#MOST devoted

[someonedefinitely]

happy birthday to my god suguru geto!!!!!!

[mongeese]

omg look at how they look at each other 😍😍 there's NO romantic explanation for this literally the amount of devotion they have could only be platonic. people who r just dating don't act like that, those two are sooo best friends

[tringstarruuu]

just finished the book HUALIAN HUALIAN HUALIAN IM GOING INSANEEEEEEE

[somnoir]

Down Bad in Distress

Bruce Wayne is kidnapped... A lot. And it's always so weird that only Batman is allowed to save him. That this dumb, charming, but kidnap-able Billionaire doesn't have a bodyguard.

Now, Bruce can simply go "Oh, we've got Batman. No need to worry for that!" But people are fussy nowadays. He underestimates just bow much Gotham loves their disaster of a prince with a golden heart. Even his company employees are begging him to hire a bodyguard. (This is from the many files being sent to his office, obvious recommendations on competent bodyguards)

Cut to the new bodyguard for hire—who was recommended by Alfred of all people (something about him being the disciple of a good old friend of his). The man was large. Fucking huge. Taller than Jason, if one would like to admit (Jason is his 6'4" baby and this fucking fridge if a man looked 6'6").

But he was all soft and warm. Like a golden retriever the size of a bear.

Anyways, Danny was a rather kind man. When he wasn't following Bruce around and playing bodyguard, he was indulging the kids. Entertaining them with the most obscure things and stories from his childhood. Better yet, Danny would be the kids' bodyguard rather than Bruce's whenever they went out.

It was a miracle when they realized that Damian wasn't reacting badly to the man. Very strange since Damian would think it'd be shameful for someone to protect him during the day. But then again, Bruce once saw Danny effortlessly pick up Damian so his son could coax a cat out of a tree. That was most likely the kicker.

Anyways, Danny looked and felt soft.

It wasn't easy for him to settle into the man's ever present presence, but it's been almost four months since Danny's been hired and Bruce doesn't even flinch when the man brightly greets him from the bottom of the stairs.

"Good morning, mr. Wayne!" Danny would say, all teeth and bright eyes in his suit.

"Bruce," he'd correct immediately.

And then Danny would pause, laugh, and— "Good morning, Bruce."

Then his kids would follow and Danny would affectionately greet them all, ask where they plan to go and if they needed Danny to follow.

His bodyguard was like sunshine and warmth incarnate.

But if course, Danny was a bodyguard.

There were instances where Bruce would have to take a second to remind himself that this man that would look down at socialites like he's ready to crush their hands is the same one who once gave him puppy-dog eyes to back up Damian when his son asked to keep the kittens.

That the same man who grabbed someone by the scruff of their collar like they were weightless was the same one who talked about poetry and literature with Jason.

That the man who once hauled Bruce off the ground and walked right out the gala when the smoke alarms blared is the same one who would gently coax Tim off the coach and into a proper bed.

But right now, that's not his concern. No. Bruce is more concerned about the fact that he's gotten kidnapped again.

Everyone was most likely alerted. They were. He could hear Red Robin, Blackbat and Spoiler talking over the comms, checking in on Red Hood and Robin in case things went off.

"B, don't move. These guys are more prepared than the usual ones." Tim's voice filters into the comms, evidently annoyed. "I've got Oracle checking if there are any bombs in the place."

Bruce stayed silent, watching the masked men and women walk around, guns in hand and crates surrounding them. He had been knocked out during a party. The last thing he saw was Danny's eyes—god, it frightened him a bit. How those pretty blues suddenly turned green like Jason's.

Then he was here. Most likely with a concussion.

"B?"

"I'm okay... Be careful..." He murmurs under his breath, hearing his children sigh in relief.

"Good. We've got Red Ho—What the fuck is that?" Barbara immediately cut herself off, her voice strained and pitched with surprise.

"Oracle?"

"Spoiler—Do you have a view on that?" Oracle frantically asked. "Shit—the cameras just went down. Guys?"

"is that—" Stephanie chokes out, "Is that Danny?"

Bruce froze. Danny?

Jason always knew that Danny was kinda off. The first time he met the man, it wasn't his size that Jason immediately noticed. It was how his eyes flashed green when they met his. At first, he felt threatened, ready to attack whatever the fuck thought it was a good idea to infiltrate his family.

But then... Then Danny smiled at him. Offered his hand with a kind greeting. Jason took that hand and... And felt calm. Like the buzz in his head melted away, like the Lazarus was cleansed.

And Danny most likely knew. Because the man was smiling in satisfaction, like he was pleased that Jason suddenly didn't feel starved and angry and hurt.

"I don't know what happened to you kid, but whatever the hell did, it wasn't good for you. Hopefully you'll get better now." Danny whispered softly and then withdrew his hand, tucking it behind his back.

Jason doesn't know what the fuck Danny was but the man was worth keeping around.

Admittedly, he turned to Danny a lot nowadays. Jason can't call Bruce all the time. No. His relationship with Bruce still isn't good enough to warrant Jason to call him constantly.

But Danny? Again, Jason doesn't know what the hell this guy is but whenever Jason was in trouble, he dialed Danny's phone immediately. And he came... Every, single, fucking time. No questions asked, just pick Jason up and patch him up like nothing.

Danny was a good guy. Like sunshine, like golden retrievers. All teeth with some fangs.

And that same guy just snapped a man's neck with his bare hands.

"Hood... Are you seeing this?" Robin asked beside him, equally stunned as they watched their usually kind and sweet bodyguard effortlessly tear through the group of men with his bare hands. There was already blood around. Everywhere, maybe. Some already on Danny.

"He's on a fucking warpath." Jason murmurs. Every bit of admiration he had for Danny just multiplied by a thousand when he watched him grab a gun right out of a guy's hand and slam it into their head. Fucking amazing.

If Bruce doesn't square up and ask this guy on a date, Jason would have to start planning to parent trap them.

Fucking shit, he needed this guy as a dad.

The doors don’t just open—they explode off their hinges, a violent crack echoing through the warehouse. Guns swing up, barrels glinting under harsh light, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the figure in the doorway.

Bruce’s pulse slams against his ribs.

And then Danny walks in, dragging a half-conscious man by the leg, leaving a smeared trail of blood in his wake. He doesn’t even look winded.

Blood stains his usually pristine uniform—smeared across his face, streaked over the white of his shirt, soaking into his knuckles. His tie is gone. His collar is open, a few buttons undone, exposing a sliver of skin beneath the mess. There’s blood on his face, drying in streaks, and his knuckles—his knuckles are raw, dripping, alive. He looks… disheveled. Lethal. Gorgeous.

"HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! THAT'S DANNY!" Spoiler screeched, "HE'S BODYING THOSE FUCKERS! RED! RED, ARE YOU FUCKING SEEING THIS?!"

"SOMEONE RECORD THIS! SHIT! SOMEONE RECORD THIS!" Red Robin replied, equally loud and frantic as if trying desperately to find the old camera he used to stalk Bruce many years ago.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t hesitate.

Danny launches the man he was dragging, sending him crashing into the nearest gunman with a sickening thud. Before anyone can react, he moves—crossing the room in impossibly fluid strides, twisting a wrist until a gun clatters to the floor, elbowing another man so hard in the ribs that something audibly cracks. A shot goes off, a wild, panicked attempt—Danny doesn’t even flinch. He snatches the arm holding the gun and bends it the wrong way. The scream is immediate.

Bruce’s breath catches.

Another man rushes Danny with a knife—big mistake. Danny catches his wrist mid-swing, wrenches it to the side with bone-snapping efficiency, then drives the same blade into another attacker’s thigh. The man howls, but Danny is already moving, slamming someone’s face into the nearest table hard enough to leave a smear of red on the wood.

They never stood a chance.

Two minutes. Two damn minutes, and the entire room is a battlefield of unconscious, broken bodies.

And Bruce cannot focus.

Bruce barely registers Jason swearing at him through the comms, telling him to get it together. He can’t.

And then Danny turns to him.

His face is splattered with blood, his chest rising and falling steadily as he steps forward. His hands, bruised and raw, reach out, and Bruce swallows hard.

Danny kneels, gaze flicking to Bruce’s bound wrists, and his touch—gentle, so gentle—works at the ropes with precise care. The knots had been tight, biting into his skin enough to bruise, to draw blood. Danny’s jaw clenches at the sight.

Bruce should say something. Should thank him. Should not be thinking about how unfairly attractive he looks like this—wild, wrecked, utterly devoted.

But he can’t help it.

He’s so gone.

"Mr. Wayne."

On instruct, Bruce corrects him. "Bruce."

And Danny pauses.

The chaos settles—not in the room, where bodies lay crumpled, groaning, and barely conscious—but in him. Just for a second. Just long enough for Bruce to see it.

Blue flickers into green. A warning. A promise.

Bruce doesn’t look away. Can’t. Even as Danny tilts his head, something unhinged curling at the edges of his smile. His chest rises and falls, slow, deliberate, the blood on his face catching the dim light. His knuckles, split and raw, flex at his sides before he exhales a laugh—low, sharp, guttural.

Almost a growl.

And Bruce—God help him—feels something thrill in his spine.

Then Danny takes his wrists. Carefully. Reverently. Those same hands that had snapped bones and silenced screams mere moments ago now hold Bruce’s bruised, bloodied skin like it’s something precious.

Then—cold.

Not warm. Not comforting. Cold lips, pressing soft against each wound, his touch featherlight against the raw skin. Bruce shudders.

Danny pulls back just enough for Bruce to see his lips—stained red with his blood. And he grins, sharp fangs more prominent than ever, his eyes molten with something Bruce can’t name.

"Bruce…"

Danny says it like a prayer. Like a promise. Like a goddamn claim.

Exasperated. Excited. Fond. And something else entirely.

"Try not to get kidnapped again, Bruce… Or I might just end up blowing up Gotham to get you back.

Bruce’s breath stutters.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Bruce is so utterly gone.

(Someone laughs in the background, shadows curling at their feet. Lady Gotham is pleased.)

Part 2 | Masterpost

[seagreenlaurin]

[voiddragoncat]

Super late-game problems

[saeldu]

body in abyss

[dark-elf-writes]

The disciples of Qing Jing Peak weren’t stupid.

They were scholars in training, trained from the moment they had donned their peak’s colors to analyze the world around them. To see every flawless line in a painting. To find deeper meaning in every poem. To pick out each and every note flowing from a qin. They knew how to look, how to listen, how to see under the surface and find deeper meaning without letting their own preconceived notions distract them from what was truly there.

So it was really no wonder that they of all people were the only ones to realize their Shizun was different.

Oh on the outside he was largely unchanged. Still the same careful mask. Still the flowing robes and perfectly arranged hair. Still the ever present fans hiding all but his too sharp eyes.

But they knew how to look deeper.

They knew how to see.

Their new Shizun was a gentler soul than their old one.

It could be seen in the tightness around his eyes whenever one of them got hurt. It could be seen in fleeting smiles his fan wasn’t fast enough to cover when they did something he found amusing or adorable. It could be seen in the rarely granted head pats and gentle praise when one of them did well. His hands were always kind when they corrected sword forms or placements on the strings of a qin. His voice full of warmth as he lectured in front of their classes. His eyes danced with amusement when he teased them with such fondness that they never felt the sting of his words.

He was nothing like their old Shizun.

(And oh how some of them mourned their old teacher. How they pressed wet faces into pillows late in the night and wept silent tears for the man who still walked among them but was someone else entirely. Others spent those long dark nights battling relief and guilt in equal measures, feeling like they were betraying the man who had brought them in to their new home by being grateful they didn’t have to suffer his harshness any longer.

One boy played in a room of the bamboo house and vowed night after night that this new Shizun would have his loyalty at each and every turn.)

Changed as he was he was still theirs.

They had been there, after all, the day he had thrown himself in front of Luo Binghe and been poisoned with Without A Cure. They had been there when he caught one of the shimei’s crying because she missed her home and hugged her, cooing to her like a father to a beloved daughter. They had been there in a million other times when he had chosen them, so really it was only fair that they chose him in return.

Luo Binghe was glad to do most of the day to day care for their Shizun, cooking his meals and cleaning his home, but the rest of them were far from idle.

They trained harder, raising their cultivation levels at speeds unheard of to be strong enough to protect him. They weaved careful coverups and fed clever explanations to him whenever he seemed confused by something mundane. They returned his affection a hundredfold whenever they could get away with it, clinging to his sleeves and pressing against his sides like eager kittens vying for attention whenever he looked lonely.

They also kept a close eye on anyone who seemed too… interested in their beloved teacher, closing ranks and playing interference whether that person was an older disciple of another peak, a Peak Lord, or even the Sect Leader himself.

Their Shizun was not the man he once was, but this new man had chosen them from the very first day he had arrived on their peak. They, as devoted disciples, chose him back each and every day.

[johnnyshrine]

★ 093 // “POV: You Died :("

[raventhrush]

Tenderness

[rottengurlz]

"do you buy all your murder weapons at home depot? god you're butch." inspo w/ @kashisun

bonus poster:

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

if you do requests at all, could we see some mimic!stan and ford just hangin' out? :D

Sure :)

EDIT: I just realized I forgot to draw his lapel teeth and pocket mouth. IGNORE THAT.

[krysmcscience]

Sometimes annoying your bratty husband with silly gifts will cause him to bluescreen unintentionally. It's fine, though. Just take advantage of his touch starvation with cuddles to override the issue. Any biting and hissing that follows is totally normal. You may then proceed with your usual goofy antics of sticking tape onto the end of his tail when he's not looking, no doubt leading to the massacre of half your followers. :]

Anyway.

I can't be the only one convinced that Narinder hates having stuff around his wrists after finally being freed. I Can Not.

[leafatlaw]

I really like devotions because, it’s like: Imagine if your soulmate and you never agreed on anything. Ideologically opposed on every topic but bound by the red string of fate. Imagine if you and your other half lived on opposite sides of the battle field. If you killed eachother more than you held eachother. Soulmates but in the way your sword is drawn to his chest. Like a knife to his back. If “I’m sorry” was more common than “I love you”.

And still you were made for eachother.

[stitchposts]

This is so obvious it's almost petty to talk about, but it keeps happening so I am increasingly faced with needing to decide to bring it up. Can everyone who advocates for not reposting art and for crediting artists start bringing that same energy to photographs of traditional art? Especially fiber arts and sewing related things, due to very prolific scraping accounts that repost things from elsewhere on the internet here to tumblr and a few years ago stopped crediting the artists at all. They never asked permission, but credit has just dried up entirely and it's galling to see.

I know non fiber artists don't really have the experience to see this, but just like visual arts, fiber artists develop pretty clear styles. So if a blog is posting elaborate pieces of infamously time consuming arts that cover a wide range of styles, once or twice a day, with no credits or discussion of themselves as an artist - that shit's stolen as fuck.

It feels like I'm going insane sometimes because thousands of people who otherwise yell all day about how artists need to be credited, just think that sewing related photographs pop into existence without needing to be linked to the person that made them.

[taxed-up-trotter]

hey what if they kissed hey what if they kissed hey what if