#this is mostly unedited

[rosy-thorn-222]

So, I've been rewatching Grian's Hermitcraft 6 and...

There's a pattern. (Ramble incoming)

In his episode 93, he created a game called Demise. A few years later, and Third Life shows up, along with the rest of the Life Series.

Not only that, but his tendency to start good-natured wars is a big thing, too. For example:

The prank war

The build battle in Hermitville

The whole hippies vs area 77 thing

And MORE

The pattern: Grian likes to cause mischief and make death games.

[justafandomfollower]

WIP Wednesday

Okay, so, I got tagged by @ayotofu but I'll be completely honest and say I have no idea how this works, or what the rules of this thing are. So, I don't have a fic in the same fandom as them (9-1-1), but I do have plenty of WIPs, so, you get 700 words of a Dead Boy Detectives thing I'm working on instead.

I'm going to go ahead and tag @e-vasong and @dont-offend-the-bees if they want to share, but if they don't want to no pressure! Also, if you want to be tagged, consider yourself tagged.

Crystal is comfortable. She’s warm, and well-rested, with no demons in her head and three best friends surrounding her. Her arm rests on the arm of Charles’ and Edwin’s uncomfortable couch. Her feet are tucked up next to her, bare toes under Niko’s legs. Niko, rather than resting on the other arm of the couch, leans against Crystal’s shoulder, a steady weight at her side. Rain drums on the window but it’s a Saturday morning – they have nowhere to be today and no obligations to attend to. The rain is a comforting, steady drumbeat rather than a dreary slog to get through. Tucked into the minifridge she’d convinced the boys to get sometime between their return from Port Townsend and their rescue of Niko are two slowly defrosting frozen pizzas: lunch, in a few hours, heated by the microwave she’d also convinced them to get that sits atop the fridge. It’s a rare, lazy day for the agency and all four of them plan to take advantage of it together. With the day stretching out before them, it feels like they have all the time in the world. “No, no, no,” Charles is saying now, grinning down at her and Niko from where he leans against the minifridge-microwave combo. “That’s too simple. Can’t be anything too simple – need to impress the clients, don’t we?” “And the current name does that?” Crystal mutters wryly with a grin.

Charles scoffs comfortably at her. He turns his head with ease, staring down his best friend. “C’mon, Edwin, back me up here.” Edwin does not look up from his desk. He’s the only one of the three of them doing anything that could remotely be considered work, though he’d been adamant that he enjoys comparing old case files with current ones and taking notes about the differences and similarities. Just as Charles has stripped down to his polo, suspenders hanging off his hips, Edwin has shed a few layers too. He still has on his vest, and he hasn’t rolled up his sleeves, but the bowtie and other layers are gone. (He says he’s concentrating, but Crystal’s seen his lips quirk a few times during their discussion.) “I have not agreed to change our name, Charles,” he says, dry and fond all at once. Crystal rolls her eyes fondly in return, even if he isn’t looking to see it. Edwin’s a pushover when it comes to Charles and everyone here knows it – however much he doesn’t like change, if Charles asks for it, Edwin’ll give it. Of course, she’s not convinced Charles is committed either, it’s just a fun discussion for the moment – same as Edwin’ll do anything for him, if Charles thinks Edwin genuinely wouldn’t like something (or at least tolerate it for him), he wouldn’t push for it. “Simple can be nice,” Niko counters easily. “I mean, Dead Boy Detectives is simple, isn’t it?” Charles’ head spins around so he can gape at her properly. “Simple?” he asks, mock horrified. “Well, kinda, yeah,” Crystal says in support. “I mean, you’re dead boys, and you’re detectives, aren’t you?” Charles shakes his head, as if distressing over them disparaging the agency’s name, but Crystal can see him trying not to smile. She exchanges her own grin with Niko. “How did you guys pick the name the first time?” she finds herself asking, and then: “Not even just the name, really. How’d you guys decided to be detectives in the first place?” That does get Edwin to look up from his desk. He exchanges a long glance with Charles, that kind where they have a whole conversation in seconds. Crystal can’t read them nearly as well as they can each other, but she can see the amusement and fondness bouncing between them. Edwin rolls his eyes and concedes to Charles with a slight nod. Charles, grinning gleefully, rubs his hands together. “Right. Get ready for the story of a lifetime, girls.” At Crystal’s side, Niko straightens attentively. Crystal can’t seem to stop herself from smiling, steeped in the warmth of the moment. Off to the side, she catches Edwin rolling his eyes again, but he’s leaning back in his chair instead of returning to the files on his desk.

[peachesofteal]

I know Azriel has amassed a ton of wealth over centuries from doing the dirtiest work, and rarely spends it. He's never really had a need to. Of course, he buys gifts for his family, covers tabs at Rita's, buys himself things, essentials, etc but when it comes to spending for enjoyment or spending to indulge, it just doesn't happen.

He's not looking for reasons, either, until he literally stumbles into one.

You trip and fall into him in the Palace of Thread and Jewels. Trip over something on the ground, get twisted up, and flail forward, right into his path. You're rose and pink pepper, floral, sharp, sweet in a way he cannot fathom, and he doesn't think before stopping your fall. He just reacts, grabbing you around the arms and pulling you upright, holding you steady as you recalibrate your balance, looking up into his face, eyes shining bright like the stars. They're brilliant, full of life, but lined with an undercurrent of stress, of worry, he does not understand.

You're fumbling over an apology as he studies you, scrutinizing every detail on your face, down to the chap of your lips.

He's never seen a High Fae look so... off before, and they're not known to be clumsy.

"Are you alright?" It's polite to inquire, he assures himself, it's the right thing to do.

"I'm fine," you smile but it doesn't touch your eyes, "thanks. Sorry about that. I wasn't watching where I was going." He's unsure what to say next but before he can come up with something, you're giving him a quick thank you, and then disappearing into market.

He thinks about you that night. Wonders about you, as he stares at the bedroom ceiling. You obviously weren't well. Maybe he should have done more. It's his duty, isn't it? To Velaris? To care for it and its citizens, to protect them. Or at least, you. Do something to care for you, protect you.

He's not sure what to do, so he pushes the lingering questions from his mind.

And then the following week, he sees you at Rita's.

You're waiting tables, waltzing across the floor delivering drinks with a smile, the same one that slips away as soon as you're out of sight. Your shoulders slump as you stand at the corner of the bar, covering your mouth with your palm, yawning into it again and again.

Maybe he should do something, maybe you need a healer, maybe he could help-

No. He shouldn't. You probably wouldn't want him to, anyway. Right?

He shakes it off, tries to shake you off but can't stop himself from watching every step you take, trying to diagnose the problem.

It takes too long for it to click.

You're not sick, or clumsy.

You're exhausted, and it makes him irrationally angry, fills him with a need to drag you away from Rita's and tuck you up into a house somewhere, a place you'll never have to lift a finger again if you so choose. A place where you could be taken care of-

maybe even by him.

It takes him very little time to find the ramshackle duplex you live in on the outskirts of town, the roof too sloped, the wooden steps too rotted, the siding too loose.

It makes him uneasy, makes his skin crawl. Why are you here, in a place like this? Who has allowed this?

Why does a place like this even exist when Velaris has such wealth?

He begins to play a game, and at first, he tells himself it's to make himself feel better, that he's doing it for selfish reasons.

It's winter, and you don't have gloves, so he buys a pair and the shadows deposit them on your front step, and it makes the sick feeling in his stomach go away. For a few days.

When it returns, he buys you a hat, and this time, he delivers it himself, eager to see your reaction.

He doesn't expect to see the gloves still sitting on the porch, and he frowns. Did you not see them? Did you not like them? He leaves the hat at their side and lurks on the roof of the house across from yours, hiding in shadow, in wait.

The sun is still rising when you leave for your first job of the day, and you stop short at the sight of the hat. He perks up, expecting to see you relax with relief, or happiness, but is left confused when you hold the hat in your hands for a moment, reverently tracing the stitching, before dropping it back next to the gloves.

Why? You need these things. They're being given anonymously, alleviating some of awkwardness of accepting gifts, and he had hoped it would spare you from feelings of obligation or embarrassment. Perhaps you are too proud, he wonders, but shadows echo a different sentiment, one of distrust, of wariness.

The gifts scare you.

The guilt churns the bile in his stomach, and he flexes his fingers into fists before flying away, cursing himself the whole way home.

Idiot.

You're very surprised when he approaches you on your walk from the Palace to Rita's, so much so that you jerk to a dead stop, staring at him with your mouth dropped open as he tries to explain he has something to give you.

Yes, he knows you don't know him. Yes, he's aware how strange this is.

Yes, you will be taking this scarf whether you like it or not.

"I'm sorry?"

"This is for you." He extends the scarf towards you, holding his breath. Your eyes narrow.

"Have you been leaving things on my porch?"

"Yes." There's no point in lying. He's standing here trying to gift you a scarf, for Cauldron's sake.

"Why?" Your voice is tight, anxious, and he wishes there was a way he could reassure you without frightening you further.

"You needed them." It comes off as arrogant, but he doesn't care. He's getting to the point where he's past caring, where he's past watching you freeze and work yourself to the bone. His jaw is clenched so tight the muscles are straining, and it takes effort to steady his voice. "You're freezing."

"I-"

"I want you to have this." Just take it. The shadows skitter around him, trawling across the brick to where you stand, and you glance at them briefly, surprisingly unafraid, before looking back at him. He expects a fight, some kind of resistance, but it's all been bled dry. The only thing he sees is defeat, and it stings. You're suffering, you're suffering and he's got everything he could ever want, material wise, and then some. "Please," he murmurs, stepping forward, and you shake your head.

"I shouldn't."

"It's just a gift, I don't expect anything in return."

"You say that now." Your voice trembles. Anger cracks like lightning through his veins. Is this what you fear? A transaction? An exchange for help? There are only so many things one could want in a situation like this, and all of the them fill him with rage.

"I promise you," his voice is steel, firm and unrelenting, "I want nothing in return."

"You promise." It's not a question, and you won't meet his gaze, but he pushes on.

"I do." You reach for it hesitantly and wrap it around your neck, tucking your chin into the softly spun wool, cheeks lifting in a very small, shy smile. Good girl.

He chose perfectly. It complements your skin, your eyes, illuminates your already striking beauty.

"I... thank you. This is really nice. It's lovely." The shadows hum, and he secretly preens, the warmth in his chest spreading as you tell him your name.

"I'm Azriel," he says in return, and you nod.

"I know." You sigh, and look past him, down the street to where he knows your work awaits. "I have to go."

Or he could take you. It's tempting, so, so tempting. It's wicked, and rotten, but satisfying at the same time, and it soothes the reckless pieces of him calling out to you.

No. He shouldn't. He settles on a different course instead.

"I'll see you soon." Your brow furrows.

"You will?" He nods, spreading his wings, preparing to launch into the sky, pleased by how you marvel at them.

"And you'll wear both the gloves and hat when you're outside from now on." Your lips part with surprise. "Yes?" It takes a beat, and then two-

"Yes."

[gaywarcriminals]

I am so obsessed with PIDW Bingning; they’re like if tragic yaoi could be hetero. Neither of them could give the other enough but they were still too important to each other not to try, not to keep reaching for the echoes of a relationship that effectively died when LBH was shoved into the abyss.

In SVSSS, the two people we see LBH truly love are his mother and SQQ: both are relationships characterized by protecting him to the point of putting their lives over Binghe’s. This interpretation was solidified for me by how quickly LBH switches from unsure of his shizun’s change of heart (though perhaps warily hopeful) to fully and unquestioningly devoted to SQQ. As miserable as LBH is each time SQQ dies or is grievously injured for his sake, it undeniably lights something up in his brain that makes him feel cared for.

Bingge never gets that. As an adult, I think that Bingge is doomed to remain eternally ignorant of this desire, because how could the emperor of the three realms need protecting? He’s no longer a little boy who has to hide behind a woman’s skirts.  In his discipleship, NYY is in a strange grey area with that where she does want to take care of him, but just is a child herself and does so clumsily, incompletely, and often makes things worse. She is the in it person who cares for him while he’s an abused disicple on QJP, and for that he loves her, but she does nothing— can do nothing— to change his circumstances, while sitting in the seat of favor herself, and for that I think he also resent her a bit. He would feel guilty and ungrateful for such and emotion, but burying it only lets it take seed for the future and grow a further wedge between their adult selves.

For Ning Yingying’s part, she fell in love with a sweet, hardworking, and yet to be fully blackened young man. The Binghe who leaves the abyss no longer resembles her childhood sweetheart. He uproots her entire life, kills people she grew up with and burns the place she’s called home longer than any other, and she can’t even truly begrudge him for it because she’s no longer a naive child and hindsight gives the past clarity. How can she listen to Binghe’s stories and claim he is not owed justice? He is not the cute boy who would’ve tried to devote himself to her as her husband, but she still sees parts of him peeking through. Is it wrong to want to care for him now that it’s too late? Now that she’s just one of many?

[claritys-silly-things]

Greaser gang hcs I have:

- (modern) The entire gang would SOOO watch South Park you can't convince me otherwise

- (sorta modern ig I don't remember the context to this) *scene kids your outsiders*

- Everyone has a stuffed animal or two or ten they just won't admit it (inspiration from kotlc)

- Ponyboy can't handle horror movies, Johnny LOVESSSS them. He just sits there like :D

- Soda Steve and dally get very squeamish during horror movies but try to hide it

- Darry likes horror movies

- Twobit could care less what's on (can handle horror movies, doesn't like them) (he wants to watch Mickey Mouse 😟😟)

[pencap]

someone once told me there is no demon more frightening     than a good man     who has gone to war.

someone once told me      the only things we get to choose      are a hero's death      or a villain's life.

so they said. so they said. so they say.

but no one ever told me      what happens when a good man       goes to war      and becomes the demon.

but no one ever told me      you can die a hero     and be resurrected     to a villain's afterlife.

- by sylvie (j.p.)

[adhdo5]

I was prompted to post these a bit ago bc of my madness posting abt the Xiyao laundry audioextra upload someone posted like last week and I think there is really a lot there in the Xiyao laundry thing in general (hashtag release the Yunping tapes) and not all of it is smth I see ~talked abt as much as I think it deserves SO . Collected thoughts on Xiyao laundry

OK so like Yeah they're cute. I absolutely get why people's primary reaction to this is that it's cute and I think this is not even wrong. The politics of uselessness r complicated and I Will be returning to this but a legitimate angle of this is that LXC, who has spent his life largely defined by the fact that he pretty much excels at everything expected of him, has nothing expected of him and gets to be incompetent at something he ~feels obligated to do and have that not actually be a fail state, still get offered the same kindness regardless of his ability to be exceedingly capable/responsible etc.; meanwhile MY, who historically has had pretty much no one ever gaf about whether he's struggling or overworked or generally about him as a person (and the audiodrama extra version even has a bit where MY's coworkers are shit talking him including talking abt how he's probably not even actually doing any work), has someone earnestly caring about that, if ineffectually, and materially recognizing his workload as important and effortful and trying to help him with it. That is I think legitimately kind of sweet! Especially if one interprets the "he didn't even know who I was" line as true and as in the audiodrama extra this is set b4 MY figures it out! They appreciate each other in ways they don't usually get to be appreciated and it's nontransactional in this way and ;x;

HOWEVER. #Nuance. There's Other Angles.

I've talked abt this before inc on my blog but I do kind of never get tired of thinking abt it: there's a reason LXC is incapable of doing laundry and it's not just inexperience it's that he is physically incapable of the task bc of his cultivator strength!!!!! And the disparity of cultivation level is explicitly a class thing w/ JGY wrt 3zun especially!!! No matter his intention Zewu-jun CANNOT SULLY HIS HANDS WITH THE TASK bangs my head against a wall. It's such an innocuous detail yet it captures how from even this early on in their relationship and in this context it's not ignorable how much LXC is in fact a nobleman where JGY is not and this is a literal physical difference and it's in his very flesh and it has explicitly destructive results. See again vampire AU posting

And going off that it's notable how this does in fact also end up creating more work and while MY doesn't begrudge that in the moment and it's pettier here and arguably inextricable with the first point (LXC is not only incapable here he's actively bad at something, he actively makes smth worse and he's forgiven for it and that's genuinely kind of nice) it's it's also worth noting more grimly given how their relationship ends. It's not just destructive it's destructive to MY specifically

And on the notes of "inextricable from first point but also tragic" – it's sweet tht LXC gets no external consequences for this (yet lol) but is that really something he can Accept. It is an arguably underexamined element of Sunshot Xiyao how fucking miserable LXC is; he might be in an environment where this isn't fucking him up but he did bring his complexes here and you don't suddenly know how to accept that kind of grace yknow – and, and this is tangentially related to the stuff I was posting earlier today, this is one of the first of several kinds of vulnerability that LXC's almost only able to experience with MY/JGY. Considering how much that's arguably a running theme for them and considering where that leads that's also quite Foreshadowing Dismal!!

This is an audio drama exclusive but the way in the audiodrama extra ver that MY realizes who LXC is here and then ~lies about it is also crunchy as helllllll

AND between the coworkers thing in the audiodrama extra and the added scenes in the donghua and this and the notion in general (which comes from MXTX's post) that it's important they do the laundry themselves bc the robes would give LXC away it's a highlight of how genuinely precarious this is for MY which is another thing that both makes it more sweet and more. Despair.

It's just so lovely how it is both indicative of how genuinely good they are to and for each other, the ways in which they're meaningfully and significantly compassionate and helpful to one another, and also of the ways in which their situation here is precarious and high-stress and dangerous as fuck, AND also the ways in which they hurt each other so so bad, and how all of those things are largely different facets of the same qualities and the same significances. And That's My Post. Stream Apple Pie by the Scary Jokes

[edible-emerald]

(Legend enters.) Legend: Homosexual. (Light on Legend.)

--

Wild: I scare people a lot because I walk very softly and they don't hear me enter rooms. So when they turn around, I'm just kind of there and their fear fuels me.

--

Wind: *running towards Warriors with open arms* Warriors: *moves out of the way* Wind: Hey, why'd you move?! Warriors: I thought you were going to attack me. Wind: I was going to hug you! Warriors: Why would you hug me? Wind: WHY WOULD I ATTACK YOU!?

--

Sky, skipping rocks on a lake with Twilight: It’s such a beautiful evening. Twilight: Yeah, it is. Twilight: *whispering* Take that you fucking lake.

--

Sky: Where is Twilight? Four: I'll do you one better, who is Twilight?? Wind: Here's a better question, why is Twilight?

--

Four: Fuck capitalism. It's a rigged system that keeps us poor and it isn't fair. You shouldn't need to work three jobs to afford basic necessities. Four, playing Monopoly: Sorry, if you wanted to win you should have tried not being poor.

--

Wild: I'm selling a hot cheeto in the shape of Gandalf for $5,000 Twilight: What the hell is wrong with you? Wild: I mean... It's got free shipping... Wind: Say less.

--

Time, rubbing their temples: I am not proud of what I am about to say, but someone get me a cigarrette. Four: But Time, we don't smoke. Time: Cut the crap, Four. I'm not an idiot. I know that one in five people smoke. Twilight: *points at Legend* One! *points at Warriors* Two! *points at Wild* Three! *points at Four* Four! *points at Twilight* Five! Time: Now, I am going to close my eyes, and when I open them, there better be a cigarrette between these two fingers! Legend: *puts a cigarrette in Twilight's hand* Time: Thank you. ...Light? The Chain: *all simultaneously pull out lighters*

[teratocore]

I don’t see it mentioned enough but I love the fact that Selina is pivotal in cracking Bruce’s false innocent vs. criminal dichotomy in The Batman. Throughout the film he begins to internalize these shades of grey and how his perceptions of people and events (in his own past but also in terms of crime investigations) cannot easily be categorized into good person or The Element, but through his association with Selina and understanding her past and her choices and her motivations it solidifies, and I think this perception culminates in the “you don’t have to pay with him, you’ve paid enough” where he at last connects to her desperation and drive to do what she was going to do, but holding fast in the bedrock of his own moral code in not letting her become a killer.

[brotherscain]

precanon wincest hair washing drabble, 2.3k, teenchesters/weecest

The hunt that night went well. Dad had this shifter pinned under his thumb since the first night in town, all they had to do was get to the thing and kill it dead.

If Dad had only brought Dean along, they would’ve weeded it out a day earlier. He wanted Sam in on this one, though, and Sam was still new enough at hunting to warrant a training wheels protocol. It had to be nearest to a sure thing as they could hope doing what they did. And it was. For Sam—for John and Dean right there with him—it was no question. Dean staked the final blow, gravely recognizing it kept Sam from being a killer for however longer.

In the car, John stretched his hand behind Dean’s head and scruffed his nape firmly enough to jostle him. Father to son, man to emerging man. Dad smiled, disheveled and not quite happy, but proud. He wore it to glance at Dean, then Sam. Proud and grateful.

“You boys did good tonight.” John served up no elaboration, he didn’t need to. Dean let the praise wheedle its way into him. He wanted to look over at Sam but didn’t because he knew Sam had already forged himself indifferent to Dad’s opinion. Dean wanted to enjoy it for a second longer, Sam wouldn’t get it.

Back in the motel lot, Dad fished his pocket for a few crumpled bills to give Dean. “Why don’t you take your brother to the vending machines? I’ll unload.” Dad stopped giving them so much junk food change right around the time Sam started wearing Dean’s too small hand-me-downs. Tonight he prompted Dean almost like he had a thousand times years ago, to a different kid.

Dean’s door creaked on its hinge, Sam’s following moments later. An ease settled over Dean. Everyone made it out okay. Dad wasn’t losing his head bunting orders at them about what they should’ve done better. Sam likewise kept whatever brewing comments he had under the lid. Dean figured he could count on at least one of the lit up vending machines having a Reese’s. As far as hunts went, it could’ve been a lot worse. They did do good.

The vending machine’s artificial blue-white beam bugged every so often, dimming before a kick-start into throbbing fluorescence. Sam scuffed his beat up sneakers against the pavement directly in front of it, eyeing up the options and sticking an open palm out in Dean’s direction. Dean slapped a bill down into his waiting hand.

He watched Sam hunch to look down at the buttons while punching in a code. Off behind him, Dad lifted a bag over his shoulder and reached inside the Impala for a second one. All around them cicadas chirped over one another and the night swelled with trapped mugginess. Dean thought about melted chocolate on his fingers and instead of feeding the leftover change into the slot, he stuffed it all in his back pocket.

Sam straightened to his full height, lifted the chilly soda can closer and tapped on the top rim three times before cracking it open. It burst in loud fizzy pops. Sam tipped his head back to swing a short, gulping chug. This way Dean could see parts of Sam in a new light. Small spatters of dried blood flecked the underside of his bottom jaw, a shiny red sheen bloomed on the high swell of his cheekbone. Dean kept himself from lacing his fingers through Sam’s hair, but made a face at the matted mess of it.

“You have monster guts in your hair,” he said, staring as Sam used the back of his limp hand to wipe the carbonated trickle from his mouth. Sam felt around his head curiously, coming away with a tacky coat of muddy crimson and a grimace. Dean laughed at him, couldn’t help but to. “That’s gonna be a bitch to get out, man.”

Sam cut a glare Dean’s way. He was extremely touchy after hunts, and Dean knew better than to prod him. Knowing better didn’t make it any less funny. That was Sam’s fault.

“Eat me,” he threw back dryly, annoyed Dean had the nerve to carry around a sense of humor about these things.

Sam wet his caked hand with driblets sweating off the soda can and cracked a small grin. Before Dean thought a little smarter about what that meant, Sam was dragging the mess all down the side of his shirt. Not that it hadn’t already been stained and ruined with a lot worse, that’s not what mattered. It was his snot-nosed brother thinking he could retaliate.

Dean jumped on him seconds after, first by shoving him away hard, then fisting the ribbed collar of his tee and tugging him closer. This past year Sam’s gone through a growth spurt, shot straight up like a beanstalk, but he still only came up to Dean’s shoulders. Between that and his knock kneed gangliness, Dean could still push and tilt and trip him any way he wanted. His shirt twisted up in Dean’s grip against the current of Sam’s squirming to get away. They were laughing together or maybe just panting or maybe they weren’t making any noises at all except for their shoes on the ground and their hands nipping each other’s skin. Dean thought about wrestling him to the concrete and shoving his face into all the boot prints. It would be easier to wrangle the drink out of his hands and spill it down his boxers. In all its sloshing, it had already splashed them enough times Dean could smell the cola while it dried sticky.

A door opened and shut firmly somewhere close in the long line of identical rooms. Dean didn’t really care to stop their roughhousing until the commanding voice boomed out. “Boys!” Dean positioned ramrod straight, Sam’s shoulders hunched while he uselessly looked to iron out all the wrinkles in his shirt. Dad waited for Sam to finally glance up. He was going to chew them out for being so loud at the late hour, for acting like mutts more than sternly raised men.

None of that happened. Dad stalked a few steps closer to the parked car, raising a brow at them as a wry smirk fixed itself to his face. “Gonna pick up some dinner. You boys get cleaned up before I get back.” He was in good spirits, but it was still a demand all the same.

“Yes sir,” Dean shot off. Sam didn’t say anything, only nodded his head to show he’d heard and understood. And if it had been a worse night Dad would call him out on it, start a whole thing that didn’t need to be started. Dean felt lucky when Dad just tapped the roof a few times before getting in.

In between the engine roaring to life and tires crunching gravel, Sam stuck Dean in the side with his pointy elbow. “Your bet?”

Dean zoned out on the glowing tail lights, thinking. “Burgers,” he finally said, blinking back to Sam. “Yours?”

Sam drew in a heaving breath before pressing his lips together. “Chinese.” They used to bet each other’s left overs on it. Now it’s habit enough just to go through the motions.

Mosquitoes ate him alive, buzzed around the lip of Sam’s drink enough to keep him from sipping any more. He really was a mess. Hair knotted in clumps, face scratched up. Sam wouldn’t mind until he saw all of it in the mirror and remembered other kids his age didn’t track monsters down for a living. Then he’d get all huffy for first dibs on a very long shower and not want to talk much the rest of the night. There was no such thing as a good hunt in Sam’s eyes.

“Come on.” Dean bobbed his head in the direction of their room. “First shower’s yours.”

Inside the A/C churned cool air out through a low and steady humming. It was prone to spit water out, so Dean couldn’t comfortably sit in front of it and soak up the chill. He dropped himself down on the couch and sprawled out, feeling gross and mucky but sated somewhere deep in the pit of his belly.

Sam dug through some bags and came out with a fresh pair of boxers, a towel, and some small miscellaneous bottles. He padded in a direction opposite the shower, Dean didn’t have the energy to search his motive out. But then Sam was behind him, gazing down at him without saying a word. He’d taken his shirt off and since neither bothered turning on any lights when they were walked in, the moon pooled shimmering light across his chest as it fell and rose strongly.

“There won’t be enough time,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Not for both of us before he gets back.”

The solution was easy. It was what it was. Sam knew that as well as Dean. “Okay Sam,” Dean replied slowly. Sam had red marks down the base of his throat, and Dean wondered if that was from earlier tonight or left hy him near the vending machine.

Sam didn’t break their tense staring, but he did inhale a terser breath. “Are you going to make me say it?” He didn’t look pained either way, only impatient and intentionally guarded.

“What are you talking about?” Dean still asked anyway. Like he didn’t intimately know. Like he didn’t lay awake thinking about it a lot more than he should, when Sam would look for him next. Ask for him. And pretending not to know should’ve made it easier, too. To stop letting it happen. But it didn’t.

Sam became fed up with Dean’s pretending. “There won’t be any warm water left for you.” He took off, headed toward the bathroom without turning around or faltering even once.

A panic peeled the skin from around the achy center of Dean’s chest, awoke the crescendo of its relentless pounding. It felt worse than anything Dean’s ever felt before, and it was always the same at this crossroads. One day he should see if it kills him in letting it run its course. One day, maybe.

“Sam.” Dean caught him as Sam’s finger flipped the light switch. “Okay.” He nodded and got up, trying not to give away his shakiness, hoping Sam would still wait.

They shut the door and turned off the flickering light since there was a window in here, too. The bathroom didn’t make space for two people, but neither of them wanted it anyway now that Dean had given in. He brushed past Sam’s warmed skin to turn the shower knob. Then he worked around Sam’s form, pressing into it, to get to the sink. He tried avoiding his own reflection as he bent for a drink of tap water.

Sam set down his things and caged Dean in from behind, his hands finding the hem of Dean’s top, skirting along and underneath it to dance goosebumps across his abdomen. He moved up, up, up. Traced the thick chain of Dean’s amulet, had it bouncing subtly off the plane between his ribs.

Dean rocked back against him, to push him off more than anything. But he was still trying to be gentle. He didn’t want Sam to get the wrong idea. Dean was here, he was with Sam. But— “Get in, it feels nice,” he whispered, pebble skipping his gaze around his baby brother’s face. “Let me wash you.”

Sam understood and found Dean’s eyes before tipping his head in agreement. He stripped completely bare, tapped Dean’s arm to let him through and allowed Dean to pull the curtain back for him. Sam closed his eyes under the stream, loosed some of the tension his body clung to.

Dean got to work, shrugging his top off before reaching for the shampoo bottle, squeezing a dollop into his palm and rubbing his hands together to coat them. “C’mere,” he murmured, even though he helped guide Sam close enough.

It had started when they were both younger, because Sam couldn’t do these kinds of things by himself yet but Dean could. Then, somewhere in all the gunk of their lives, it grew on them. There was routine in it; Sam would shut his eyes tight, roll his neck this way and that as Dean’s sudsy hands directed him, and they tried not to talk too much. Both began to understand there were going to be things Dad just shouldn’t know about.

Dean stayed careful around the tangles, worked them out with his fingers as gently as he could. Sam never winced or whined about it anymore or anything, but Dean couldn’t kick the habit. He threaded his hands through its soapy slickness, dug in by the base of his neck, eased the notches out.

Sam hummed and sighed, drooped and sagged. Content. His hand circled around Dean’s wrist for no reason other than to feel him.

Sometimes, more often than Dean could confess, it grew into more than this. Dean would undress himself, Sam would coax him under the water with him. They’d roam and glide their touch all over their slippery bodies. Tonight they would need to be quick, quicker than usual. So Dean crept in and pressed his chest to Sam’s back and scrubbed them both down without meaning to linger very often. Sam turned his cheek to Dean’s shoulder, pressed his open mouth to the wet flesh and scraped his teeth against him lightly. They were both close to hard, but there wasn’t time and Dean tried to believe it wasn’t about them, only bodies and their closeness.

Dean got to fooling himself this was better, as long as it was just this. Eventually he’d have the willpower to deny it altogether. Eventually.

[sunshinechay]

So I finally caught up on My Stand In after being 3 episodes behind due to irl reasons.

The last three episodes have been a lot and while I’m sad to have missed the weekly discussions, I’m also kind of glad I watched all three at once because it gave me the opportunity to get to watch Ming’s progress rapidly rather than waiting (which my ADHD brain is very happy about) and the one thing really stuck with me through all three episodes.

Of the three who knows Joe is Joe, Ming is the only one to figure it out completely on his own. He doesn’t overhear anything, he isn’t told by anyone. Even the priest (is that what he is? Citation needed) won’t give Ming the straight answer he seeks. Joe is neither dead nor alive but a secret third thing, his soul has transmigrated to another body entirely.

Before, when he didn’t know, we got the small kernels of change. Ming is much more straight forward than he used to be. While he was never one to mince words, he is more truthful and up front, even with Joe 2.0. He is honest with him from the start about exactly what he wants. He doesn’t tell Joe the real reason why he wants it, but that’s understandable given that no one else is willing to believe Ming when he says Joe is still alive. So why tell this new stand in why you want him to be so.

Then he figures it out. He puts together the context clues and believes the impossible because he’s the only one who never gave up hope that Joe would come home, would come back to him. Joe does come back to him and Ming immediately sets out to ensure that Joe exactly where he stands in terms of how Ming feels about him. Ming needs Joe to understand exactly what he wants. Ming is probably always going to be the type of person who will use underhanded tactics in certain situations, but it’s completely understandable why he uses the contract to keep Joe with him.

Ming offers up explanations where Joe didn’t ask for them, because he knows that Joe deserves them, whether or not he asks for them. He wants Joe to understand that he regrets a lot of his past actions, including what he did for Tong at the end. Ming had all but admitted that if he could go back and change it, he would.

Ming is willing to confront so many issues head on. He is learning to deal with his emotions in a way that is more productive for them all. He has started to feel more of his emotions out loud in a way he didn’t before. He promised himself he would change if Joe ever came back and so far he has kept his promise. He will better himself and he will grow. He will no longer be stagnant.

He is even willing to tell his father that he is dating Joe. The mere mention of it clearly terrifies him more than he has the words to express, something that Joe picks up on right away and tries to protect both of them from. Preemptively breaking up with Ming to try and save them both a worst heartbreak than simply breaking up.

Tong had spent so much of the show attempting to prove again and again that Ming is under his thumb. He knew that Ming was in love with him in the past and still believes he is now, but he is wrong. Ming will no longer allow himself to be manipulated by Tong and by extension his mother. So he will shoot their ace out of the sky by doing the one thing that terrifies him the most. He will tell his father that he is gay. That he is gay and dating a man. A man named Joe.

He will accept what comes next because the only other options is to lose Joe and Ming absolutely will not do that for a second time. He is willing to lose everything, as long as it means he doesn’t lose Joe.

[sneakyboymerlin]

https://www.tumblr.com/sneakyboymerlin/750879591851245568

That view is utterly wasted on Arthur. Merlin needs to be spliced into that scene.

I feel blessed to say: Merlin is indeed in this scene and got himself a fine view of Gwaine’s tits along the way (this, among other times).

In this particular moment, actually, Gwaine just had to tell Merlin to calm down because he was being “too” overprotective of Gwaine (aka, the right amount protective).

But you’re right. It is wasted on Arthur. He can’t appreciate it, and he’s not deserving of the sight. We should all attack him like wild dogs at the first light of dawn.

[abyssalcitrus]

I haven't been taking photos, but I *have* been recording a timelapse of the Shippe

Fair warning it's already 17 minutes long

[starfxckersinc]

ftm sub intox, bondage, and bd/sm story

💉⛓️🖤⛓️💉

It was probably a mistake to do all the coke on you and hit your dab pen until you choked in the bathroom of a rehab, but considering it was probably the last chance you’d get in a while, could anyone blame you if you swung for the fences?

Your friend insisted you come here. Supposedly this place is trying some kind of new experimental treatment with a high success rate. But right now, you’re just bored. They sat you in some kind of padded chair, like a dentist chair, but with straps all along your limbs and torso, and said someone would be with you soon. It had probably only been around 10 minutes, but with the weed it feels like forever. And when the coke starts to kick in, you start to get restless. You pull at the cuffs, which the team that walked you in said were “just a precaution due to the potential volatility of the treatment.” Sure. You’re too high to care.

Finally, a nurse comes in and explains your treatment plan to you: “We know withdrawal can be the hardest part of rehabilitation for patients. Our facility is designed to keep you in a state of sexual satisfaction for that first few days, to make the transition easier.”

Oh fuck yes. Days of sexual pleasure? You’re already hard by the time they rig up a vibrator so it hits your cock just right. Pumped full of chemicals as you are, it feels amazing, and you can’t resist letting out a moan.

Just when you start to settle in, they catch sight of your red-rimmed eyes, pupils blown out. “Are you high right now?”

You’re too fucked up and horny to come up with a good lie.

“You are, aren’t you? You know, we can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.” The nurse turns off the vibrator, and you whine instinctually. They start to move to the foot of the bed. “I can’t believe this. Normally we save this for our particularly resistant patients, but I have a feeling you’re going to be a problem.”

They flip through your chart. “Mainly speed and coke, it looks like. Hm.” They pick up a syringe. “Dextroamphetamine. I’m sure you’re familiar.”

You try to pull away, but the cuffs hold. They plunge the syringe deep into a vein on your forearm. It’s nothing like snorting it - you feel the effects almost instantly. Your heart, already fast from the coke, kicks into overdrive. You feel your cock twitch.

You try to protest, but the nurse quickly cuts you off. “Can’t have any of that, can we?” They shove a ball gag between your teeth so hard it bruises your lip and tighten the strap until it pulls at the corners of your mouth. Next, they begin to methodically, almost surgically, install metal clamps across your body. “It’s kind of a Pavlovian thing,” they say, ignoring your muffled whimpers. “If we can get you to associate the high of your drug of choice with pain and denial, you won’t be able to use again without thinking about the pain. That’s the theory, anyway.” They finish the line of clamps on the inside of your thighs and start along the lips of your cunt. You whimper through the gag. With all the drugs in your body, every sense is magnified and turned in on itself, pain turning into something near pleasure.

They run their index finger over the lines of clamps and you can’t stop a muffled scream from escaping you. The nurse just laughs and puts a clamp on each of your nipples. Before you can adjust to that new torment, they put a third clamp on your cock, sending sparks of sensation radiating out. It’s too much. You shriek and thrash, which only makes the pain worse. Looking down, you realize a chain goes from each of your nipples to the clip on your cock.

“Such a cute little dick,” the nurse says, running a finger over the clamp. You can just barely feel it. “One clamp covers the whole thing!”

Finally, the nurse takes out the vibrator contraption from before, but this time, they just barely let it touch the top of the metal on your dick. The tiny buzz is maddening, beating in an irregular pattern. You thrust towards it, trying to get just a little more stimulation, and the chains on your nipples jerk painfully. You let out a whine. You’re not even sure if it’s from arousal or pain.

“See, this is exactly why you’re a fucking junkie. No self-control at all.”

You flush deep red, but the drugs have you so horny you can’t stop yourself from proving them right, thrusting again and again.

“You seem to be enjoying this too much for the treatment to be effective…Well, that just means we get to keep you until it is!” The nurse gives your straps another once-over, pulling the one on your neck just a little too tight. “I’ll be back in a few hours to re-dose you and change up the pain stimuli a little bit. How do you feel about electricity?”

You squirm, tears pricking the corner of your eyes.

“What? Isn’t this basically what you do for fun anyway? You wanted to be high during your treatment, here you go.” They lean in close, voice barely above a whisper. “I love when we get cokeheads. You’re not just going to pass out on me and avoid the whole thing. I bet we can keep you up for days.”

They leave and close the door behind them. Over the clink of metal and the hum of the vibrator, you can just barely hear a lock click.

[sheila--e]

Some sort of Sheila E. force possessed me last night and I sent her over to Japan.

[thegothicviking]

Just a reminder that we don't look like we do in the mirror/in most pictures. This is me as a non-reversed image/non mirrored image (aka how the real world/how other people see my face in real life)

Versus same image but mirrored: