#here is a snippet

[loversofthegrave]

teenage sammy grappling with his intolerable attachment to his big brother one shot<3

1998, South Carolina

Summer hits full on like a hammer, shrivelling the last spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. John has them situated this time in South Carolina in the middle of a buttfuck nowhere trailer park. Sam huffs out a whoosh wafting a strand of his shaggy, greasy hair and scuffs his knock-off beat up converse into the dry dirt, the path leading up into their new home for the next week or two.

John recites his customary speech, Dean nods, ‘Yes sir’ as Dean always does. He’s John more often than dad these days. John gave Sam a name when he was born then left, like a background actor in a movie, cut from the film roll. The rumble of the impala and he’s gone.

Spider plants hang from pots on the wide trailer porch. Chipped ceramic ornaments of butterflies and lizards were placed outside. Inside, the shabby floral wallpaper and checkered armchair. The tattered cotton curtains blowing gently, and the cross hung on the wall, wonky. It was like a polaroid from the 70s, all orange hues and clashing patterns.

“What a dump,” he said gritting his teeth.

“It’s not so bad,” Dean shrugs “Kinda cozy,”

Dean’s eyes like hawks observing their new home, finding quick exits, salting the windows and doors. Safety first, look out for Sammy, like the good toy solider that he is.

Sam knows Dean can’t help it, the urgency, the attentiveness, to keep safe, guard his little brother. Sam would be lying if he said he wouldn’t want it any other way, he hopes it’s a two-way street.

Truth is, being in each other's pocket is all they’ve ever known. Dean is Sam’s brother as much as he is his only friend, his father, his mother, all rolled into one. Dean's hands being a caress and a fumbling worry of a mother’s. Dean who changed Sam’s diapers, who soothed teething pains with nimble fingers, tender rocking's and forgiving scoldings. It was all him, not a woman with satin blonde hair and porcelain skin nor the man with the grief-stricken furrowed brows and whiskey sighs. No, it was the kid with the goofy grin and the shoulders weighed down heavy with more liability than a kid should ever know, now turned leather jackets and calloused hands, felon fingers, summers caress dotted upon the bridge of a nose. Summer has always been extra generous to him, he thought, kind of face that weighs heavy on a teenage boys heart.

Looking at Dean is like hallucinating like looking through the lenses of kaleidoscope, soft orange and pink hues from the sun dipping into the horizon of the late summer dusk framing his head like an angel but an angel in the flames. An angel that could be Gabriel but an angel that could be Lucifer too, like he would readily delve into the deep, dark hell as he would fly up to the lofty, illuminated places. And Dean would for Sam.

Dean was Sam’s first everything, and it’s no surprise Sam would want that forevermore.

Sam can’t help it, this craving, it’s insatiable, like an itch irritating him under new stretched teenage skin. If he itches and itches, scratches with blunt anxious bitten nails until he draws blood. But the blood he revels in, the curving, cutting and slaughtering himself to fit into the groove of Dean’s heart, he would do anything, and he knows Dean would do the same but not in the ways Sam yearns for. Sam knows, he knows it’s twisted, he knew as soon as he was enrolled in school and how not everyone else feels that way about brothers. But he doesn’t care, not when Dean is the only grace he was given in his world of destruction and ruin, his pure drop in an ocean of chaos. Damn it if the lord doesn’t forgive him, heaven and hell are just words to a hopeless boy like Sam. When his brother looks at him, he decides to wage holy war.

But Dean doesn’t know, not really, he knows Sam loves him but no more, no less, too frightful Sam would scare him fiercely, that he would leave Sam here, loose his grace, and what is Sam without his grace? Just an empty vessel, an angel damned from heaven, forever. Think he’s sick, corrupt, disgusting. Only Sam can be the one to know this about himself, swallow the key if he must. He tries his best to shelter away these parts from Dean, distancing ever so slightly, it just makes the craving worst, he thinks, withdrawal.

So, he lives with Dean, in his shadow. Watches him, envies him, wants to be him, wants to be with him, under him. Watches him waltzing around the kitchen with sultry hips after this week's easy fuck. Probably some white trash bimbo Sam thinks harshly, doesn’t know what it truly means to have him, a boy, a man, like Dean. He goes for anything with legs and a mouth in a 1-mile radius, puts it out to anything, anyone but Sam.

“You stink Dean,” Sam mumbles under his breath

“That’s the smell of champions Sammy” Dean grins, easy and careless, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Sam shoots daggers into his back.

This is their dance, Dad goes on a hunt for a couple of weeks, Dean and Sam are holed up in a shack and they pretend that this is their normal, habit, but it’s not, they we’re and forever born in motion. Dean enrols Sam into the local (another) high school, Dean gets a short-term job working with his hands to hold them over until Dad gets back, this time at the garage. They make small talk with strangers when necessarily and act according to their roles, relocates the suspicious eyes on Sam’s stitched up hand me down t-shirts and Deans violet blooming bruises from training and hunts, keeps social services off their back. But they fit in OK around this truckers town so Sam holds it rigid, this vexation, lewdness, this jealousy brimming. Puberty is fucked, Sam likes to blame it on that.

~

It’s Friday, the shutters of the trailer are open and wide. Sam’s in makeshift shorts that were once jeans that he cut at the knees one town ago. The radio is static, and The Mama’s & The Papa’s is being carried through the thick-cut air, ‘you've got everything I need, and nobody can please like you, you baby and who believes that my wildest dreams and my craziest schemes will come true?’

Sam’s growth spurt mixed with food stamp fed spindly legs are propped up on the coffee table barefoot, toes wiggling, as he shovels spoonfuls of store brand cornflake knock offs in his mouth. Dean comes in wafting of oil and summer sweat after being outside tinkering with the ford pick-up truck Dad sorted out with a local hunter before he briskly left. He slaps the bottom of Sam’s foot with his greasy rag. Sam grunts.

"Up and at 'em or you're gonna be late" Dean lectures, parenting.

Sam rucks on an old 1975 Black Sabbath tour shirt that used to be Dean's that used to be Dads, now faded grey and bobbling. Pokes his feet into socks with his right toe sticking out of the hole, laces up his shoes and climbs into the passenger seat of the pick-up. Dean drops Sam off at the Pine Springs High and told him he'd pick him up, told him to ‘give ‘em hell’.

Pine Springs High was full of scraggy kids, Beavis and Butt-head boys, girls busty and leggy. Sam befriends one friend, a skinny freckled boy with thick rimmed glasses. His name is Davey. They were sat next to each other in science, dissecting a frog. Sam figures cutting open this frog is harder than the ghouls they slaughter. What did this frog ever do to anyone? Davey was informing Sam on the anatomy, pointed out the chambers of the heart, the ventricle. He seemed interested in trying to impress Sam with how smart he was. "You know a lot," stated Sam.

He smiled. He was a boy who wanted to be seen. Sam suspects with certainty he’s not in these careless halls of teenagers reeking of hormones and wariness of social status.

High school is not as gentle with kids like Sam and Davey. But Sam can tackle it, give as good as he gets. That’s what he’s been trained to do, what their dad trained him to do, those sparring sessions with Dean every other day doesn’t go to waste, as much as Sam likes to grumble and whine. The decomposition ghost of a girl in a tatty white dress with fine needlepoint lace trimmings from the 1820’s has more oomph in her thump than any of these teenagers.

Even in a Gas-mart town like this one full of greasy kids with dirty fingernails Sam still is stared at by clusters of kids. Maybe it’s the adequate collection of bruising on his body from said sparring and Victorian decomposition, or maybe it’s the fact he’s an outsider (he’s always the outsider) but Sam doesn’t mind. Cleanliness and godliness are deceptive, he’d rather wear his wounds, his ugliness. No fooling, he was torn and stitched.

~

Dean picks Sam up, sees the mop of brown hair and downcast face amongst the sea of chattering high-spirited kids. It reminds Dean of when he encouraged him to go to a classmate's birthday party in kindergarten, timid little Sammy protested but Dean encouraged his little brother to go, nervy on all he was missing out growing up. When Dean went to pick him up at McDonald's he spotted him, dejected, eyes glazed over. Other children around him screaming and sliding into pits filled with coloured balls. It splintered Dean to his core.

When Sam is in arm reach Dean tousles Sam's hair, and he gets a whack of the hand and a gruff in response.

“How’d it go Sammy?” Dean asks, hefting himself up into the driver's seat.

“Fine.” Sam replies, quick, sharp. “And it’s Sam,” he stresses.

Dean doesn’t know what it is these days but there’s a slight ache, a gnawing. Sam used to look at Dean like he hung the stars just for him. That Dean was God’s own reflection but now there’s a distance, an interspace and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. At first, he thought maybe it’s teenage hormones or pheromones or whatever the fuck, but Dean never remembers being that sulky as a teenager. Maybe he never got the chance. When he tries to touch Sam, he flinches, scurries away like he just spooked a rodent. Used to revel in it, they practically grew up in each other's arms. Was still sharing a bed in the motels until two years ago.

Dean would never admit it out loud to him, but he misses Sam. Misses that constant comfort of touch and affection.

They stop off at a local diner on their way back to the trailer park, Sam questions if they have enough money for the month to eat out, Dean tells him not to worry. All wooden panels, red and white checkered table clothes, a sign that reads, ‘lumber jack pancake special for $5.95!’ Dean eyes it up, breakfast at dinnertime, their lives never have rhythm or reason anyways. They slide into a booth of worn leather, Sam on one side, Dean on the other.

Sam orders a panini with ham and cheese and fries, Dean the lumber jack pancakes. When they arrive by a shy petite waitress with inky dark eyes and blushing blotted cheeks, Dean swipes a fry off Sam’s plate just to receive another swat. Any touch is better than no touch, bad attention better than none.

Sam doesn’t miss the way the waitresses' eyes linger on Dean’s profile. If he shoots a frosty glare her way Dean doesn’t have to know.

~

The sun with no forgiveness, a parched sky, the hillsides with purple wilting drifts of milkweed, dotting the cracks of the gas-station and garage. It was Saturday, Sam was at the garage while Dean worked. Tucked in a corner sheltered from the suns ruthless beat with his library copy of Catcher In The Rye he couldn’t return when John dragged them out of the motel inn at dawn a town back. Sam said he felt guilty, Dean told him to stop being such a law-abiding citizen.

He gazed at Dean, could smell his sweat, sharp and strong, a man, Sam’s brain applied helpfully. He was wearing overalls, wiping workman sweat from his forehead. Sam wanted to lick him, taste the salt and summer kissed skin. He knows he’s disgusting. At this rate Sam thinks he should stab his eyes out, so he can’t look. Burn his skin off, so he can’t touch.

~

The next Sunday, Sam sleeps in late. He finds Dean slouched on the floral couch, stretched out like a housecat watching TV. It’s always a rarity to see him in a relaxed stance, undisturbed, a recess to the constant chaos of their lives. It settles something steady and peaceful within Sam with just a hint of sadness. He mumbles a drowsy good morning and trudges to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

He pisses in the toilet, sluggish, holds himself up steady with a hand against the tiles. The splash of his piss hitting the water too loud in the quiet murmur of their trailer.

Washing his hands, he moseys around in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Inside, aimless trinkets left behind by previous owners. Tweezers with a single gemstone on them, antibiotic ointment, outdated eyedrops.

Sam finds a small capsule behind an empty bottle of aspirin. He reaches for it, revealing a lipstick, the cheap kind you pick-up at Walmart for $5.

He holds it in his hand, stares. Turns it in his palm, opens the lid with a subtle click and rotates the base.

The lipstick itself is a cherry red, obscene kind of red. The type he sees on hookers lingering around the corners at motels when he slips out at dusk to buy Dr Peppers from the vending machine with the quarters Dean made him pocket.

The garish fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, whirring like insects as he watches them showcasing their chests and unveiled legs. They always look cold, Sam thinks.

Sam looks up and scans his face in the mirror, holds the lipstick close to his nose, sniffs it. It smells like wax and chemicals, half suspected it to smell like strawberries and an angel's kiss or something, screws his nose up.

Without much reflection he smears the cherry red lipstick onto his lips, it's messy and askew not as neat as he sees on the girls in Dean's skin mags. He sets down the lipstick onto the sink and looks at himself, really looks.

The glaring red on such a boyish face like Sam's feels lewd and indecent. He feels slightly silly, embarrassed, his cheeks stain a weak scarlet. He wonders what others would think of him like this, Dean, his dad.

God, dad would probably be appalled, call him a sissy, punish him by making him do triple the training. Make him run for miles under the blazing sun.

But Dean, what would Dean think of his little brother like this? If Sam just waltzed right out of the bathroom now and stood dead in the line of Dean's vision. Would he stammer? Get all flustered and struck-dumb? Would he look at Sam and think of him as those girls he promenades to the impala, the motel room when he thinks Sam's asleep and not hanging onto every grunt and sigh coming from Dean's throat. Stores them in the hollow of his heart, imprinted on it just as sacred as the Holy Bible is to a priest.

Would he want to tenderly caress the shape of his mouth, smear the lipstick, make Sam looked wrecked? He inspects the long plains of his body, like scorched landscape, bronzed from June’s boldness.

Sam’s been trying to get used to it, his recasting body. Finally losing his baby fat, almost catching up to Dean in height much to Dean’s dismay. Just he doesn’t carry the newly stretched limbs well, feels like a puppet and someone else is yanking the strings. He hasn’t thought about it much, how others perceive him, how Dean perceives him.

Sure, Sam’s had his first kiss and fumbled under a girl's shirt in Indiana last year, let him touch her boobs. She wore lots of eyeliner, wore black bulky boots and liked Alice In Chains. Sam creamed his pants as soon as he got a soft plump handful, she didn’t seem to mind so he tried not to feel too embarrassed. He couldn’t wait to tell Dean (lied to a reasonable measure) for him to be proud of him. Dean let Sam have his first beer after he told him, “Since you’re a man now,” Dean announced, “Don’t tell Dad,” He winked. Sam never tells John their secrets.

But other than that, he’s a bit clueless, still bashful when girls look his way. Isn’t fabricated like Dean, heavied bottom lip into effortless grin that make’s girls drop and fractures their porcelain hearts, little unconsciously brutal but never intentional to be so. Sam would let Dean smash him into smithereens, shards of broken ceramic all over the tiles, if he’d wanted.

He thinks about the woman who supposedly left the lipstick here, he decides it’s an older woman, barefoot in a simple dress in the tail end of summer, her feet and the palms of her hands showed pale pink against her sunburnt skin, looked ornamental. He decided she had many lovers, wore it for them, wonders if Dean would be one. Wonders what she would think finding out a gawky teenage boy was trying on her bygone lipstick.

Wonders what it would be like to wear this for Dean, his lover.

Dean compulsive, gluttonous with the want of Sam, gushing his hands over the sides of his body, the pull of his rutting teenage hips. The neediness he sometimes gets in that platonic brotherly way bordering on hysteria whenever Sam’s hurt. All his senses submerged entirely by Dean Dean Dean, his touch, his smell, his hot breath.

Sam shoves a frantic hand down his pyjama pants and briefs, wrenches his dick with crazed tugs. Comes that exact same time there’s rough banging on the door, Dean shouting, “Come on Sam, you’ve been in there forever!” rattling the door with his presence.

Sam leaps, grimacing at the mess he made in his pants, swiping a towel and cleaning himself up in rapid motions. Rubs off the lipstick with the back of his hand, scouring his mouth.

“You jerking off in their little brother?” Dean calls out, muffled slightly through the thick wood of the bathroom door, amusement laced in his tone.

When Sam is sure he’s cleansed himself of any misdemeanours and removed all crucial evidence he swings the door open and shoulders past Dean muttering, “No Dean, I wasn’t jerking off.” How much of that Dean believes is out of his control. He pockets the lipstick.

[aiweirdness]

“Slopsquatting” in a nutshell:

1. LLM-generated code tries to run code from online software packages. Which is normal, that’s how you get math packages and stuff but

2. The packages don’t exist. Which would normally cause an error but

3. Nefarious people have made malware under the package names that LLMs make up most often. So

4. Now the LLM code points to malware.

https://www.theregister.com/2025/04/12/ai_code_suggestions_sabotage_supply_chain/

[eggwishing]

I ONCE TRIED TO WASH THAT SCUFFED OLD THING WHILE HE WAS TAKING ONE OF HIS NAPS, BUT WHEN I TOOK IT OFF HE WAS WEARING ANOTHER IDENTICAL ONE UNDERNEATH! AND ANOTHER! I GOT THROUGH TEN MORE LAYERS OF THE SAME THING BEFORE HE WOKE UP. I WAS SO FRUSTRATED! WHERE DID HE EVEN GET THOSE FROM? THEY ALL EVEN HAD THE SAME STAINS!!

[nyctrilite]

north star

[seleneprince]

Snippet of my Neglected! Family x Yandere! Batfam au (I really need to find a name for this au already)

Wife! Darling has known of the Batcave's existence for years already, and so do her children.

She found out by pure accident. Her oldest daughter was doing her usual computer stuff she didn't understand, and said she found a weird signal coming from under the manor, in the underground...only they didn't know there was anything down there, not even a basement. Alfred never mentioned it.

The girl went to check, tracing the mysterious signal with her phone, and found a hidden compartment behind the pendulum clock. Before her mother could tell her to stop, she went down there.

Cue to Wife! Darling following her daughter to make sure she didn't get in trouble or hurt herself, because who knew if Batman even bothered with basic security measures for his vigilante stuff. From what she's seen of him as Bruce Wayne, she doubted it.

And that's how they found the Batcave. By the time Alfred found out and met them there, the daughter had already tinkered with half the equipment and replicated part of the Batcomputer's code in her tablet for fun, while her mother explored the whole place with a critical eye. Alfred expected them to be angry, to ask a lot of questions, but instead:

Wife! Darling!: "Who takes care of this place?"

Alfred: "Mostly me, Mistress (Name)."

Wife! Darling squinted her eyes, gaze darkening: "Just you? Does no one help you?"

Alfred: "It's part of my job, Mistress (Name). Don't worry, I can handle it perfectly well on my own."

She scoffed. "Well, this has to change. You're just one man, Alfred, and you're not getting younger with the years. The fact that they let you do so much already by yourself is infuriating, and you also have to clean after their crime-fighting bullshit? The nerve. I'll take care of this from now on"

Alfred blinked: "Mistress (Name), I can't possibly ask you that. You already help me more than enough around the house-"

Wife! Darling: "Nonsense, Alfred. You do way too much already. At this rate, it'll only affect your health for worse. I live here too now, so technically it's also my responsibility."

And that's how she ends up handling the maintenance of the Batcave along with Alfred, even taking over his tasks entirely. She starts off with the excuse of helping him, which it's true, but eventually she always takes care everything so the man has no option but rest.

And because she's such a perfectionist, she doesn't spare any efforts in the task. Cleans all the surfaces, fixes the suits, rearranges the weapons after cleaning them and creates a system to organize their gadgets so they're much easier to find. Even the Batmobile is left spotless, inside and outside. She goes as far to feed some of the bats casually roaming around the edges of the cave.

(And if her kids had naps inside the batmobile sometimes when they were down there, only she and Alfred are witnesses. Well, the bats too, but they're not snitching)

This way she takes some work off Alfred's shoulders. She finds it enraging that a man his age has such a heavy load of work with little to no help, so she takes over some of the house chores for him so he can have breaks. Plus, it helps her unwind and relax a bit from her usually stress-fuelled life.

She also begins to leave snarky notes about the shameful state of their gear when she finds it in particularly bad shape. And feels even worse that Alfred has had to take care of all of this at his age until she came.

"This blade is duller than your sense of self-awareness. Fix it"

"Blood is not a fashion statement. Grow up"

"If you die in this crusty suit, I’m not cleaning your corpse"

"Are you fighting villains or rolling in garbage?"

Seriously, the richest man in Gotham can't even afford a bit more of staff? But of course, she reminds herself he's the same man who forgot to use protection when fucking a random woman, so she shouldn't expect too much from him.

To avoid uncomfortable encounters, she specifically schedules her cleaning times for when the whole team is out, so she can work peacefully without being having to be in the same room as them. So far, it goes well. Alfred even warns her when they're coming back, and the Batcave is actually a pretty nice place to enjoy time for yourself when it's empty. Just the beeping of the computers as background noise, or her children messing around when they go down there to do their things.

It becomes part of her routine, one she even looks forward too during the day. Until one day.

The Batcave has been left spotless, as usual. Weapons polished. Suits lined up by height and damage level. Even the Batmobile has that new-car shimmer. It smells faintly of citrus-scented cleaning spray and frustration. There are also four sticky notes scattered across the table already, complaining about the state of their things again.

She is crouched near the weapon rack, holding the Batman suit with one gloved hand and a lint roller in the other, glaring at it like it personally offended her.

She mutters under her breath in Spanish, something about how "ni siquiera una máquina de coser podría salvar este desastre de traje, Dios mío." (Not even a sewing machine could save this disaster of a suit, my godness)

She’s in sweats, hair tied back in a messy bun. An apron over her tank top that says "KISS THE COOK (or don’t, I’ll stab you)". She's so deep in the cleaning zone she doesn’t hear the footsteps.

"Well, this is a surprise. I could get used to this."

Her entire body freezes. It feels like her blood turned ice in her veins instantly with the voice. That irritating, familiar voice.

Her head turns slowly, and there he is. Bruce Wayne in the flesh. Her husband in paper, father of her first child, owner of this cave, and responsible for half of the stress she deals with.

She could be annoyed or even embarrassed that he caught her like this, handling his suit no less. But instead, her mind is focused on what he said, and the tone in which he said it.

She arches a brow at him.

"Excuse me?"

He steps closer, clearly taking note of her work there. His eyes drifting to the Batmobile, the weapons, all she's taken care of already.

Bruce: "Me, coming back from work to find you cleaning my stuff. It’s so… domestic. It’s almost like we’re a married couple."

There’s a beat. A dangerous silence.

She blinks at him. Once. Twice. Processing the fact that he really said that. Out loud. To her. And in a completely serious tone.

Then he looks at her, and she notices the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Oh, that filthy little-

Her eye twitches.

Wife! Darling: "...........Oh, absolutely."

WHACK.

She chucks a batarang at his head with a speed and accuracy that would’ve made Deadshot whistle. He barely ducks, and it slams into the metal behind him with a THUNK so loud the Batcomputer flinches and some bats burst out from their spots.

Bruce: "That could’ve taken my eye out."

Wife! Darling:"I was hoping so."

He stares at her, and then shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle. A chuckle. Since when is this man capable of that? Before she gets her answer, he pulls out the batarang with ease and places it back on the rack (Good, she would've murdered him for real if he left it anywhere else).

Bruce: "I meant it. I think I like this sight of you. Suits you well. You look like the ideal housewife."

Without looking, she reaches for another batarang and throws it at him. This time, he catches it mid-air, cool as ever, before setting it down on the table like he isn’t one second away from getting stabbed.

Bruce: "Was that really necessary?"

Wife! Darling: "It was either that or shoot you. You're lucky I'm generous today."

He watches her, barely concealing his amusement now, but there’s something else in his expression too, something he's never had when looking at her: Curiosity.

She doesn't like it.

Unbothered, as if he didn't just activate her kill switch, he starts to walk to the table and peels off one of the sticky notes, reading it aloud with a deadpan tone.

"Blood is not a fashion statement. Grow up."

Bruce: "You know I beat the shit out of people in this suit, right?"

She replies without sparing him a glance, wiping down a grappling gun with unholy aggression: "Yeah? Well, do it without staining it with their blood. You look like Gotham’s dirtiest raccoon."

He leans against the Batcomputer, arms folded. "How long have you been doing this, exactly?"

She scoffs, going back to adjusting the suit like she isn’t being interrogated. "Long enough to know that you leave your weapons in a shameful state. Honestly, it’s a miracle your stupid gadgets still function. Do you ever bother to maintain your own things, or do you just throw them around and hope Alfred fixes it?"

He watches her for a moment longer before finally speaking.

"And you’re doing this because...?"

"Because unlike some people in this godforsaken house, I actually care when an old man is running himself ragged taking care of things that none of you seem to appreciate."

Bruce pauses. He glances at the Batmobile, cleaner than it’s ever been. At his weapons, neatly arranged, polished, functional.

At the post-it notes stuck to the Batcomputer, scrawled in Rosa’s angry handwriting.

He actually huffs a quiet laugh. Again. It's unsettling her.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she mutters, "Besides, if you die because your equipment fails, it’s only a matter of time before you try to drag me into this circus. And I refuse to wear spandex."

He raises an eyebrow. "You’d look good in spandex."

Silence.

She throws the batarang at him again. This time, it actually clips his shoulder.

"Go get that treated before you stain anything, or I'll wipe the floors next with your face."

.......................

...........

Suddenly, Bruce starts to "casually" come to the cave early more often.

Now she has to adjust her schedule AGAIN to avoid him. And in the meantime, her children start betting on how many batarangs it takes before Bruce gets critically injured. Or dead.

[limboni]

"Children in the woods" 5/5

<- Previous

[cubedmango]

「安達が魔法使いにならなかった世界線の話」 + 「もしもの話」 — english translation

[the-hwaelweg]

Whatever You Do, Don't Use Your Words

Buddie | 4k | T | Idiot4Idiot

It’s Buck’s fault, when you get down to it. He’d gotten overly attached, started thinking of Eddie as his partner, and Eddie and Chris as his family. Maybe not in so many words, but still. And it’s not like he and Eddie aren’t friends. Eddie’s still his best friend in the whole world. Just. He’s trying to be reasonable. Rein himself in. He’s embarked on a case study of Hen and Chim’s best friendship, trying to figure out where the lines are. Everything is going according to plan. Or, in which Buck is a Totally Normal Best Friend (he did a case study; he wrote guidelines) and Eddie definitely handles it in a Totally Normal and Sane Manner and Not at All Like a Kicked Puppy.

Read it on AO3.

[rwsdarw]

//suggestive <3

[reunitedinterlude]

the cake scene saga

[save-the-villainous-cat]

"Are you jealous? Is that it?" the hero whispered. They were fully aware of the villain's personality. They were aware of the insecurities, the fears.

"I'd rather not talk about it," the villain answered. Instinctively, the hero reached for the villain's palm and let their fingertips dance over their skin. It was a soft attempt. The villain did not mind.

"You can't keep me here forever." With a deep sigh, the villain pulled away slowly, avoiding the hero's gaze and turned their eyes towards the window.

The hero knew that at times the villain could be quite delicate. Easy to break. And the hero also knew their role in this play, knew that if anyone could destroy them, if anyone had the power to defeat the villain, it was them. It was the hero.

The hero could have (if they wanted, that is) broken the villain in a matter of seconds.

To possess that kind of power was dangerous and the hero took no pride in it. They didn't want it. They didn't want to hurt anyone.

"I know," the villain said. "I'm sorry."

"I mean, honestly, I wish you could, but I have work and they will file a missing person's report and everything will be messy..."

"I know," the villain repeated with the same heartbreaking tone. "Sorry, I didn't really think about that."

They turned to look at the hero, ready to say something but they closed their mouth again. The hero bit the inside of their cheek. In the last few weeks, something had happened to them. They seemed to long for the hero's company, protected them more often, saw them more often.

For the most part, the villain was a silent threat, a calm force that stroke once and didn't miss. Sometimes, it felt like all the hero had to do was call out their name and they would appear.

That gave them a sense of security. Trust was important and they had worked long and hard to gain the villain's trust.

"What did you think about?"

"You." The villain tilted their head, gaze burning into the floor. "Mostly just you."

"Come here," the hero said and the villain didn't hesitate. They sat down next to them on the couch, looking effortlessly flawless but still tired. The hero took their hand again, choosing their next words carefully. Clearly, the villain wanted some kind of connection. They wanted something. Maybe they couldn't express it, maybe they didn't know where to start.

But the hero couldn't take it anymore. They were tip-toeing around each other and before it escalated and someone got hurt, they wanted to make a few things very clear.

With their fingers on the villain's jawline, they turned their enemy's face to look at them.

"Look, I..." The hero's eyes accidentally dropped to the villain's mouth and suddenly, the hero understood how difficult it could be to force those words out of their mouth. They could understand why the villain preferred to kidnap them instead of confronting their feelings like this. "I...you..."

"Yeah?" The villain put their hand on the hero's thigh.

"Is it jealousy?"

"A little, I think."

"What else?" The villain looked away, but the hero turned the villain's head with their fingers again.

"You know I like you more than I should," the villain said. They cupped the hero's cheek with their hand and let their thumb go over their bottom lip. "You know we should not..."

But the hero didn't care about that.

The villain seemed to be tortured by the fact that they had fallen in love. They were barely themselves.

And the hero couldn't live with themselves, knowing that they were responsible for someone's misery, especially when that someone was the villain who had proven countless of times what kind of person they were.

The hero knew about the troubled childhood and the horrible coping mechanisms, they knew about the anger issues and the many mistakes, knew about the regret and the guilt.

So, they leaned forward and kissed them. They tried to forget about the we shouldn't and closed their eyes, just as desperate for company as the villain. They were hesitant at first, clumsy even.

When was the last time someone had wanted them romantically? The hero knew about the public, about the media. They knew that a lot of people wanted them in a very crude way and were merely interested in having power over the hero.

But the villain was gentle. They didn't push, they didn't force. They protected, they encouraged, even if it was counterproductive for their own goals. They compromised where they shouldn't have and backed down when they crossed lines.

If this was some kind of manipulation, the hero was gladly walking into this trap. They were willing to get hurt at the expense of having someone value and appreciate them, having someone who protected them instead of the hero being the one who had to protect.

The villain's lips were warm against theirs and the hero regretted not having done this sooner. They had the feeling that the villain wasn’t sure what they were doing either.

However, they pulled away quickly, surprised that they were so daring. When they looked at the villain, they could see their enemy blush.

"Oh..." was all the villain managed and the hero themselves wasn't sure how to respond.

“Sorry, I…I wasn’t thinking.”

“That’s fine, that’s totally fine,” the villain said. They didn’t look at the hero. Their ears were red.

“Please don’t be sad.”

“I’m not.”

“No, I mean…” The hero took their hands again. “Please don’t worry. I like you, too. I like you a lot. I know it’s hard to say, but I want to spend more time with you.”

The villain stared at them as if they’d said something shocking.

“But kidnapping isn’t really…the ideal date, you know?”

“Oh, I—”

“So, let’s go out next week, sounds good?”

The villain blinked a few times, still staring at the hero.

“Yes, yes I’d like that.”

[agender-wolfie]

Imagine Kid meeting his future partner by being too rowdy and knocking over their art stand or something by accident (being himself) but instead of apologizing, he blames them. Stating that they shouldn’t have been in the way in the first place. And instead of backing down and being a meek little mouse like he expects you to be,you tear into him.

“You listen to me you giant red fuck! I don’t work my ass off, pouring blood, sweat and tears into my work just so wild ass fuckos like you can come in here and tear shit up! You’re either going to clean this up and pay for the damages, or I’m gonna beat your ass!!”

The whole crew was stunned, everyone that didn’t run away in fear of an altercation was stunned, but most of all, Kid was stunned. As soon as you called him a “giant red fuck” his smirk dropped and his mouth hung open while a steady red creeped up his neck and face. The fact that you had the gall to stand up to him in the first place was one thing, but your fiery spirit and your overall passion in the face of a feared pirate is what had his heart thumping and pants becoming a bit tight.

Killer, who had moved close just in case he needed to step in and prevent more trouble, had seen the absolute love struck look on his captains face and let out an amused huff, knowing Kid had finally met his match.

[demaparbat-hp]

Oh, Lala...

[caffeinewitchcraft]

[whoviandoodler]

something I haven't really seen people mention or consider in relation to riz and jawbone and the whole 'what's up with you, come in and talk with me' thing is that riz legitimately cannot do that. he cannot get better because getting better means losing all the things he gains by pushing himself to a wildly unhealthy degree- the points from his extracurriculars and grades in general, the usefulness he still feels he owes to his friends, the ability to push through grief and loss time and again. it's so incredibly sad because like- he was the one who first offered jawbone the job that got his life turned around! he tries so hard at all that he does and has a huge heart and he deserves to live a life that doesn't run him into the ground, but that life would be one where he wouldn't get the education he wants, or at the very best a life where he loses the control that he is gripping onto white-knuckled and has to contend with a lot of things he could never bear to consider at present. getting better would mean stopping, stopping would mean falling, and if he falls, riz is not getting up for a long, long time, and he just cannot afford that

[kallistoyew]

horsing around