of demanding. “I want the whole story, and I want it now.” 

And so he does. He tells her everything, bidding her inside because he needs the relative safety of the trailer even though the air in here is stuffy and still faintly smells blue. He pours them both some coffee and some tea, because asking what she wants doesn’t feel right in the middle of telling her how he found her supposed best friend beat to shit in the boathouse he went to to forget about the world for a while. 

She stills as she listens to him, staring ahead into the middle distance somewhere beneath the floor and the walls, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug of coffee. Eddie stumbles over his words a lot, unsettled by her stillness, her lack of reaction. She doesn’t even react to his fuck-ups. People usually do.

He wants to ask. Where are you right now? What have you seen? What’s on your mind? What the fuck is happening?

But he doesn’t ask, instead he tells her more about Steve. About how he seemed to forget where he was. About the pain he was in. About the smiles nonetheless. The way he reassured Eddie. 

That one finally gets a choked little huff from her, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. 

“Yeah, that sounds like him alright. He’s such a dingus.” 

There is so much affection in her voice as she says it that Eddie can’t help but smile into his mug. 

“Dingus?” he asks, hoping for some lightness, hoping to keep it. 

But the light fades, and her eyes get distant again. Eddie wants to kick himself. 

“Just a stupid little nickname. An insult, really.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to do with that. If he should ask more or if he should say that he has a feeling Steve might appreciate stupid little nicknames. Especially if they’re unique. Especially if they’re for him. But what right does he have to say that now? What knowledge does he have about Steve Harrington that Robin doesn’t? 

So he bites his tongue and drinks his coffee, cursing the silence that falls over them as Robin mirrors him, albeit slow and stilted, like she doesn’t know what to do either. Or where to put her limbs. 

“Wayne’s got him now. I took him here, after the boathouse, because I didn’t know what to do. He said he didn’t want the hospital, said there’s…” He trails off. 

Robin looks at him, her eyes wary but alert. “Said there’s what?” 

It’s stupid. Don’t say it. 

“Eddie?” 

With a sigh, he puts his mug on the counter and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “He said there’s monsters. In the hospital, I mean. He said that.”

Instead of scoffing or at least frowning, Robin clenches her jaw and nods imperceptibly, her eyes going distant again. Eddie blinks, the urge to just fucking ask overcoming him again, but with every passing second he realises that he doesn’t actually want to ask. He doesn’t want to know, let alone find out. 

He just… He just wants to go to bed. Forget any of this ever happened. But he can’t do that, so he continues. 

“Brought him here and Wayne took one look at him and convinced him he needed a doctor. And, Jesus H Christ, he was right. I’ve never… I mean, those things don’t happen,” he urges, balling his hands into fists even in the confined space of his pockets. “Right? I mean… Shit, man.” He bumps his shoe into the kitchen counter; gently, so as not to startle Buckley out of her fugue like state. 

“You’d be surprised,” she rasps, staring into the middle distance again and slowly sinking to the floor. There is a tremor in her shoulders now, barely noticeable, but Eddie knows where to look. Without really thinking about it, he grabs two of his hoodies he’d haphazardly thrown over the kitchen chairs this morning while deciding on his outfit and realising that it was altogether too warm for long sleeves today. But now, right here in this kitchen, the air tinged with blue, they’re both freezing. 

Because fear and worry will take all the warmth right from inside of you and leave you freezing even on the hottest day of the year. 

She barely looks at him when he holds out his all-black Iron Maiden hoodie to her, freshly washed and all that, but she takes it nonetheless, immediately pulling it on. It’s way too large on her, her hands not showing through the sleeves, her balled fists safe and warm inside the fabric. It would make him smile if only it didn’t highlight her stillness, her faraway stare, and the years he has on her. She’s, what, two years younger than him? Three? 

It seems surreal. Everything, everything does. 

Robin Buckley in his home, sitting on his kitchen floor, swallowed by a hoodie that is a size too large even for him, but it was the last one they had in the store and he doesn’t mind oversized clothes, can just cut them shorter when the need arises or layer them or declare them comfort sweaters for when he wants to just have his hands not slip through the sleeves on some days. And now Robin is wearing his comfort hoodie because her best friend was bleeding in his car earlier and then on his couch and now in his uncle’s car, and they never even talk, but he knows that Robin’s favourite colour is blue, but not morning hour blue because that makes her sad; only deep, dark blues. 

Her favourite colour. Her favourite person. 

It’s so fucking surreal. 

He drops down beside her, leaving enough space between them so neither of them feels caged, and mirrors her position: knees to his chest, chin on his forearms. Staring ahead. 

And silence reigns. 

“Your uncle,” she says at last, finally breaking the silence that’s been grating on Eddie’s nerves and looking at him, really looking as she rests her cheek on her forearms crossed over her knees. “Tell me about him.” 

There is a gentleness to her voice now despite how hoarse it is. Maybe she’s just tired, too. And scared. At least the shivering has stopped. 

Still Eddie frowns, confused as to why she should be breaking the silence to ask about Wayne when everything today has been about Harrington. About Steve. About deep and dark blues. 

“Uncle Wayne?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because,” she begins, and sighs deeply, works to get the air back in her lungs. Eddie wants to reach out, but instead he just clenches his fingers a little deeper into the fabric of his hoodie. “My best friend is hurt very badly and the only person with him is your uncle, and I need to know that he’s in good hands. Or I swear to whatever god you may or may not believe in, and granted, it’s probably the latter, but still I swear I’ll give into my arsonist tendencies and burn down this city, starting with your trailer if you don’t tell me that your uncle is a good man who will do anything in his power to make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs. And deserves.” 

Her jaw is set and her bottom lip trembles, but it doesn’t take away from the absolute sincerity in her threat. 

“So, please,” she continues, her voice breaking just a little bit. “Tell me. Tell me about your uncle.” 

Tell me about your favourite person. 

Eddie swallows, and mirrors her position once more, so she can see his eyes and know he’s sincere. Because he’s learned something about eyes today, about how much in the world can change if only you have a pair of eyes to look into. 

And he nods, looking for somewhere to start. “He’s the best man I know. He’s the best man you’ll ever meet.”

She clings to his eyes. Searches them for the truth, beseeching them not to lie. He lets her. 

“Took me in when I was ten, because my dad’s a fuck-up and my mom’s a goner. Took me in again when I was twelve after I ran away. Makes me breakfast and I pretends the dinner I make him is more than edible.” He smiles a little, because how could he not? “He’s my uncle, but still he’s the best parent anyone could wish for. Writes those little notes that he sticks to the fridge, y’know, the one with the smiley face? Tells me to eat, because I forget sometimes. I tell him to drink water, because he forgets. First few years, he’d read to me. And the man’s a shit reader, has some kind of disability I think, and at some point I learned that he wasn’t reading at all. He was telling me stories all the time, conning me into thinking that the books were magic, and that every time I’d try to read the book for myself, the story would change.” 

There’s a lump in his throat now, and his eyes sting again. But Robin doesn’t seem to fare any better than him if her wavering smile is any indication. 

“There’s no one,” Eddie continues, “who will make you believe in magic quite like uncle Wayne. Or in good things. And d’you wanna know what he told Blue when he said he was scared of going to the hospital?” 

Sniffling, Robin shakes her head. 

“He said, Okay. Then we do it scared. And all of that after he just… with that patience he has, told him everything that was gonna happen. And that he’d be there with him through it all. That he knew the doc and wouldn’t let anyone else near him, and that there’s no need to be scared at all.” 

He sighs, breathes, stills. Swallows, before looking back at Robin. 

“So, if there’s one person who’ll make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs and deserves…” 

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Robin finishes his sentence, her voice still hoarse, but Eddie likes to think it’s for a different reason now. 

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Eddie says, nodding along as he does. 

There is something like understanding in Robin’s eyes now, and Eddie hopes it’s enough. Enough to calm the spiking of her nerves, enough to settle the coil of freezing nausea that must reside in the pit of her stomach, enough to let the next breath she takes feel a little more like it’s supposed to be there. 

He wants to say something more, wants to reach out and reassure her that everything will be okay, but he can’t know that. He doesn’t feel like it’s entirely true, let alone appropriate right now. 

There’s something in Robin’s eyes, in the way she holds herself, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she accepts his words at face value but doesn’t really believe them. Like she’ll only rest when she’s got her best friend back in her arms and hears the story — the whole story — from him. 

And Eddie doesn’t fault her, because the thing is, he doesn’t know what happened. Steve said that Hagan came at him, but that’s really all he got out of him before he started talking about death and shit, and Eddie really didn’t want to ask any more questions then. 

So they sit there for a while, the silence oppressive and unwelcome, clumsy and awkward; Robin’s mouth opening and closing a lot, like she wants to ask questions but doesn’t dare to ask them — and Eddie doesn’t know if he’s glad about it or not. Doesn’t know if he wants to hear the kind of questions asked with that kind of stare. 

It is only after a long while, when Robin’s shoulders start shaking again and she buries deeper into the hoodie and her own spiralling thoughts, that Eddie breaks the silence again, replaying in his head the last moment between him and Steve. 

“He’s not gonna break,” he tells her, aiming for gentle and reassuring. 

What he doesn’t expect is the minute flinch, the jolt shooting through her body and the pained expression it leaves her with. What he doesn’t expect is what she says next. 

“You know,” she begins, her voice as far away as her eyes, and it’s like she doesn’t even know she’s speaking. “Sometimes I wish he would.” 

What?

Eddie blinks, swallowing hard.

“Just for, just for a break. Just so he can rest. Let the rest take over for a while.” 

That… He doesn’t— What the hell does that even mean? 

“Like maybe then the world would… snap back.” She snaps her fingers, just once. This time it’s Eddie who flinches. “And everything bad would disappear. But it won’t. And he won’t.” She swallows. Then quietly, almost inaudible, “He won’t break.” 

And the way she says it… It was reassuring before. And now it feels like a burden. A curse. 

Who the fuck are you, Steve Harrington? And you, Robin Buckley. 

Eddie shudders, knowing he doesn’t want the answer to that anymore. He doesn’t want the questions either. So he buries his face in his hands, closes his eyes, and breathes. The adrenaline has worn off by now, the repeated panicking that added fuse to the fire has ceased now, leaving him worn out and strung out, tired and exhausted. He pulls up the hood, burrowing into the warmth. 

And then he stills. His usually twitching, fumbling, fiddling body falling entirely still beside Buckley. 

It’s like time stops for a while there, even though Eddie knows that it’s dragging ever on and on. He’s inclined to let it, though. He’s too tired, too exhausted to really care about what time may or may not be doing. 

“Why’d you call me?” 

It takes a while for Eddie to realise that Robin’s spoken again, asked him a question out loud, the cadence of it different to the endless circles of questions Eddie’s got stuck in his head since the early afternoon tinged in blue against crimson. 

He lifts his head, tucking his hands underneath his chin, and looks over at Buckley. Her hair is dishevelled now, her mascara smudged and crusty. Her lipstick is almost all gone, with the way he sees her biting and chewing on her lips. 

“I… It seemed like the right thing to do, y’know? He kept repeating your number. In the car, it was like… Sounds dramatic, but it was like his lifeline, almost. Repeated it so often it kinda got stuck.” He shrugs. “Seemed important, too.”

Robin frowns; a careful little thing. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Well, he just talked about you. Y’know. Tell me about your favourite person, I told him, because that’s the thing you gotta do to keep people, like, talking to you. Not shit about what day it is, or what. Just, y’know. Let them talk about things they like. Things they’ll wanna tell you about. ’N’ he talked about you.” 

She’s quiet for a while, letting his words sink in. And Eddie wonders if she knew. That she’s his favourite person. If he ever told her. If maybe he took that from him now. It’s a stupid thing to worry about, really; the boy was bloodied and bruised on his couch just an hour ago, there are worse things at hand for Eddie to worry about. But now he wonders if he just spilled some sort of secret. Some sort of love confession. 

“Did you, I mean… Are you guys, like, dating? Did I just steal his moment?” 

Robin huffs, but it’s more like a smile that needs a little more space in the room, a little more air to really bloom. It’s fond. She shakes her head, her eyes far away again, but closer somehow. 

“Nah,” she says, and the smile is in her voice, too. Eddie kind of likes her voice like that. “We’re platonic. Which is something I’d never thought I’d say. Not about Steve Harrington, y’know?” 

And the way she drags out his name… Eddie can relate. Like it means something, but like what it means is nowhere close to reality. Nowhere close to what it really means. Nowhere close to Blue. 

Robin sighs, the sound more gentle than it should be, and leans her head against the cabinet behind her. “We worked together over summer break. Scoops Ahoy.” Her voice does a funny thing, and her eyes glaze over as she pauses. Eddie waits, his lips tipped up into a little smile, too; to match hers. 

“What, the ice cream parlour?” 

Robin hums, her smile widening at what Eddie guesses must be memories of chaos and ridiculousness. “I wanted to hate him,” she continues. “But try as I might, he wouldn’t let me. Or, he did. He did let me. Just, it turns out, there’s no use hating Steve Harrington, not when he’s so… So endlessly genuine. There’s nothing to hate, y’know? And then he…” 

She stops, her mouth clicking shut as her eyes tear up a little. The Starcourt fire. Eddie remembers the news, remembers the self-satisfied smirk when he’d heard about it, remembers sticking it to the Man and to capitalism and to the idea of malls over supporting your friendly neighbourhood businesses. 

Guilt and shame overcome him as he realises that they must have been in there when it happened. 

“He saved your life?” 

Robin’s eyes snap toward him, wide and caught, and Eddie raises his hands in placation. 

“In the fire? Were you there?” 

“Y—yeah.” She swallows hard, avoiding his eyes. “The fire. He saved me. Yeah.” 

Eddie nods, deciding to drop that topic right there; to lay it on the ground as gently as he can and cover it with bright red colours so he never steps on it ever again. 

“He must be your favourite person, too, then, hm?” he steers the conversation back away into safer waters. 

“He is,” she says, sure and genuine and true. “It’s just. I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s favourite. He has a lot of people who care about him, you know? A lot of people he cares about. Even more numbers memorised in that stupidly smart head of his.” She huffs again, burrowing deeper into Eddie’s hoodie, pulling the sleeves over her hands some more. “It’s stupid, to be so hung up on this. Is it stupid?” 

“I don’t think it is,” Eddie says, scooting a little closer to Robin. “Like, I don’t even know that boy, right? But even I know that he’s got some ways to shift your focus or something. Give you a silver lining, or something to take the pain away even when he’s the one who… I don’t know, that’s probably stupid, too.” 

“Nah,” Robin says, scooting closer to him, too, until their sides are pressed together and she can lay her head on his shoulder. “It’s not stupid. You’re right; that’s Steve for you. ’S just who he is.” 

It is, isn’t it? 

You’re so blue, Stevie. 

She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.

Blue. ‘S nice. 

Yeah. Yeah, he is. 

Eddie lets his thoughts roam the endless possibilities and realities that is Steve Harrington, the depths he hides — or won’t hide, maybe, if you know how to ask. Where to look. 

Maybe he’ll find out, one of these days. Not about the terrible things that leave him scared of the hospital, not about the horrible things that have him speaking of death and dying like he’s accepted them as a possibility a long time ago. 

He swallows hard and shakes off these thoughts, because things like that just. They don’t happen. They don’t happen to blue-smiled boys who trust you to be kind even when they’re beaten straight to hell. And they sure as hell don’t happen when uncle Wayne’s around. 

Nothing bad has ever happened when uncle Wayne was around. 

And he wants to tell Robin, wants to make that promise. But part of him can’t bear the thought of being wrong. So he keeps his mouth shut and just sits with her, their heads as heavy as their hearts as they wait. 

The sun is long gone when the phone above him rings again, spooking and startling them out of their timeless existence. 

“Yeah?” he answers, his heart hammering in his chest. “Wayne?” 

“Hey, Ed,” Wayne’s voice comes through the phone like a melody. Calm and steady. Robin is scooting closer, and Eddie shifts the phone to accommodate her so they can both listen. Somehow, they ended up holding hands — and holding on hard. “We’re coming home now.” 

🤍🌷 tagging:

@theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 @annabanannabeth @deany-baby @mc-i-r @mugloversonly @viridianphtalo @nightmareglitter @jamieweasley13 @copingmechanizm @marklee-blackmore @sirsnacksalot @justrandomfandomstm @hairdryerducks @silenzioperso @newtstabber @fantrash @zaddipax @cometsandstardust @rowanshadow26 @limpingpenguin @finntheehumaneater @extra-transitional (sorry if i missed anyone! lmk if you don't wanna be tagged for part 4 🫶)

[wanderingblindly]

re: landoscar hand size difference

I would just like to contribute the clip of Lando straight up not fitting into the settings of lie detector thingy Oscar litterally just took off. every time I rewatch that video I have to hold myself back from actually foaming at the mouth, it never gets any less insane, like what the fuck

OHHHHHHH MY GOD OH MY GOD?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

neb. neb the size of lando's hands. the size of his knuckles compared to oscar's??? fic where oscar fantasizes about it when. getting together fic where oscar has fantasized about lando's hands for months when. fic where oscar realizes that lando's fingers sure feel a lot different than his when.

i need to go sit in a field about this actually. thank you for your service i love you

[captainbobbin]

happy birthday, saix

[unfortunatelyevent]

thinking about essek thelyss "my entire life goal is and has always been the search for knowledge, the uncovery of mysteries, and I'll do it before everyone one way or another, no matter what I have to do, no matter the cost, but meeting you turned my life around in such a way that I would turn away the opportunity to uncover the greatest time mystery of all that's right in front of me and fix every mistake I made, just by the mere possibility that changing any of the choices I made would take you from me, nothing would make me give away any of the moments I had and will have with you.... unless it's for you, then I would do it in a heart beat" and going just a little bit more insane

[da-janela-lateral]

People always comment about cool Dimple possession ideas and forget one of the most frankly underrated ones: the teenage journalist who STOLE his cult.

[avocado62524]

[mishy-mashy]

Bruce is actually really attractive, and I have enough reasoning to make a list

He's:

Tall (. Tall enough to hit his head on the vault doorframe)

Long-legged

Has a straight nose bridge

Has high cheekbones (more noticeable in 2nd pic below)

Has a strong jawline

Sharp eyes, but they aren't small (plus eyebags if you're into that)

Overall, he has strong, attractive facial features

Has broad, refined shoulders. You can tell he works out (or he did, when he was alive)

Even has a thick, muscly neck

He has MUSCLE. Is SCULPTED. NOICE. VERY NOICE. (nice arms. Nice shoulders. Nice neck. Nice legs. Nice butt-)

(There are actually panels where you can see some of his muscles. Other than those already shown here, he's got bricky thighs-

-and in the panels where we first get his name dropped, he's got those shoulder blades too-)

The one time we see him smile, and he actually has a scary one

Has small, kinda sharp pupils, and his eyes remind me of a cat. We only ever saw him tense or defensive, so his resting/listening face is really cute

Other than the physical appearance stuff, he also:

Takes shit without batting an eye (patience, knowing it's just how Kudo is, etc)

Kudo being all "Cut the crap Bruce and give it to me straight", after Bruce tests his blood and is rightfully Concerned because they just faced AFO

Put up with Kudo's experimenting and testing over Yoichi's transferable Factor

Did ya'll see the look on Kudo's face when he realized he had Yoichi's Factor/will? Kudo was going to start in nonsense and Bruce just dealt with that.

Also something I noticed when looking back at the images here; Bruce has bandages on his arms in the void. But not when he faced AFO in the sewers.

Were he and Kudo cutting their arms open in their experimenting over Yoichi's theory? Is this why Kudo has two gauntlets instead of his one? Why we never see his bare arms in the void? That he always keeps his arms down so there's no slip?

Is smart enough to run blood tests, plus has enough common sense to pick Shinomori as his successor

He picked a guy who avoids society, has an Ability to detect danger so he can always stay away from AFO, is also a coward so he's never going to go throw himself into danger, even without knowing instinctively he stands no chance, etc.

Meanwhile, Kudo chose Bruce, who he played Hot Potato Yoichi with; but he did also trust Bruce, and put the only pure combative Ability in OFA through Bruce.

These two made their choices based on what they valued and saw the Factor needed.

Is logical, analytical, and calm.

He tried advising Midoriya on their Abilities in One For All, especially his own.

Midoriya then tried ignoring him about using Fa Jin for the first time, but found he was right, thinking: "Dammit!! I had [Lady Nagant] right where I wanted her, but... ugh! The Third was right. My parallel Quirk processes are all screwed up!" (ch. 314).

Plus, when Midoriya fixed his processing mistakes, Bruce was analyzing the way he reached his new conclusion. Pure facts, no bias, very calm, just saying it as it was.

We never see him panic. When he's caught by surprise in the sewers by AFO, Kudo, and Yoichi's little bubble event, he immediately reacts. He doesn't falter, he just knows he has to do something right now.

Was more willing to listen than Kudo to Yoichi's beckon, and probably was just following Kudo's rejection of Midoriya

While we don't see Kudo's face, we see Bruce's eyes when Yoichi calls on his heroes. Bruce was more open and receptive, or at least more impacted.

Bruce was also the one to start talking, while Kudo just kept quiet.

He actually communicates a lot

When Yoichi called them to support Midoriya, Bruce started talking to paint a picture of why they thought the way they did, so Yoichi understood where they were coming from.

(Though he seems to beat about the bush sometimes, since Kudo spoke up to be direct on how they couldn't just put their trust in some starry-eyed teenager. Plus, when Kudo tells him to just tell him what's wrong [double Factors])

When Midoriya first used Fa Jin against Nagant, Bruce came out just to tell him he knew what he was trying, but that Midoriya wasn't ready; and Midoriya found he was right. Midoriya just didn't want to listen to him then.

He asks Kudo for clarification after finding Kudo had two Factors in him after the sewer incident ("Just to be sure, All For One didn't touch you, right?") Kudo knew him well enough to go "stop beating around the bush and tell me", so Bruce was probably gonna start with questions, theories, and trying to understand everything in general, before saying "yeah you have two Factors. Don't know why".

Is strong-willed and loyal.

He followed Kudo, even to death, carrying on the cause he started until it ended with him.

Plus, when talking about how AFO needs a strong will to override OFA's own, we first see Bruce, Kudo, and Yoichi.

AFO couldn't steal OFA because the will was too strong for him, and that was back during Banjo's time. Since Shinomori never actually tried opposing AFO and just hid, we can assume the first Three (Yoichi, Kudo, Bruce) already had an accumulation of strong willpower that made OFA un-stealable. Those three are a strong enough foundation, and the main wills, that the other users just become bonuses.

Kudo, also saying that Midoriya needs allies with the same will and drive as him... hey Kudo, you're talking about yourself and your old allies, aren't you? That's why you look at Yoichi and Bruce when you say this.

Not only is Bruce attractive, but he's got good character. THE END.

[flyingbuddiies]

i hope taco permadies in the finale. i hope she’s a victim of circumstance. i hope she dies convincing herself its for the better. that it’s her final punishment. that there was no other ending than this. that if her attempts to apologize for all the hurt she’s done didn’t work, she’s fully irredeemable. that there is no other fate best-suited for her other than death, and that in life there is no further point for her. i hope she dies believing she deserves it.

i hope she never gets the chance to tell microphone she loves her. i hope microphone is eternally left in the dark. i hope she never discovers the true extent of tacos remorse. her guilt. i hope she is left in silence to only ponder about how taco felt, hoping and praying that she meant anything to her. even a tiny bit. clinging onto any fraction of hope that taco could possibly feel the same way she does.

i hope microphone never finds out she’s dead. i hope she is led to believe that taco moved on from her. that she never meant anything to her. that she wasn’t enough again.

[blueberryspyder]

Listening to Rusty Quill Gaming holiday episodes has me like

I’ve gotten into some niche shit before, but this? This is a bit much even for me

[devildom-moss]

November poll story - pt. 2

Denial - Mephistopheles

(Mephistopheles x gn!MC)

(NSFW) (sub!Mephistopheles / dom!MC) (NSFW tags: denial; edging; ruined orgasm; no penetration; no orgasm; handjob; public why have I developed such an intense exhibitionist/risk of getting caught headcanon for him?; partially clothed Mephi, fully clothed reader; "good boy" for Mephisto he's such a good boy and I'll die on that hill)

(other tags: slight jealousy, slight angst, insecurity)

Word Count: +2,900

“Can I borrow you in the newspaper room, MC?” Mephisto nudged his way into your conversation with Satan about that mystery novel he had lent you last month.

“Not right now,” you dismissed him.

“I only need a few minutes of your time,” Mephisto insisted.

“But –”

“Go ahead,” Satan sighed, assuming you were declining on his behalf. “We can continue this later.”

“Excellent.” Mephisto placed a firm hand on your back and quickly pushed you towards the newspaper room as if he had been waiting for Satan’s approval to steal you away. Of course, that was because Mephisto assumed you wanted to go with him – and usually you did.

The second Mephisto stepped foot into the empty newspaper room, he shut the door and pushed your back against it. His lips pressed to yours in hungry, ravenous kisses. Those warm, gloved hands took hold of you by the back of your neck as he pushed his tongue into your mouth. A low growl left him, vibrating through you. The need was tangible. You could taste how much he craved you.

Yet, you pushed the starved demon back. Mephisto stared at you, breath ragged and eyes bewildered. “Again?”

You could hardly keep track of the number of times you had given Mephisto the slip over the last few weeks. If you had to take a guess, perhaps eight. Every time Mephisto tried to pull you into an empty classroom or the newspaper room when he knew no one would be there, you either refused to go with him or you pushed him away as quickly as he had gotten his hands and lips on you. It had grown frustrating. Just last month, you had five different secret rendezvouses throughout the campus – with no complaints, Mephisto would add. Not all of them ending in sex, but it was at least enough to satisfy his growing desire for you. Now, you scarcely let him kiss you before you provided a half-baked excuse as to why you needed to leave.

“I need to meet Solomon for –” you started with another excuse, trying to maneuver out of his grasp.

“No.” Mephisto boxed you in against the door, his arms planted firmly on either side of your body.

“Isn’t this a bit cliché: trapping me against the door?” You rolled your eyes at him.

“What’s up with you?” Mephisto huffed and inched closer to your face, searching your eyes for anything that would explain your sudden withdrawal.

~

The answer he was searching for was that this was, for the most part, a punishment of his own making. Three weeks ago, you overheard a conversation between Lucifer, Diavolo, Barbatos, and Mephisto. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you had a report to drop off, and they were all chatting in the student council room when you heard your name leave Diavolo’s mouth.

“Are you friends with MC already, Mephistopheles?” Diavolo asked.

“I beg your pardon, My Lord?” Mephisto sounded like he had been caught off guard. You knew you shouldn’t have been listening from the hallway, but you were equal parts anxious, curious, and hoping not to embarrass anyone by showing up right as they were talking about you.

“You seem to have taken a liking to them, am I wrong?”

“I have to agree, Young Master,” Barbatos concurred. “I’ve spotted you two together on multiple occasions, Mephistopheles. Certainly, you must be on friendly terms by now.”

“Is that so?” Diavolo mused. “Have you noticed anything, Lucifer?”

“MC has not mentioned Mephisto once in my presence, although I have seen them together. Perhaps it’s one-sided, then.”

“I have absolutely no interest in that human!” Mephisto interjected – loud and adamant.

Your heart sank when those words left his mouth. Although you couldn’t fault him for trying to keep the details of your relationship a secret, there was something harsh and cruel about his denial. It was so extreme. He wouldn’t even say your name. He had reduced you down to “that human.”

“Oh?” Diavolo questioned him. “That’s a shame. I was hoping you would get along.”

“We aren’t enemies, My Lord!” Mephisto tried to course-correct. “We just aren’t that friendly, is all.”

You took a deep breath before entering the council room.

“Ah, MC! What brings you in?” Diavolo greeted you. At that, Mephisto turned to stare, his face flushed with shame and guilt.

~

“Are you suddenly worried about doing this in public? I’ve been careful to lock the doors. Or,” Mephisto paused self-consciously, “do you not want me anymore? Is that why you won’t touch me?”

“Is that really what you think?” You sighed and crossed your arms. You might as well be honest. “How would you react if someone asked how I felt about you, and I told them I had no interest in ‘that demon?’ That wouldn’t hurt you?”

Mephisto’s eyes widened. He had completely forgotten about that incident – after a few days of embarrassment that kept him up at night, of course. He was mortified by your sudden arrival at the time, as if your name alone could summon you, but he never imagined you had heard what he said – although seeing you had filled him with instant regret. Unfortunately, when that guilt and regret came rushing back, Mephisto became defensive. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Lucifer. That human you’re all so fond of, well, I like them too now. Hope you enjoy more competition for their affection.’”

“That sounds exactly like something you would say.”

“And when has competing with Lucifer ever worked out for me, hm?” Mephisto ran his hand through his hair. “So, what, I tell him I want you, so he sinks his fucking claws in and takes you away from me? He hates to lose.”

“Fuck you.” His explanation irritated you. You understood that he was insecure, especially when Lucifer was involved, but Mephisto owed you more trust than that. By now, you thought you had proved that your feelings were not as fickle as he assumed them to be.

“Excuse me?” Mephisto furrowed his brows, surprised at your annoyance.

“Fuck. You,” you repeated.

Mephisto scoffed. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do for weeks.”

“Then get undressed.” You looked him up and down. “Now.”

“Really?” Enthusiasm bubbled up to the surface, and a grin bloomed on Mephisto’s face.

Mephisto yanked his jacket off and threw it over a nearby desk. His gloves, tie, and shirt quickly followed. Even your irritation with him couldn’t diminish the excitement you felt when watching him strip. Your resolution to avoid him had left you frustrated and wanting, too. Still, your lust didn’t nullify your anger, either.

When Mephisto put his hand on the side of your neck and tried to pull you in for a kiss, you pushed back on his bare chest to stop him. He was about to question your continued rejection of his advances when you leaned in to bite his neck. A soft whimper escaped him. With one hand still on your neck, Mephisto used the other to try to remove your jacket. His already clumsy efforts came to a halt when you traced over the newly-formed mark with your tongue and squeezed his upper thigh in your hand, massaging small circles into his leg with your thumb. Mephisto let out a soft, pleased moan and tightened his grip on your clothes.

You chuckled, tickling his neck with your breath. Your hand slid further up until you were palming him through his pants. Mephisto gasped and let go of your neck only to bury his face into your shoulder.

“Mm, fuck. I forgot how good your touch feels,” Mephisto whispered shakily against your skin. His stomach flexed as pleasure rose in him.

You kissed from his neck, along his collarbone, and down his chest, leaving Mephisto’s flushed face exposed to the empty room. The hand that clung to your shirt let go to hold the back of your head as you peppered his chest with kisses and soft licks. When you finally focused your attention on one of his nipples, biting it gently before sucking and swirling your tongue around it, the combined pleasure and anticipation left Mephisto whining. His free hand shot up over his mouth to muffle the sound.

Mephisto had always made a decent attempt to keep the noise down when you fooled around in public, despite being so noisy in bed. He enjoyed the risk, but he was usually so careful. You gave him one more soft lick before you pulled back slightly to look up at him. The back of his hand was pressed firmly against his lips, and his eyes were half lidded – with his long lashes further obscuring his eyes as he stared at you in a lust-filled daze. A deep blush stained his cheeks and ears.

“Are you more sensitive than usual?” you teased, feeling a twitch beneath your palm.

“It’s been a while. I’m pent up.” Mephisto admitted sheepishly. He pulled his hand away from his face, revealing a slick spot of drool on his skin.

Straightening your back, you leaned close to whisper in his ear: “good.”

You rubbed over his bulge a few more times before finally undoing his pants, dropping them around his thighs, and taking his cock out. He was so hard and had already started leaking precum into his underwear. Mephisto shivered and gasped when you used his precum to lube up your hand and tease his tip. Within a few strokes, Mephisto had made enough of a mess that you could forgo alternate forms of lube.

Watching his face twist in pleasure while he bit his lip, trying to hold his moans back, you pumped Mephisto’s cock and coated his entire length with his own slick fluids. His breath grew shallow, and the moans began to escape in short, muffled whines like the initial cracks in a dam. Mephisto’s legs trembled under him, threatening to give out. You used your free hand to support his back, but it wasn’t quite enough.

“Sit on the desk behind you,” you demanded, letting go of his dick to place your hand firmly above his pelvis and push him back towards the edge of the desk.

“But it’s not mine,” he protested weakly. When had that ever stopped him before? Although, now that you thought about it, whenever you fucked in the newspaper room, it was usually up against a wall when his body could handle it, or at his own desk. It was almost cute that he respected other members of the newspaper club enough to try not to make a mess on their desks.

“Do it anyway,” you whispered in his ear. “Or would you rather hold onto your cane instead of me?”

You could have supported him more, or dragged him over to his desk, but you wanted to push him – test his desperation. You removed your hand from his back just long enough to carefully sweep any papers and obstructions to the side so Mephisto could sit comfortably. He shook his head and sat up on the desk with a soft thud.

“Good boy,” you cooed and continued to stroke him. Mephisto moaned and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer. He unraveled just as quickly as before. Restrained whimpers echoed in your ear.

“I’m so close,” he panted. You slid your hand off him, earning an immediate whine. “W-wait. Why did you stop?”

“Why did you assume Lucifer could just take me away from you?” you questioned him. Your hand slid along his length, in slow, teasing movements. Mephisto throbbed at your touch.

“I, ah –!” You cut him off by sinking your teeth into his neck, causing him to writhe and arch his back. His yelp gave way to a guttural growl. “Fuck.”

“Well?” You licked over the bite mark.

“He’s just – he does that.”

“Mephisto,” you purred into his ear and gently scratched your nails down his chest. “Don’t I have any say in what happens?”

Once again, you started to tease Mephisto, stroking him at an achingly slow pace. Mephisto begged, “Faster. . . please?”

“Answer me.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Mephisto rolled his head back and groaned with no regard for anyone who could be walking nearby.

“Didn’t mean what?” You milked him for a proper answer.

“That your feelings don’t matter,” he admitted. You rewarded his acknowledgement by rubbing him faster. “Mm, yes. Please. Like that, don’t stop.”

“Then why’d you say it?” You slowed your pace down again, earning a whimper. Mephisto bucked his hips up to meet your hand, desperate for more.

“I –” he whined, still humping against your hand. “I’m afraid.”

The confession took you by surprise. When you pulled away, you noticed frustrated tears running down Mephisto’s cheek. His panting was labored and shaky. He was distraught. Using both of your hands, you firmly pressed his thighs into the desk.

“Of what?” you asked, watching the residual pleasure on his face give way to shame.

“I can’t. . .”

“Tell me.” You let go of one of his thighs to slowly rub his tip again. A sharp inhale preceded another muffled moan. He wasn’t trying to hold back his moan this time, though; Mephisto was trying to keep the answer bottled up in his chest. The glint of concern in your eyes and the continued stimulation was forcing him open.

“I don’t know why you want me. I don’t understand you. If I just – ahh, I’m gonna –” Mephisto interrupted his confession to warn you, lolling his head back and moaning. You stopped touching him again. Although he had expected it, Mephisto still groaned at yet another ruined orgasm.

“Finish what you were saying first.”

“If I – if I convince myself that it’s out of your control, then I won’t feel so bad when you decide to leave me – or stop having sex with me or don’t want to be around me anymore.”

You felt bad for him – not because it was stupid or pathetic to be worried about, but because it made sense. It was one thing to lose your partner because some bastard had the power and charm to steal people away. It was decidedly worse to know they left you because they just didn’t want you enough anymore. For the first time in weeks, you brought your lips to Mephisto’s and kissed him deeply until he was breathless. All the while, you thumbed his tip, teasing him just enough to keep him at the edge. Suddenly, you pulled away from him.

“Finish yourself off.” You kissed his cheek. “Or don’t.”

“Why?” Mephisto protested. “I told you the truth.”

“You told me that you think I’ll stop wanting you. So let me tell you something, too.” You leaned in, nearly pressing your lips to the side of his neck. “I want you so much. I can barely contain myself. I want you right now. I’ll want you tomorrow. I’ll want you for the foreseeable future. Can you trust in that much for now?”

“If you want me, then why won’t you finish me off?” It was humiliating for Mephisto, being so afraid to lose you, desperate, and hard all at once.

“I can want you without touching you. Actually, I changed my mind.” You walked over to Mephisto’s desk and pulled out the pack of wet wipes that you knew he kept in his bottom drawer. You wiped your hands off – still sticky with precum – and grabbed a few more wipes for Mephisto before returning to his side and handing them to him. “Don’t touch yourself. Stay like that – all hard and needy and desperate – for the rest of the day. I’ll walk you home later.”

A smile snuck up on Mephisto’s face, understanding your proposition. He agreed, “Okay, I’ll wait. But could you stay with me while I calm down?”

Confused, you studied his face. He was flustered and his eyes were damp with tears. Even his hair was a mess. “Why? I’m not going to change my mind and help you finish.”

“I know,” Mephisto chuckled. “I just want you to stay by my side for a little while. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is.” You kissed his cheek, wiping away the salt residue from his tears, leaving an interrupted fossil of a stream. You took one of the spare wipes from his hand and brushed it over his cheek. “And Mephisto? I’m really sorry that I made you think I didn’t want you. I avoided you because I was upset, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it – I didn’t know how the conversation would go, and I was worried it would only hurt. I should have said something, even if it was just that I was hurt and not ready to talk to you. I’ll try to do better next time. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine. You know, you play therapist too much for those brothers.” Mephisto laughed and nuzzled into your neck. He made no moves to get cleaned up and dressed yet, but he found the energy to tease you. “Please tell me orgasm denial and edging aren’t a part of your regular conflict resolution process.”

“You’re so cute,” you teased back, only exacerbating his blush and making his cock twitch. Dammit. He was so tempting, and he wasn’t even trying. You sighed, recommitting to wait until you got him home. With a gentle touch, you fixed his hair for him.

“Thank you, MC.” Mephisto grinned shyly. He still hadn’t calmed down completely, though.

As if you intended to test your resolve, you gave him another sweet, tender kiss. “You can thank me later.”

(November poll story pt. 1 - Lucifer version)

A/N: To be honest, I don't really know how I feel about this one. Hmm, but at least I can get back to requests after this, woo~ Don't forget that December's post poll is up and active for the first week of the month. While I do have opinions and preference, whatever happens is up to y'all. I never vote or look at the results until it's over, so I just wait around, hoping to be pleasantly surprised. As I've mentioned, this blog turns one later this month, so I'll do a post about that in a few days, so please look forward to it.

[sukibenders]

Anthony doesn't get enough flack from this fandom if I'm being honest, like most of it is pushed onto other female characters while he gets the "he was struggling," excuse. And while he was struggling, there's definitely validity to that, he also should not have his actions (eg. playing with Kate's feelings, putting her and Edwina in a difficult situation, etc) excused because of that.

[necrotic-nephilim]

what are your favourite batcest ships and why?

AAA i love this question so much. i'm going to limit myself to a top five, because otherwise, i'd just end up listing all of them. the true joy of batcest is they're all so good for such different reasons and there are so many unique dynamics you can explore.

JayTim - it's funny bc, before i started this blog, i don't know if i would've put these two losers as my number one. but because i've done so much deep diving into their dynamic and i write them the most, i think it'd be a disservice for them to be anything *but* number one. their canon dynamic is just. so fun to play with. i truly love all of their interactions, particularly pre-Flashpoint. the concepts of Tim holding such contempt for Jason while Jason is weirdly obsessed with Tim. i'm a fan of Hannibal and Killing Eve and well. if this isn't a Hannigram-coded ship idk *what* is. i like ships where love and hate co-exist and there's no real "happily ever after", just fucked up co-existing, where they crawl back to each other like a bad habit and really, this ship is that so perfectly. the themes of jealousy in the Robin mantle. Tim wearing Jason's Red Robin suit to punish himself. i will likely never shut up about them. even in the New-52, there's such a substance to them, though the dynamic is wildly different. they will always be so weirdly dependent on each other's existence. i love them.

BruDick - you can't outdo the doer, i fear. i think i like BruDick mostly for the history of it, yk. there's genuinely *so much* queer history seeped into the homoeroticism of Batman and Robin, these two have been a symbol for queer people for decades. but the ship itself has so many dynamics i love. problematic age gap, "are we family or lovers", "i can't be in a room alone with you without getting into a screaming match but if you called i drop everything for you". all of it. i especially favor 80s/90s BruDick when they were in their divorce era just because it's so messy. Dick has canonically said he would die for Bruce, even during their arguments. no matter what, these two will always be single-mindedly devoted to each other. there will be other Robins, but none of them will compare to Dick Grayson, for Bruce. it's a unique and complicated bond that has endless layers to peel back. they always crawl back to each other bc no one else will match their level of intensity.

DamiTim - years and years ago, when i was a teen trying to people-please with how i existed in fandom, i used to insist i didn't like batcest and found it icky and gross. but there was one DamiTim fic that was my exception. that fic was my fucking roman empire. i reread it like once a year even though it's not completed and likely never will be i do not care. so now that i've killed the morality police in my head and i let myself ship what i actually want to ship, this ship holds a top place in my heart just bc of that fic alone. but in general i do fucking love their dynamic. similar to JayTim there's just so much mutual hatred in these two that has endless potential. Damian's insistence to not see Tim as a Wayne and as a legitimate brother/heir to Bruce is something you can play a lot if you give Damian an angry, fucked up crush on Tim he doesn't want to admit to. they have so many reasons to dislike each other, so to try to get them to slowly fall in love is a fun challenge. they either have a long complicated forgiveness arc and end up a happy married couple or they are the couple that tries to kill each other once a week. no in-between.

JeanTim - there's like. one person here on tumblr who goes as hard for this ship as i do and truly god bless them bc they feed me. Jean-Paul is too underrated in the batcest scene. once i reread Knightfall, i will have to help popular this tag on ao3. i enjoy both a very fucked up version of this ship during the peak of the Knightfall arc, where Jean-Paul is deep in his murder Batman era and Tim is trying to stop him to no real avail, but i *also* think there's so much you can do with the ship afterwards, where Jean-Paul is trying to make up for what he's done and be a better person and better hero. they're the peak Batman/Robin ship, to me. they truly care about each other, but have a very complicated/bloody history and i just. man i love it so dearly. i've been meaning to write a fic where Jean-Paul goes to Tim post the Sword of Azrael (2022) arc to properly discuss and apologize for all his actions in Knightfall for his personal healing and they end up fucking. it could be sweet and cute or kinky fun bc what is the joy of a character with that much Catholic guilt if you don't give them a weird religious kink.

BruCarrie - The Dark Knight Returns got me into comics and i will defend it till the day i die. Carrie Kelley can be pried from my cold dead hands. i just really love these two? Carrie took one look at that cranky old bastard and decided she was his problem. and Bruce is at a stage where he should be very averse to the idea of having a Robin, he knows it's a bad idea. but he just. accepts her anyway. idk how to explain their dynamic other than she plunks herself in his lap and stitches up his wounds while telling him he's an idiot and he lets her even if he's grumbling about it. they have the biggest age gap of any Batman/Robin ship and for that, they should get like. a dead dove gold star no matter how rare the pair is.

also honorable mention goes to BruTim, because *god* do i love the concept of Tim offering himself up to Bruce as Robin in every way, knowing that there are likely sexual/romantic implications to being Robin. it's one of my favorite flavors of batcest to exist. i don't view them as a "happily ever after" ship, because Bruce will always go back home to Dick, but it's a fun lil dead dove moment.

[hephaestiions]

author reclist: toomuchplor

a few months ago, when i was coming back to fandom in earnest, i came across this post from @sitp-recs. explorations of faith, divinity and worship are some of the tropes i find most furiously compelling, so i had to jump into o come, all ye faithful as soon as possible. i did, only to fall headfirst in obsessive, wide-eyed, awe-inspired love. @toomuchplor writes a desire that's both slow and heady, relentless and gentle, all-consuming and a rest stop to breathe easy. i couldn't help but read through (most of) their catalogue in a matter of days. this author's thematic range is astonishing, their characterisations lead to delicious stories where two headstrong, wilful and perennially longing men crash, fumble and rush into achingly sweet love and burning lust.

what always spools me in with plor, though, is their use of circumstance, especially in longer fics. every fic has a premise iron-clad in its fascinating, inventive, raw and exciting potential. more often than not, i've found them doing something i haven't encountered before in fandom at all, or reworking a popular trope in ways that make you go, 'oh. oh, i never thought about that happening, how did i never think of that happening?'

i've loved everything i've read from them, but here's a selection of some of my absolute favourites that i'll be going back to, over and over:

i've got a beautiful feeling (everything's going my way) (E, 3.5k)

“I’ve got such a boner,” Harry says, voice scratchy, just slitting his eyes open now, turning his head on his pillow to face Draco. “Oh, lovely, good morning to you, too,” Draco says.

a slice of life like the plush inside of a ripe mango— a love that's mature, constant, beating like a strong heart. the filthy, hilarious, gorgeous portrait of harry and draco's married life— the familiarity of sex, the rush of wanting each other as much as ever.

o come, all ye faithful & all the angels cry amen (E, ~22k total)

In which Draco finds faith in the church, and Harry finds faith in Draco.

an achingly tender rumination on faith as love, and love as worship. one of the most heartbreaking and realistic depictions of the reckoning it would take for harry potter to accept he has found refuge and rest in draco malfoy's arms. i loved the non-chronological, dual timeline storytelling— that particular form works so well when there's a taut, twinging thread holding both narratives together, and harry and draco's gravitational attraction to each other, fraught in parts and at peace in others was the perfect anchor.

time and too much don't belong together (E, 23k)

A Malfoy family heirloom gets triggered in a raid, binding Draco Malfoy to Ron Weasley; neither of them is too chuffed about this.

a masterclass in revelations. the reader can tell, from the outset, there's more here than meets the eye. the reader can also guess, from the beginning, what the dynamic in the shadows is. tense and breathtaking writing, you know what's coming, but every time you're fed a morsel you cling to it with both hands. one of the most inventive takes i've seen on the lust potion/spell trope in this fandom, and done in a way that makes you want to see it over and over and over again.

polar night/midnight sun (E, 54k)

Harry travels to arctic Norway on the trail of dragon egg poachers, only to find he's been assigned to work alongside the only NorMagPol Auror north of sixty: one Draco Malfoy. It's been ten years since they crossed paths, and Malfoy isn't exactly what Harry expected or remembered. For one thing, he wears a lot more hand-knits? When a sudden winter storm strands the pair, unable to use magic to rescue themselves, they take shelter in a one-room Norwegian hytte.

exquisitely atmospheric. uses extenuating circumstances in some of the most delicious ways. builds character and interpersonal dynamics through those small little elements of storytelling (draco in knitwear! brynjar the dog! the mundane pillowtalk! the quirks of their miscommunication!) that go the longest way in having characters leap off the screen into your personal space. also the sex in this is absolutely mind-blowing, i was hooked on every glorious word.

truth to materials (co-written by lately) (E, 58k)

In which Harry learns to appreciate art and other pleasures of the flesh.

decadent. in premise, in language, in characterisation, just absolutely decadent. this version of harry, bewildered and captivated by draco's out-there artistry is one of the funniest and most endearing i've encountered in fic, ever. his head, so full of determination and good intentions and terribly flawed and completely believable thinking, was such a brilliant place to set this fic. and draco— lord. you know that moment of transition, that click, when a piece of art goes from something untouchable and distant to a soulful thing you keep close because you recognise it as a cultural, emotional response? this fic felt like a literary project trying to capture that click, except it's a shift in perspective about a person. draco— the cool, untouchable, subversive artist who becomes irrevocably, warmly, achingly human.

probationary action (E, 63k)

As part of the terms of the probationary contract, DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY shall submit for inspection his WAND on the last day of every month, such inspection to be carried out by a duly registered and fully qualified AUROR in the employ of the MINISTRY OF MAGIC, and such inspection to include a PRIORI INCANTATEM spell to ensure that no PROHIBITED MAGICS as heretofore described have been practised by the aforementioned probationer.

*incoherent screaming*. a fic that starts with a premise so lighthearted and filthy that you think it's going to be a long, kinky fic about two rather hilariously perverted men getting it on, except it also gets into some of the most resonant discussions of post-war revenge tactics and human rights neglect i've ever read. the dynamic between harry and draco is simultaneously so light and so weighted, this is a fic that holds you down and keeps you there till you're done.

in conclusion: an entrancing author, a gift of a writer. i can't wait to see what else they have in store for this fandom.