#prodigal twins

[greghatecrimes]

house: if i had a nickel for every time i had a fellow that had a strained relationship with their father, a mother that died in their childhood, purposely killed a man, was called/called themselves a "prodigal child", and is bisexual, i would have two nickels. which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice

[greenerteacups]

Hi GT, I hope you are doing well! who is your favorite Weasley?

Thank you! Absolute treat of a question. Oh, man. It's Ron, right? It was always going to be Ron.

So here's the thing: the Weasleys are a really well-characterized family in that you can kind of see a lot of character emerge through limited sketches and contextual information. Bill is Number One Boy, the best at everything, oldest child who was always confident and at peace with his indisputable place in the family; so he's a chill, cool, incredibly competent guy who naturally takes-charge. Charlie is a patented never-grew-out-of-your-middle-school-dragons-phase Weird Kid, but like, mindfully and enthusiastically so, because his parents probably still had plenty of time to support and nurture his interests; plus he's also different to Bill and excels in different ways, so they aren't too competitive (as we see). Percy is the first one to suffer from the pressure of mounting expectations, and he's very quickly followed by the twins, who do the classic "if I can't be the best I'll be the worst" late-sibling trick of acting up for attention, so he gets lost in the shuffle. (The fight between Ron and Percy in Chapter 58 is, hence, in substantially about the relationship between the two most-ignored members of the Weasley family, and that's why Ron is so much angrier at him than the rest of them. Like I've said before, Ron always thinks he's got it the worst, but he takes pride in being able to kinda "tough it out," and nothing pisses him off like other people's self-pity.) Ginny is obviously the baby of the family, a girl with everyone wrapped around her finger, and I love her, but I feel like we didn't get enough grit in her portrait— she's just really successful in everything she does, in a way that can read as flat to some people, and certainly read as flat to me my first time through the books. In fact, Ginny reminds me a lot of Bill: first daughter/first son, described often as "cool" and clever and good at basically everything, charming and generally liked by all. Which is lovely. A delight to read, just like the twins are. But my taste in characters ranges way more fucked-up and mean.

Ron is the last boy, "sixth son of a woman who wanted a daughter" (fascinating line that complicates everything we know about Molly's relationship with her kids — and BTW, how the hell does Ron know that, and how old was he when he learned it? And this also comes into play with Molly's cry of "not my daughter" to Bellatrix which like, as a moment obviously fucking rules, but also — there's a reason she says daughter, not "child," right? Do you see what I'm digging at? Anyway). Ron meets Harry and recognizes himself in how Harry defaults to thinking people don't care about him, or won't help him if he asks, because — although they come from very different circumstances, Ron's home was completely loving, just not as nurturing as he always needed it to be — Ron usually goes in assuming people don't care about him, too. So his first instinct is to go: "Alright. Well, I'll care about you, then, weird stranger. Do you want to share my horrible sandwich, and also my life, perhaps?" Goddamn! Sixth of seven in a house with never enough to go around, and he's immediately like: "fuck it, room for one more." Because he could have been Percy — and you can see it in the way that Ron is mean, sometimes, he's not careful with his words and he struggles with empathy and he's got a vengeful streak that comes out when he's pissed — but he isn't selfish enough, he loves too much and too easily, and it takes shockingly little to earn his loyalty. You just have to pay a little attention to him.

[ivory-forged-steel]

ASOIAF character tag drop 🎉

[grindarkstudio]

Sorry I haven't been fan-arting as much, I've been ... DOING AUTHOR STUFF! The Proper Bearing is now officially in print, and I'm SO excited to drop the cover and release date for Lines of Power Vol. 4: Adjustments!!!

Seriously, if you like any of the fandoms or authors in the tags, please give these a spin. They've got the same "fun ensemble cast with stand-alone vibes ... But Wait, Everything Connects" vibe, and they're suitable for YA grade and up. Make my Pride Month and pick one up, digital or otherwise... and don't forget to review and signal boost if you do!

[somnoir]

Masterpost [1]

Multi-Parts:

Bats and Phantoms

Summary:

The Fenton/Masters Siblings and members of the Bat Family meet. One by one, they end up together while the rest of the family is oblivious that their partners are related to the others.

Ships: Danny/Jason, Dan/Dick, Cass/Jazz, Dani(Elle)/Damian

Tumblr Parts:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

My Father's Secretary

Summary:

Danny Fenton gets a job as Bruce Wayne's secretary. After being gifted a coffee maker, he might actually go to the ends of the earth for this clumsy man.

Ships: Danny/Jason (Dead on Main)

Tumblr Posts:

Part 1 | Part 2

Gotham's newest Crime Lord

Summary:

Dan kills the Joker and proceeds to become a crime lord. Shenanigans ensure between the Bats and the three ghosts in Gotham trying to screw with the criminal underworld

Ships: Dan/Dick, Danny/Jason

Tumblr Posts:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Prodigal son beyond time

Summary:

Ra's Al Ghul's first born is a peculiar child. Talia is curious about the prodigal son, her strange brother beyond time.

Ships: Bruce/Danny (possibly)

Tumblr Posts

Part 1 | Part 2

One-shots:

Demon Twins and Death

Summary:

In which the twins meet after one kills the other.

A Family of Rogues

Summary:

The Fentons/Masters move to Gotham. Everyone, except the Fentons, think they're future Rogues.

Ghost KingConsort?

Summary:

Danny is a petty and dead twin brother that decides to give his brother and father a heart attack by implying Danny and Phantom were married.

How to pull a Batman by J. Constantine

Summary:

John Constantine acquires six children from an ancient being that also happens to be one of his exes. He's gonna fight god and batman.

Little Star's favorite

Summary:

Demons twins au where Danny is brought to Bruce a couple years after Damian. He proceeds to hate the family except for one very specific person.

Damian's Future Husband

Summary:

In which Jason Todd must fight his brother to the death for Phantom's hand in marriage.

Credits to @strangergraphics-archive for the divider <3

[winter-wise]

That edge of resentment when Morgott talks of the "twin prodigies". Because Malenia and Miquella were, officially, Marika's only set of twins. The twin prodigies. They were twins and they were brilliant.

And Morgott had to live with the knowledge that he and his brother - both twins, both talented - would never be "the twin prodiges" even though they came first.

[theegyal]

FADED, (Annie X Smoke) FANFICTION (SINNERS. 2025)

Tag List : @bigjh @boonoonoonus ,@saralance03 , @stormynovashambler @lsc72 , @prettyisasprettydoes1306

CHAPTER 3

A slow gasp swept through the room like wind stirrin' leaves.

People turned. Eyes darted. Someone coughed awkward, someone else laughed too loud tryin' to fill the silence.

Annie didn't speak. Her mouth opened just a crack, but no sound came out.

The only noise was the slow drip of sauce, slidin' down her calf.

Leonhard didn't flinch. Didn't even pretend to look surprised.

Instead, she tilted her head like a snake preyin' on a wounded mouse.

"Oh dear," she said, voice syrupy-slow. "You'll want someone to clean that up. Unless... oh. Was that your job, sweetie?"

That last word cracked like a whip.

The Delta men and women around hissed in anger. How could one of their own—Smoke—allow a white woman to speak down to their sister like that?

Annie was more than a priestess, more than a passerby. She was spirit and backbone, cooked for the sick, prayed for the widows, kept the dead company when nobody else would.

Her isolation had been her own choice, but that didn't make her any less of a pillar in the community.

Annie still didn't look at the white lady. She stared at Smoke. At his mouth that wouldn't move, at his eyes that didn't blink. Her hands trembled.

She bent, gathered the pieces—not all of them. Just enough to feel busy, to do somethin', anything other than stand there lookin' all broken.

"Annie—" Smoke finally breathed.

She stood—back straight, eyes dry. No tears, no curses. She knew better than to trust him again. Foolish, the way her heart still beat fast at his honeyed lies.

She stay still for one second.

Then turned and walked off the dance floor. Not too fast. Not dramatically.

"Wait—Annie!"

Smoke took one step after her.

But Leonhard slid in front of him, gloved hand resting lightly on his chest like she had every right to touch him.

"Don't be rude," she said with a condescending smile. "We've come all this way. You owe me a conversation, Elijah."

Smoke's fists clenched, jaw pulsin'.

"Not now."

"Yes. Now. Unless you want everyone here watchin' the prodigal twin run off after his... chef in the middle of a family reunion?"

Stack saw the blaze flarin' up in his brother's and Slim's eyes. It was either hit her or walk away. And Smoke didn't hit women. Not even vipers.

"I'll go," Stack said low. "I'll get her."

Smoke didn't look away from Leonhard. "You make sure she gets home."

"I ain't lettin' her walk in the dark, barefoot, all shook up."

Stack spun on his heel and broke through the crowd, mutterin' apologies as he passed.

Mary tried to make him stay, but miserably failed. He reassured her slightly with fortune of an unforgettable night and then went off.

Outside, the night was heavy with cold heat and crickets, moonlight slicin' through the trees.

He saw Annie ahead, dress hitchin' above her ankles, feet movin' fast down the dirty road.

"Annie!" he called. "Annie, hold up!"

She didn't stop.

"Ay, please, mama, don't do this! Just let me drive you home."

Still walkin'. Shoulders tight.

He jogged, caught up to her, but didn't touch her. It was not the right time. Not tonight.

"Please," he panted. "You ain't gotta be out here alone. You shakin'. Just get in the truck."

She stopped then. The priestess was indeed exhausted, and her body sore. She would have even granted consent to the devil to bring her home.

Stack swallowed, wiped sweat from his brow. "I know my brother's a damn fool. All mighty, powerful but still a clown. I do. But don't let him mess you up like this, Annie. Not like this."

The moonlight gleamed through the trees, drawin' faerie shapes on her glowin' obsidian skin. She did not cry. The tears were blind.

Stack stood stiff, lingered his eyes on her silhouette.

She looked like a hymn unsung, like a gospel the devil ain't dared corrupt. Her dress clung to her body, to them hips that swayed like they had their own rhythm, them big, roundish breasts lifted proud beneath thin fabric where her brown hard nipples rested—he could swear they still carried the warmth of sweat and honey, the same sweet fluids he dreamed of tastin', of drownin' in.

He imagined his mouth where his thoughts shouldn't wander—on her neck, down her back, between her thighs, her voluptuous ass, whisperin' apologies only skin could hear. He saw her archin', beggin', cursin' his name like it was salvation.

Silence.

"I'll drive," she said finally, brutally tearing him away from his reveries. "I ain't ridin' with no man tonight."

Stack blinked, stunned for half a second—then nodded, handed her the keys.

"Fair enough."

They walked back toward the truck together. Not talkin'.

Clearly, Stack needed fresh air, and being alone with Annie in this truck didn't help him. He was such an evil man. Nurturing these immoral fantasies about his brother's woman.

Well, with what happened tonight, do they still stand as a couple? Regardless, Stack needed—no, must—try to cool down the affairs between them.

"You know" he started "this bitch ain't really his lady."

"I could push your ass off your own truck."

"Got it," he shut his mouth.

Strangely, seeing her all mad was enough to help Stack cool down.

After long hours on the road, they finally arrived at the wooden cabin. The dandy stepped out, to lead her inside the house, but was immediately stopped in his endeavors.

"I'd rather not have you in. I need some space. It's not against you—"

"All good, ma'. I'm already honored you let me drive you home. Well, not in that way, but—you get what I mean."

She let out an anxious laugh and excused herself.

Back inside the juke joint, the air had curdled.

The people weren't drinkin' as much. Sammie and Slim continued the show but the notes sounded hesitant, like even the guitar strings didn't want to offend Annie's departure.

Leonhard stood near the bar, she tapped one manicured nail against the glass, lips curled in a devilish smirk.

"Quite the performance," she drawled to no one in particular. "I didn't think she'd break so easily. Thought she had more spine, the way she was glaring at Eli, ready to devour him whole"

Leonhard's smile didn't falter. She turned toward the gathering pals, her icy blue eyes cold as a porcelain plate. "Oh, is the celebration over ?"

" at the right time Jefferson's daughter step in. Ha" spilled Slim

"Oh, please," Leonhard said with a light laugh. "You're all acting theatrically. I simply asked a question. And she ran off like a scalded cat."

Slim's jaw ticked. "You in our house now. You don't get to come in here and piss on the floor, then act surprised when it stinks."

That earned a couple low chuckles, but nobody was smiling wide.

Smoke stood near the door, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw locked. He hadn't spoken since Stack left. Didn't even glance Leonhard's way.

She noticed.

"Smoke," she cooed, sidling up beside him, heels clicking like accusation. "Are you really going to give me the silent treatment all night? After I traveled all this way?"

"You shouldn't've come," he said flat.

Her laugh was light, but the tremor in her throat betrayed her. "Well, I did. And now I'm here. And don't pretend you don't owe me some words."

"I owe you nothin'," he said dangerously

She leaned closer. "Except maybe the truth. Or maybe an apology for parading your... nanny around like she means somethin'."

The slap didn't come from Smoke.

It came from Grace.

A clean crack resonated through the room.

Leonhard's face turned with the blow, but she didn't stumble. Her cheek reddened as blood bloomin' beneath her glass skin.

Leonhard straightened. Touched her cheek, gently. "Well. That was uncalled for."

"No," Slim said. "That was overdue."

Leonhard looked around—at the faces now turned fully toward her, all unwelcoming. The invisible barrier that protected her all her life, her whiteness, social privileges, false elegance—was paper-thin here. And it had just torn.

"And you're going to stay silent,Moore !"

Smoke finally grinned. Here the truth unveiled. She never called him by his real name. Just the name of the man who'd marked them both in blood and shame: Moore.

"Just go back to Chicago Leonhard" he growled , cigarette between his lips.

She scoffed, lips curling. "Why? This little backwoods party isn't over yet."

"Yeah? What are you here for?" another voice cut in—Stack. He stepped forward, hand in his pocket, eyes cold. "This Negroes land, madam."

Leonhard turned her head toward him like she was being addressed by a stray dog. "And my man is one. I can accommodate."

A blade. She was doing too much.

Customers, one after another started exiting the club ; They try indeed to relax and ease their mind off the plantation. Certainly not to come dealing with a new face of oppression at night.

We should have not come

These twins were no good from the start

First it was ol' Mary, now another white chick from the North

Cornbread scratched the back of his head, eyes dartin' toward the door. "Yeah, uh—I think I gotta get on, Stack. You know... wife's pregnant and all."

"Ay. See you pal" cuts off the younger twin.

Ten minutes blended, and almost everyone gone.

Then Slim burst out laughin', loud and ugly.

" Ha Ha Ha. Damn I was right nigga, you pay for only a night ! Ha Ha Ha"

He doubled over, shoulders shakin', the sound ringing in the hollow space.

Nobody else laughed.

Not a bug.

Leonhard's lips tightened at the sound of Slim's laughter. Her spine stiffened, cheeks flushed from rage. She felt insulted.

"May I know, what is so funny ?" she asked, turning her cold gaze at him.

Slim leaned back, arms stretched across the chair, gold tooth catchin' the dim light.

"Oh, I ain't laughin' at you, sugar,"

he drawled, voice drenched in mischief. "I'm laughin' at the situation. You know, rich white lady showin' up in a colored joint tryin' to own every single soul. Ain't everyday we get Broadway drama down in the Delta."

Leonhard's smile thinned, venom behind her teeth.

"Charming. Is this the kind of wit that passes for clever down here?"

Smoke chuckled low, Stack louder.

"Oh, she mad now," Stack teased, elbowin' Smoke. "She gon' write about us in her memoirs."

"Life Among the Heathens: A Southern Tragedy," Smoke added, smirkin'.

That was enough.

Mary, who'd been quiet too long, advanced forward.

"Leona," she said gently, laying a hand on the woman's arm, "why don't we head back to the lodge. It's late."

Leonhard hesitated, still staring down Slim. But then she caught the look in Mary's eyes calm, composed, disapproving.

She adjusted her silk attire. "Yes. Let's."

Without another glance at the twins, she turned and strode toward the door. Mary gave the men a quick, tired look.

The door creaked shut behind them.

[anafricandaydreamer]

Random thoughts about Sinners (2025) part two

• Annie's knowledge and wisdom meeting Sammies gift. Showing us that hoodoo as a way to protect those gifted with abilities to uplift and free our spirits from the confines of the lives we live.

• Smoke and Stacks abandonment issues manifesting differently. Smoke showed a desire to find what he didn't have. But Stack rejecting all Black women.

• Mary's disregard for Sammie until she realized who he was and his proximity to the twins. Now she uses that and her money to distract him from what he said..for her to leave.

• Stack having a love and affection for Annie, because she was capable of providing a safe place for Smoke to be Elijah, something he couldn't do. Something he couldn't be.

• The fact that we got to meet Smoke and Elijah, but only got to see Stack and will never have the opportunity to witness Elias.

• Annie not looking surprised at Smokes arrival, she knew he was coming, just no exact idea of when.

• Sammies father was most likely responsible for alienating the twins from the rest of the community. Talking some bullshit about the twins killing their father is going against God.

• Sammies father trying to shame Sammie into leaving the music behind.

• The song in the church being 'this little light of mine' right before the preacher tries to dim Sammies light.

• Dimming or extinguishing Sammies light would've hurt future generations to come.

• The preacher admitted to bringing the guitar in. He's aware that Sammies got a gift, he wants to control it. Own it, posses it. The church taught him well.

• As much as there was a real visceral love between Annie and Smoke, she still falls into the archetype of the women of the past who had no choice but to accept any and everything from men who did nothing but hurt them.

• MBJ being on screen with a dark skinned, plus sized black woman as a Love Intrest....Lord! thank you Ryan. Leaning into the blackness instead of always trying to soften and contrast it in order to appease white people. I was getting tired of it. I think Ryan could sense it, he knows the industry better than we do and how to go around it.

• Smoke being more of a father to Stack than a brother at times.• While Smoke was protecting Stack, who protected him? Annie obviously, but who before her? When they were kids?

• Stack disrespecting Cornbreads wife the moment he met her.

• Even if Sammie did everything his father wanted, his father would've been unhappy with him.

• Remmick saying the prayer with Sammie. Trauma.

• Am I crazy for thinking Remmick was after the twins in the first place? They robbed the Irish mob, then an Irish vampire comes for them? I don't know, maybe I'm crazy.

• Remmick saying I want your Stories, reminder that everyone wants Black peoples stories, music, art, minds, light but what they really want is something they can't take from us. The undying soul that resides within. Something we can't even locate. We can access, but never locate and extract to give to anyone else. Everyone wants this thing but not the people who have it.

• Sammies parents not caring about his well-being instead focusing on what the churchfolks opinions and viewpoint. Had me yelling at them in front of other people.

• Sammies dad calling him a prodigal son...my guy he left YESTERDAY!🙄 I actually laughed at that shit.

• Smoke saying he never seen the things Annie warned him about...SIR, you never seen those things because of the MOJO BAG. 🤔

• The white people performing at the door to lull everyone into a false sense of security. And all it did was instill fear, because since when do white people try so hard? To be around black people? At night?

• When the haze of the hive mind lifted from Stack, does Smokes voice haunt him? Smoke, his strong, protective other half, begging, pleading, with him not to hurt Annie, not to hurt him. Tell me he hears Smoke everytime he closes his eyes. I need someone to write a fic about this.

• Am I the only one that thought of Cornbreads wife when I saw them getting burnt by the sun? The trauma of not knowing is worse.

• I know the entire community is gonna blame Smoke and Stack for bringing the Devil with them. And whose gonna lead the charge...their trifling uncle.

• I need the whole 'you gonna let her get between us again'• explored...thoroughly. Please Stack tell me more.

• Seeing Smoke stand between Stack,(behind the door) and Annie (directly behind him) made me wonder, did Smoke ever feel torn? Or like he had ro choose? I feel like he was Smoke for Stack and reserved Elijah for Annie.

• Yes I would've loved a triangle between Smoke, Annie and Stack. Simply because black women deserve more. And Annie deserved the world.

• Why, lord why did Stack bite Annie twice? AND why did I kinda enjoy the visual of him on her? Help.

• Capitalism is trash. That's it.

For now. This movie has me losing my mind.

[sleepyremu]

george weasley as a boyfriend headcannons

summary // what can i even say. he’s just the sweetest.

warnings // lowkey kinda dirty … very flirtatious george, mentions of sex, kinda smutty i guess???? IF YOU REALLY SQUINT and a lot of cheeky comments from a cute redhead 😛

author’s note // got a little carried away sorry 😅 i just love my guy! fun fact the twins were the first harry potter crushes i ever had lolol they hold such a special place in my heart

george is fluent in every love language for you. he loves you so much that he expresses it in every imaginable way.

every time he sees something that reminds you of him when he’s out, he buys it and gifts it to you

soon your entire apartment is filled with little mementos that encapsulate your entire relationship, documenting anything from special dates, to inside jokes, to petty arguments

“why would you buy this, georgie?”

“well, you always say i’m too much of a slob, so, boom! roomba!”

“we have spells. that clean. for free.”

“oh, so now you think i’m prodigal!”

he also always leaves a note for you when he packs your lunch

most of the time, they are pretty PG (“have a nice day at work, angel” or “can’t wait to see that pretty smile again tonight”)

but when he knows you won’t be back til late, he’s not afraid to get a little cheeky with his messages 😉

he’s great with his words and loves showering you with compliments

he never fails to remind you how jaw-dropping stunning you look, especially when you’re not even trying

“by god, you just look absolutely delectable wearing my jumper right now.”

“easy, tiger.”

his hands always have to be on you, non-negotiable.

on the small of your back, playing in your fingers, entangled in your hair

george is a very organized and clean person

he doesn’t mind doing chores

he actually finds it really fulfilling to do housework and be rewarded with a clean space

he knows how good it feels to come home to a clean house and a warm meal and vows to always provide that for you

george adores your shoulders. he thinks your collar and your shoulders are so sexy and seductive and he can’t keep his lips off when you wear low cut or off the shoulder shirts

he’s the type of person to say “that’s so us” about everything. anything remotely resembling love or a couple or even two objects that seem vaguely paired together, he will compare it to you

george is a socks-on sleeper.

one of his biggest pet peeves isn’t that you don’t sleep with socks, it’s that your feet look for warmth on his legs

and your feet are freezing cold.

so cold it startles him in the night

he’s a very light sleeper, and whenever you tangle your legs together and he feels the drop in temperature, his blood runs cold and he jolts wide awake

it makes him very cranky some mornings

(but all you have to do is kiss him like you mean it and all is forgiven)

he’s terrible about interrupting people. not even to be rude, sometimes he just gets really excited about what he has to say, or sometimes he tries to finish your sentences for you because you’re always reading each others minds, or he just has to get one joke out or it will literally kill him

in my mind george acts like he loves movies and hates books

but in reality he can sometimes have a hard time sitting still during a movie and gets quite chatty

“what’s that actor been in? i swear i’ve seen him before.”

“that cgi looks totally fake. it’s like they’re not even trying!”

“i can hardly focus on this movie when you look so stunning in those jeans, love-”

“quit it, george, i’m trying to watch!”

“cmon, just one quick handy!”

“george!!”

“ok, ok! i was mostly kidding! … how about a snog?”

you can’t help but giggle at him

and his whole bit about hating books is a total farce

he looks so adorable with his pjs on and his little nightlight and reading glasses and his book all tucked in right before bed

when you walk into your shared room after taking. shower or finishing the dishes, he’s already situated himself in your bed, with a perfect amount of space at his side for you to sneak in and rest your head on his chest

you sometimes just have to admire it, but he gets very skeptical

“… are you just going to keep standing there and looking at me?”

“yes, i think i will.”

he pouts and puts his readers back on, turning his attention back to his book. “well i hope you have fun with that.”

you smile, tilting your head, and take in the sweetest, homiest sight you’ve ever seen.

“yes. i think i will.”

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 10: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~The Wisdom of a Captive~

Several more years passed, the world outside aging in ways they could only guess at. Their own world remained a ten-foot sphere of glass and quiet companionship.

Can you tell me about your family? Nora’s thought was soft, almost hesitant, as she looked up at him from her usual place, her head resting comfortably on his lap. His fingers, which had found their familiar rhythm over the years, never paused their gentle stroking through her hair.

He took a moment, not of reluctance, but to gather the eons of complicated history into something that could be understood by a mortal mind, no matter how clever.

We are seven, his thought began, the words imbued with a sense of ancient finality. But before us, there were our parents: Night and Time. They are endless in a way that we are not. Primal forces from which we were born.

He started with the eldest. First is Destiny. He is the oldest and most bound of us all. He is blind, and chained to the Book of Destiny, which contains all that was, is, and ever will be written within its pages. He does not cause things to happen; he is simply the record of them. He walks his garden, reading his book, and that is all.

Then there is Death. A different quality entered his thoughts, something warmer, closer. She is not what mortals fear. She is gentle. She meets all living things twice—once at the beginning, to welcome them to life, and once at the end. She was here, in this room, for Roderick Burgess. But the circle’s magic hid us from her sight.

After Death, there is myself. He offered no further explanation of his own role, as she had come to know it intimately.

Then come the younger ones. There is Destruction, though he is no longer among us. He is the prodigal, the one who abandoned his realm and his duties centuries ago. He saw what humanity would do with reason and fire and chose to no longer be a part of it. He believed in creation, not just its opposite.

And then there are the twins. His thoughts seemed to cool, a hint of old friction entering the connection. Desire is my… difficult sibling. They are beautiful and cruel, and embody every form of want and craving a mortal can feel. Desire delights in games, especially those played at the expense of others. Their twin is Despair. She is the queen of her own gray, misty realm, surrounded by rats and mirrors. She finds solace only in the utter misery of others, a sorrow so complete it leaves no room for anything else.

The youngest, he concluded, a note of sadness in his thoughts, is Delirium. She was not always so. Once, she was Delight. Something happened, long ago, that changed her. Now her thoughts are a flurry of scattered colors, her form shifts without notice, and her realm is a chaotic madness of fleeting ideas and forgotten questions. She is… difficult to speak with, but she is not cruel.

He finished, and the silence returned, now populated by the vast, strange shapes of his six siblings. His fingers continued their slow, steady path through Nora’s hair.

Wow, Nora thought, trying to imagine a family made of concepts and cosmic power. Do you see them often? She wondered to him.

The steady rhythm of his fingers stroking her hair was the only answer for a long moment. He seemed to be considering the very nature of the question.

Often is a mortal measurement of time, born of fleeting lives, his thought finally came. We do not gather for sport or sentiment. Our meetings are not… familial, in the way you would understand. We convene when our functions intersect, when a great event requires our assembly…

He paused, a different quality entering his thoughts, something like a weary memory. Although, Death would insist on a family dinner every couple of hundred years or so, for us to stay updated on each other’s affairs. Inevitably, those gatherings would end with Desire attempting to, as Death likes to put it, ‘ruffle my feathers’.

Another, heavier silence settled between them.

But no, Nora. Even with those rare occasions, we largely kept to our own realms. And for the last two decades, I have seen none of them. They do not know where I am.

Nora was quiet for a long time, absorbing the sheer scale of his family.

It has been years since I saw my own family, too. Before all this, she thought, a note of melancholy entering her mind. Not since I moved out after graduation. We are… different, in our own ways.

She processed his descriptions, her thoughts turning them over like stones in her hand. Your brother, Destiny… it sounds like a lonely existence, to only ever see what must be and never be surprised. And Death… people have her so wrong, don’t they? To think of her as a terror instead of a comfort.

Her mind settled on the prodigal. But it is Destruction I keep thinking about. You said he left because he believed in creation, not just its opposite… but did he never think that from destruction comes creation?

Her thoughts gathered momentum, forming a clear, passionate argument. Things need to be taken apart before they can be put together again, reformed. When a forest burns down, it is destroyed, yes. But from the ashes and the soil beneath, a new forest grows, stronger than before. Mountains do not simply appear; the ground must break and shift and destroy what was there to push them into the sky.

She looked up at him, her gaze intense even though her words were only in his mind. He left because he saw what humanity would become. More people, more greed, weapons more destructive than any before. But isn’t that why he is needed most? We need that controlling aspect. We need things to end, to be cleared away, so that other things can begin. By abandoning his post, he may be allowing for a greater ruin than any he could have presided over.

Morpheus froze, not just his body, but his entire being, caught by the weight of her argument. He replayed her thoughts in his mind: From destruction comes creation. Things must be taken apart before they can be put together again.

It was a perspective so fundamentally contrary to his brother’s grand, dramatic departure, yet so brutally, elementally true. Destruction had seen only the end of things, the pain and the ruin. He had not, perhaps, considered his role as a necessary clearing, a controlled burn to allow for new growth. He had seen himself as an agent of endings, not as a catalyst for beginnings.

Morpheus thought of the world he had left behind, of the rising tides of human ambition and the terrible new sciences of war they were creating. Had his brother’s absence allowed these things to fester, unchecked? By refusing to be the storm that clears the forest, had he simply allowed the rot to spread, the old trees to choke out the new life until the entire wood was diseased? It was a chilling thought. A necessary force, removed from the cosmic equation. The universe, like any system, requires balance. In his high-minded pity for humanity, his brother had unbalanced it.

The silence stretched, long and profound, before his thought finally returned to her, carrying a new quality of startling introspection.

Perhaps you are right, he projected, the thought slow and deliberate, heavy with the weight of a dawning realization. That is… a refreshing viewpoint on it. One I had not considered.

A moment of comfortable silence passes, the weight of their conversation about cosmic forces settling around them. Then, a new thought, lighter and more curious, bubbles up from Nora.

There’s another thing I’ve been wondering about, she projects, her mental voice tinged with a playful coyness. For quite some time, actually.

Morpheus looks down at her, his expression impassive, but he raises a single, dark eyebrow in question.

That’s all the prompting she needs. In a sudden movement that disrupts years of quiet stillness, Nora sits straight up, turning to face him fully. He seems a bit shocked at her abruptness, his hand that had been idly carding through her hair freezing in position just above where her head used to be.

I have been wondering for years now, she thinks to him, pausing to let the gravity of her next words sink in, a stark contrast to their silly nature. What your hair feels like.

She continues, her thoughts tumbling out now that the initial question is free. Honestly, it seems to defy gravity for one thing, but it also looks like incredibly fucking soft. Her focus turns inward for a second, her thoughts rambling to herself more than to him. Like, would my fingers even register it? Is your hair that soft?

She concludes her internal debate and looks back at Morpheus, only to see him staring at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated incredulity.

He slowly, carefully, projects his thought, as if handling a strange and delicate object. You… he pauses, processing. …want to touch my hair?

He continues to stare, his ancient, starlit eyes wide with disbelief. Nora simply looks back at him as if he is the sun, a brilliant, beaming smile spreading across her face, her expression a clear and joyful challenge, daring him to say no.

Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty please, Nora practically begged him, her mental voice full of an earnest, pleading whine. Her hands clasped together in front of her as if in prayer. Please. Put my curious little soul to rest.

Morpheus stared down at her, his ancient eyes watching her dramatic display. He let out a long, slow, internal sigh, the sound of millennia of patience being tested by this one, impossible mortal. He let the moment stretch, allowing her to stew in the very real possibility that he might say no, just to watch the hope and desperation war on her face. Finally, deciding she’d been tormented long enough, he gave a single, slow nod.

The resounding YES! that screeched through their mental link was so sharp and loud it almost made him flinch physically. Nora was practically vibrating with happiness, a pure, unfiltered wave of ecstatic joy flooding the connection between them.

From her upright position, she firmly patted her thighs.

All right, lay down, let’s go, come on, we haven’t got all day, she thought imperiously, her excitement making her forgetful. She paused, the flaw in her logic hitting her a second later. A giggle echoed in his mind. Okay, so just ignore that last part.

A long-suffering sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of ages, echoed in Nora’s mind. But Morpheus acquiesced to her demand. He shifted, his movements fluid and graceful even in the confined space, and laid back, resting his head on her thighs. Once settled, he closed his eyes as if preparing himself for an ordeal.

Nora took a deep, steadying breath, a giddy excitement fluttering in her chest, and then released it. With a hand that trembled ever so slightly, she reached out and gently, tentatively, touched his hair. She slowly carded her fingers through the dark, chaotic strands just once before she gasped.

Holy shit, it’s so fucking soft, she thought, the words a silent, reverent explosion in her mind, meant for herself but shared with him nonetheless.

Of course, he heard every bit of it. In response, a low, resonant hum of pure contentment vibrated back through their mental link, a feeling more than a sound.

With the gentle, rhythmic feeling of Nora’s fingers carding through his hair, Morpheus slipped from simple relaxation into a deep, meditative rest, a deep stillness settling over him.

In the quiet of his mind, he felt her thought, soft as a whisper. Thank you.

Nora knew this wasn’t just about his hair feeling soft. This was an enormous show of trust, an act far more intimate for him than it would be for anyone else. She had learned over their long years together that casualness and intimacy were not the same for Morpheus. For a being so ancient, so powerful, and so profoundly alone, to willingly place himself in a position of such gentle vulnerability was a gesture more significant than a thousand conversations. Running her fingers through his hair was, to him, a heartfelt acceptance.

She understood this completely. A deep, quiet warmth spread through her chest, and she was touched, more than she could say, that Morpheus felt comfortable enough, safe enough, to allow her this.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated! 🩷

Next Chapter

[maacbrem]

Vox Machina’s story is a tragedy just as much as a happy ending.

Imagine: you’re the twin bastards of a wealthy man and a dead woman and all you have in the world is each other; you’re the prodigal heir of your people on the same quest that took your mother and the very concept of power terrifies you but you have to learn to wield it anyway; you’re the son of a deposed warlord left for dead by your uncle, brought into an unknown world of kindness and faith by another victim of your family of origin whose death you objected to against all your upbringing; you’re the good-hearted daughter of a family of crooks and you struggle to balance the love of your goddess with all the ugly feelings of anger and doubt that haunt you; you’re the lone survivor of a massacre, you fled the burning corpse of the city you love and your own sister’s bleeding body in the dirt, when you sleep you dream of forge fire and blood and you cling to your name even as you know you’re not worthy of it; you’re a bard haunted by the song of your mother’s dying screams and when you make people laugh you feel a little less helpless so you resign yourself to being comic relief and convince yourself that being needed is better than being wanted.

And then bit by bit you come together by chance, and suddenly you’re not just you anymore, you’re a group. You start testing the waters of friendship, of care, of love in many forms. You kill for each other; you die for each other. The world keeps trying to crush you but you keep fighting back, and together you start winning, together you stop being outcasts and screw-ups and start being heroes. People look to you for help, for guidance, for salvation. You’re terrified of it but you’re together so you muddle through, and all the losses pile up but the victories are so much greater. Guilt is easier to carry across many shoulders, and vengeance is a noble pursuit. You’re winning. You’re winning.

And then you lose. You lose and you keep losing and you thought the Dread Emperor, the Briarwoods, the dragons were all beyond you but you managed it, you saved the realm and each other, but suddenly you’re in the Shadowfell and your friends are dying and Vax is gone -

You win. But there’s finally a price that you don’t want to pay. You’re the most powerful group of people in the world, wielding god-forged remnants of divine war and too stubborn to do anything but fight until the fighting’s done, but you still lose. He leaves you, willingly and with a clean conscience and an awful, cruel faith that you’ll all be okay without him, and there’s nothing you can do.

In this moment, at the absolute height of your power, you are useless.

Vox Machina is a tragedy because they rallied the whole world behind them and they won every unwinnable fight and in between all that they figured out how to be people who love and dream and build and lead and open bakeries and have cannonball contests and start families, but there was always going to be a cost. There was always going to be an end. Even as they move forward and live their lives they’re still a little bit stuck in their grief because they’re not used to losing. They’re unstoppable forces of nature but they were always going to meet an immovable object and none of them are really capable of accepting that because why would they? They’re basically gods.

[attollogame]

REVISED - Dreamwalker [1/6]

Little Lamb who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? 

A prodigal son who has all but forgotten his origins, Dreamwalker has become an iconography of the darkest corners Attollo holds. Serving as the voice and eyes of Ovo when its grotesque founder is absent, Dreamwalker's words are taken as the only law the Undercity follows.

Though his motives remain scarcely known beyond a handful of those he trusts, including Desdemona and Sysba, it is apparent to the lawful denizens and the unlawful that what he may be planning is a swan song of rapturous proportions. Or that was his plan, until an unexpected arrival has cut his song short.

Tired, and famished. Dreamwalker knows no sleep himself, although he thrives in the realm of the dreaming. With powers that include sleep manipulation, which permits him to puppet a dream to his liking, Dreamwalker also carries perception manipulation to hide what he truly looks like. Despite this, he still adorns a mask covering the upper half of his face as a precaution.

Dreamwalker's features are not known by many of the Attollo denizens. He has been seen by Sysba, W, Desdemona, and whoever knew him before his leader burned this moniker into his being.

He is tall, however, and stands at about 6'4". He has a broader frame that implies he once lived a life of activity, though he is rarely seen now. The sparse bit of skin that can be seen is deeply tanned in color, though it is his eyes that capture the most attention. Golden and without pupils, they glow like twin suns, cutting through the shadows to reveal all that may try to hide. He possesses dark wavy hair, cut short and pushed back to allow his mask to sit comfortably.

Outside of the ominous aura, one could easily mistake him as a mere businessman on the go. They do say the most dangerous is the one you notice the least.

[neverquitelogistical]

NQL's Bishova fics - Master list

My ao3

Alternate Universe List:

In Another Universe... They Were Both Black Widows

Yelena has been training in the Red Room under the Black Widow Program since she was six. What she did not expect was a tall, blue-eyed American to be joining her when she was eleven. (Kate Bishop gets thrown into the Red Room and grows up with Yelena. Work in progress. Update soon.)

In Another Universe... She Waited For Her in Every Lifetime.

Trapped and alone, a slayer comes face to face with one of the monsters she had slain in her whole life, only to learn a truth she was not ready to confront. AU - Vampire!Kate & Slayer!Yelena. Work complete. TW: Gore and Violence. Smut.

In Another Universe... They Were At War With The Gods (Elden Ring AU)

One night, the famed knight of prodigal twins met a princess by chance before the age of Shattering, and their lives were intertwined for ages to come. Elden Ring AU (Work in progress) TW: Smut.

In Another Universe... They Met in Night City. (Cyberpunk 2077 AU)

When Yelena was tasked with an unexpected assignment where a rich, spoilt and arrogant brat was her client, she expected nothing out of the ordinary at first. But in the streets of Night City governed by Wilson Fisk, no secrets ever go hidden for long. Cyberpunk 2077 AU. (Work in progress) TW: Smut.

Our Reunion In A Dream

A sickly outsider entered a strange city in search of a cure, not knowing it was the night of the blood moon where beasts would roam the streets. An old Hunter from the Academy of the Red Room was embroiled in a dark secret, where the plague of the werewolves originated from. A cruel Nightmare would bring them together as they try to survive the night of the Hunt. AU: Werewolf Hunters / Eldritch Horror AU, inspired by Bloodborne. (Complete) TW: Gore. Lovecraftian Horror.

The Old House of Westview

Investigating a suspicious suicide, Detective Kate Bishop is forced to return to her hometown to uncover the truth. But first, she would have to break the terrible news to her childhood sweetheart. Horror/Haunted house AU. (Complete) TW: Mentions suicide. Heavy angst. Depictions of gore.

Outrun The Reaper

While investigating a mysterious fire with Shang-Chi, Kate Bishop and her partner stumbled upon a strange woman with green eyes and golden hair. AU: Western/Wild West, Cowboy Kate Bishop. Based on What if... 1872? (Complete)

Canon Divergence List:

Touch

With touch, Yelena feels more than most, causing her to be withdrawn and held back from other people's affections. But an archer might just tear down the wall she built around her heart, brick by brick. Inspired by a Theodora Crain and her abilities from Netflix's The Haunting of Hill House. (Yelena learns to navigate the world throughout her life from her childhood to Red Room to becoming an agent of SHIELD, all while having an empath's touch) (Complete)

Not A Date

Yelena was lonely. Kate received an invitation from a stranger. They both meet up for that drink. a.k.a my idea of why Yelena joined the new mission proposed by Valentina in Thunderbolts. (Complete)

I Know Places

Two years after she spared Barton, Yelena is on the run after the tragic disbandment of the Thunderbolts. Kate Bishop is given direct orders from SHIELD to hunt down the surviving members. They bump into each other and decide to get that drink. On the other hand, Death makes an offer too irresistible to turn down. (Work in progress)

One-shots and Drabbles:

Archery Practice

Yelena watches Kate during her practice, and pretends to know nothing about archery just to feel her close.

the best way to a person's heart is through the stomach (not with a knife)

Food is their love language, but both Yelena and Kate have very different ways to show it.

We'll Meet Again One Day

Prompt: "Lucky and Fanny are waiting for them to come home but only one does" Prompt: Very fucking sad.

Dog Days (aka Jef's kibble drabbles)

Prompts left for me on my twitter account where each drabble is told from the perspective of either Lucky and Fanny.

[oopsallgoalies]

Subject To Change: Chapter 1

Tyler Owens x Reader

Summary: It’s been five years since you’ve been back home and when life brings you back to your hometown you find that while some things have changed, others have stayed the same. Your brother still has his head in the clouds but the cowboy currently sleeping in your childhood bedroom is definitely a new development. You’re trying to avoid falling into old patterns but maybe some of them aren’t so bad after all.

Chapter CW: Angst, fluff, mention of natural disasters (that would be the tornados), mentions of emotional abuse, swearing, suggestive language, science inaccuracies, medical inaccuracies

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Welcome back to Twisters Tuesday y’all!!! Let’s get back to Siren and Tyler, shall we?

Previous Chapter // Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

“Who the fuck are you?”

You watch as the blonde man blinks sleep out of his eyes, and his head cocks slightly to the side as he takes in the sight of you on the floor of your bedroom, a tangle of limbs, and glaring up at him past the mess of hair that’s tumbled over your face. Due to the hair obscuring your vision you miss the finger that reaches out to uncover your face. His face morphs into one of understanding as your uninhibited visage stares back at him. “So,” he says and his voice is still rough with sleep as he reaches up to scratch his head. “You must be Siren,” he says and your body jerks back in a visceral reaction to the name you haven’t been called in years. You slowly slide a hand under the edge of the bedsheets, feeling along the floor under the bed.

“I said,” You struggle to keep the shake out of your voice as your searching hand finds its quarry. “Who. The. Fuck. Are. You.” The mystery man shakes his head and then he moves, shifting forward and you yank the dusty baseball bat out from under the bed, trying your best to bring it up in an attempt to defend yourself but the angle is all wrong combined with the odd angle of your body on the floor and you hear the crash before you register your mistake. The room is plunged back into darkness and you hear the mystery man curse loudly in surprise before the sound of footsteps pounding down the hallway reaches your ears. The door swings open and the overhead light clicks on, temporarily blinding you.

When your eyes adjust to the sudden change in lighting you find yourself staring up at your mother where she’s frozen in the doorway, her hand still on the light switch. When your name passes her lips you feel yourself wince, guilt bubbling up in your gut.

“Hi Mom,” You don’t get anything else out before the gangly form of your brother Garrett appears over her shoulder, and his face morphs from fear to surprise to cool disinterest.

“Well look what finally blew in from the West Coast.” You meet Garrett’s icy glare with one of your own, narrowing your eyes at what’s a damn good reflection of your own. Despite being fraternal rather than identical twins, you and Garrett have always had a strong resemblance to each other. “Dad, don’t bother calling the cops, the prodigal daughter has returned.” He sneers in your direction before turning to leave, presumably to go back to bed now that he’s surmised that you’re not a threat. Your eyes go back to your mom who’s still staring at you like you’re a ghost.

“I see you didn’t waste any time waiting for me to come home,” you say casually. While your words are sharp, your tone is just exhausted as you reach a hand out for the familiar wall of your room and you push yourself to your feet. Against your better judgment, you cast a glance behind you at the blonde man sitting up in your bed. He’s regarding you with a neutral expression even as his green eyes dance with curiosity.

“Are you leaving?” Your heart aches at the tentative note in your mother’s voice like you’re a skittish animal that she’s trying not to spook.

“Do you want me to?” You ask simply and she shakes her head before the words even finish leaving your lips.

You nod curtly, at odds with the way your hands fidget at your side, a stranger in your own home. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” She nods quietly, eyes still trained on you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she looks away. You head for the doorway, where she stands in your way. You expect her to move when you approach but instead, she surprises you as she throws her arms around you, dragging you against her chest with a strength that you always forget that she possesses. You feel her lips press against your hair as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to keep the tears at bay as they threaten to crawl their way to the surface. You’re not sure how long the two of you stand that way, locked in a jagged tapestry of the past and present, but you feel like you’re splitting in half when she lets you go. Every step back down the stairs to the living room feels like a stitch ripping in the elegantly-crafted mask you’ve meticulously constructed over the years and when your head meets the worn cushion you’ve propped under your head you feel nothing but raw as the darkness comes up and consumes you whole.

***

It’s not the morning light that wakes you, blocked from your view by curtains that have faded from bright gold to a dull yellow over the course of your lifetime. You’re roused by the sound of clanking dishes and enthusiastic chatter. When you sit up and look towards the sounds coming from the dining room, your brows wrinkle at the chorus of unfamiliar voices. You wonder if perhaps something happened on your way here and now you’re looking around at some alternate timeline where someone else lived in these walls and it’s not your home after all. Curiosity spurs you to your feet and you tentatively creep across the worn wooden floor towards the sound. Before your guard can go up, you’re standing in the doorway and looking into a room that’s not nearly large enough for the eight people squeezed into it. You don’t recognize most of them, but your eye catches on the mystery man you’d found in your bed last night and you feel your lips turn into a frown as you glare daggers into his blonde head.

Garrett is the first to notice your arrival and he sits back in his chair as he regards you cooly. “Good mornin’, sunshine.”

All of a sudden you’re a teenager again, ready to go to blows with your brother over the last of the bacon and your frown deepens. “Go fuck yourself, Garrett.” He doesn’t react but the mystery man seated next to him chokes down a laugh around the toast he has in his mouth. You turn your gaze on him, raising an accusatory eyebrow at him. “Who the fuck are you?” It’s Garrett’s turn to bark out a laugh as your mother snaps your name with a tone that holds harsh reprimand. The blonde man’s eyes dance with mirth as he grins around the piece of toast. He swallows before he tips his chin in greeting.

“Tyler Owens, pleased to finally meet you, and very grateful that you never played baseball.” Your parents exchange confused looks while Garrett hides a snicker behind his fork as your lips widen into a smirk.

“Right, I played softball.” You say cooly as you reach for an apple off the table past a girl with long hair eyeing you skeptically.

“Easy, Si,” Garrett pipes up, lazy rather than wary and three steps ahead of everyone else at the table since Tyler’s still got that stupid grin on his face instead of one of fear. You flick your eyes over to him and your gazes battle wordlessly for a beat before you shrug.

“Catch,” you say and you pitch the apple at his head like it’s a softball and you’re a little impressed when Garrett manages to deflect the apple before it collides with his nose. Tyler lets out a low whistle as the apple lands on the table in front of him with a dull thud. He picks up the apple and holds it up in your direction in a silent toast before taking a huge bite out of it, grinning from ear to ear.

“And that’s why we call her Siren,” Garrett says as he places a placating hand on your mom’s arm, “because she should come with a warning.” You snort in response. You both know that’s not the real reason, but it’s one you’ve taken on over the years. There are no empty chairs so you grab a plate and fill it with food, trying not to interrupt the meal anymore, fully planning to slink back to the living room to eat when Tyler stands with his plate, motioning to his vacated chair.

“Sit,” I just finished. You try and wave him off but he’s insistent. “Really, we’re just about ready to head out anyway.” You don’t ask where and who ‘we’ includes but you silently take the seat next to your brother. Tyler’s made the trip to the kitchen to drop off his plate and is casually leaning against the doorframe waiting for other people to finish.

“Any idea where we’re headed today?” Garrett says and you let your shoulders slump in relief as the spotlight shifts from you. You keep your attention on Garrett and Tyler, though, trying to read what they’re talking about.

“We’re tracking some potential cells to the east,” a short-haired woman sitting across from Garrett speaks up and Tyler and Garrett nod as you make the connection.

“You’re kidding,” the words are past your mouth before you can filter your words. Everyone turns to you and you’ve already stuck your foot in it so you turn to your brother. “You’re still chasing?” You can’t believe it.

Garrett shrugs nonchalantly, “Obviously, we’re all chasers,” he gestures to the other strangers around the kitchen table and you shake your head. He frowns at you. “Get off your high horse, Si,” and you roll your eyes, shoveling the rest of your food into your mouth, eager to exit the dining room and this conversation. “Just because you quit, doesn’t make you some kind of better person.” You can feel his glare digging into the side of your head but you do your best to ignore it, like you have for the last ten years, every time this argument comes up. You stand up, still not dignifying Garrett with an answer as you head to the kitchen to deposit your dirty dishes, pushing past Tyler where he’s still leaning in the doorway. You feel his eyes on you, no doubt holding questions of his own but you have no intention of entertaining them. The clank of your dishes in the sink feels final and you take a deep breath before you decide to take advantage of Tyler’s presence downstairs to grab clothes for yourself from your bedroom uninterrupted.

***

It feels wrong, strange, the way your nose naturally wrinkles at the distinct scent of the well water that pours from the shower head. You’ve spent more years under it than you have away and yet your body seems to have forgotten to assign familiarity to it. You know that your hair is going to protest the change and it makes your heart ache as your body rejects the nostalgia that your mind is under the spell of. When you step out of the shower, you fish into the linen closet for a clean towel, suddenly feeling like a robber in your own home as you dry off and slide on your old clothes.

It’s a wonder they still fit and you feel your breath catch as you examine your reflection. The soft cotton of your faded rodeo t-shirt and the worn denim of your shorts feel like meeting an old friend again. You don’t remember the last time you wore jeans. Your stomach twists at that and you glance down at your bare ring finger. You’re still getting used to it, the freedom, the ability to breathe when you weren’t aware you were being strangled. You run your palms along the smooth denim and blink the tears that have risen unbidden in your eyes. The healing is slow but you’re hoping that being home will expedite the process. Eventually, there will be questions you’ll have to answer, ones you’re still wrapping your mind around. Why you’re here, why you’re not back in LA planning your wedding?

You’ve felt frozen since that fated day. You’d come back from a girls’ trip in Mexico, a rowdy week of fun, your bachelorette party to be exact. You’d been exhausted, coming down from the adrenaline of the week, and desperate to take refuge at home in the arms of your fiance. Instead, you’d come home to two envelopes on the kitchen counter. One contained a letter that explained that your fiance was long gone. He’d completely moved out during the past week and left you with his keys and half a page of bullshit explanations. The second envelope was thicker, and empty, with an address written on the front with the intention of you mailing back the expensive ring on your finger. The very next day you’d marched down to a pawn shop and sold it. You spent the money combined with what you made selling your half of the furniture and most of your possessions to compensate for breaking your lease before you’d caught the next flight out to Oklahoma. It was as you did so that it had all come unraveled. You’d watched each piece of clothing that you folded, realizing they had been bought for you, not by you, slowly but steadily replacing your old wardrobe. You’d been too busy between working yourself to the bone and spending every spare moment working to be perfect for your fiance. Somewhere you’d become lost to yourself, just becoming a doll for your husband-to-be. And even after all that, he’d left you without a second thought.

You blink at your reflection again and a tiny smile creeps across your face as you raise a hesitant hand and wave awkwardly at the girl staring back at you. You’ve missed her. You slip out of the bathroom, secretly hoping the storm chasers have made their exit. Downstairs is quiet and you slip into the garage, digging around for a pair of your old sneakers. You eventually find one, battered to hell and permanently stained with red dust from the road. You run a finger along the faded drawing of a tornado you’d boredly doodled at some point. You glance out the open garage door, looking east to try and spot any signs of the cells the woman at breakfast had mentioned. You spot the beginnings of clouds forming on the horizon as you stand, hands on your hips. A longing you’ve long learned to suppress calls out to you like a siren song, begging you to chase. It’s been a decade since you’ve chased a storm and turns out absence does in fact make the heart grow fonder.

Your feet carry you out to the second barn. Nostalgia brings the scent of freshly-carved wood to your nose and you lean your head against the door, closing your eyes and pretending that when you swing open the doors, your grandpa will be in there, working his magic and creating something out of nothing, watching as your eyes widen in awe. It’s been years since the barn stopped being a source of his magic, but you’d made it into a source of your own. You swing open the door, and your heart catches. Some small part of you expected it to be frozen in time, waiting for you after all this time. Admittedly some things are the same, you realize as your eyes adjust to the view in front of you. The barn became a storm-chasing base years ago, back when you’d had a laptop, your brother, and a teenage obsession, but what you’re faced with now puts that to shame. There’s all kinds of equipment over every square inch of the tables on the lower level, some of which is scientific in nature and the other looks like filming and camera equipment that makes your brown furrow in silent confusion. The upper level of the space has been rigged up with hammocks and turned into a sort of barracks which explains the quantity of strangers that had been in the kitchen this morning and you shake your head.

You’d always hoped that one day your brother would wake up from his dream of being a storm chaser like you had and get his life together. Now, ten years later, he’s still got his head in the clouds. At least he has company, a tiny voice in the back of your head remarks. At least he’s not running into danger all alone. You close the barn behind you, feeling once again like you’re intruding on a space that used to be yours. Your feet take you out to the fields and your eyes clock the crops, and the animals, and your lips purse into a thin line. You can see all the work that needs to be finished, things that have been passed over without the hands to get them done and set your jaw as you head back to the garage.

***

Several hours later you’re crouched by a section of fence closer to the house, nails held in your lips, and as you carefully repair the area that looks like it's been begging for mending longer than it should have. It’s the fourth stretch you’ve mended so far. Your parents are busy, you catch sight of them hard at work, tending to the animals, making repairs to the main barn, and guilt twists your stomach even as bitterness licks to life. For now, the work keeps your hands busy and you’re able to try and make a dent in the mountain of repairs that need doing, but what about when you go back to California? Your stomach lurches in protest at the thought and you try your best to ignore your visceral reaction to the thought. Maybe not LA, maybe you’ll go somewhere else, San Diego maybe? It’s far enough but close enough. You’ve spent the last decade making a life for yourself out there, you can’t just give up on it. After all your job won’t wait forever. You’re lucky that they agreed to wait at all. You’d been ready to put in your two weeks but your lead had given you a good long look and told you to take all the time you needed, that your job would be waiting for you when you got back. If you go back. That little voice whispers in the back of your mind.

A shadow falls over you and you look up, frowning at the figure blocking your light. Tyler looks down at you, arching a single eyebrow at you as he examines what you’re up to. He’s got a ridiculous cowboy hat on his head and you jerk your chin to the side and when he doesn’t move, your frown deepens and you reach up to take the nails out of your mouth so you can address him. “Move it, cowboy, you’re blocking my light.”

“Yes ma’am,” he drawls, stepping to the side and you turn back to your work. “You need a hand?” He asks, voice casual yet cautious.

“No, thank you.” You reply curtly but the bitterness you’ve been harboring all afternoon fights its way to the surface and you turn from your work to face Tyler. “You know, you could lend a hand around here once in a while? You sleep here, you eat here, this damn farm has more people living on it than it ever has, and yet it’s still going to shit,” you knock the final nail in with a particularly hard swing of the hammer. “So no, I don’t need a hand, but whether they want to ask for it or not, my parents do. It’s the least you could do.” You stand up and meet him face-to-face. You step away from him without a backward glance, watching the sky and trying to gauge whether you can squeeze one more repair in before the sun sinks too far below the horizon. It’s the least you can do while you’re here.

A/N: More than a few things revealed here, Siren’s definitely got some baggage she’s carrying, but hopefully she can finally find a place to put it down.

[syluses]

Also now that sylus knows a little about her home/job situation I can't help but think that he might use some sort of underhanded scheme to cut her off from her job... 🧐

Boss man definitely does not like the fact that his lil kitten is forcing herself to become a productive member of society… He has all sorts of misgivings about how her future may warp- oh, he has no doubt in his mind that she’ll survive, she’s far too stubborn to allow herself to succumb to something or another- but Sylus doesn’t want her, or the twins for that matter, to go out in the fucking world with the meager wish to just survive. No- he wants them to thrive. A life of luxury is what each of them- his family- deserve. Nothing less.

Not to mention, he hates silently knowing that Mc can’t be doing the best in regards to tenure or her living arrangement (humble, she’d told her mother over a text the woman flashed her curious husband one day- but alright); she obviously has not allowed her (step)family anywhere near her new, personal, safe place, but Sylus can’t delude himself into believing she’s doing well for herself when he knows for a fact she was better off under his roof- whether she liked it or not- and kept under his care. His funds. His reputation.

But ultimately, he never really offered up much objection to it, not outwardly. She was an adult now, and he had no hope of dissuading her— even her own mother couldn’t succeed in making her stay: the girl was blinded by her need to get out and gain her independence.

Which, Sylus understands. He does.

What he doesn’t understand is why she won’t let him help her from a distance. Fine- she can go out and throw all her efforts into cobbling together an unassuming little life for herself (as if a person like her could ever be unassuming), apart from her home and family. But while she’s trying to live out that little fantasy of hers (an escape plan, a coping mechanism; sylus has his guesses revolving her root cause for ditching the four of them so urgently, all of them pretty well-grounded), why do it with rags to her name?? Let him at least supply her. For his own peace of mind if nothing else.

She’s allowed to hate him from afar. Clearly, she’ll do it regardless of what anybody else has to say. But Sylus doesn’t want her to hurt from afar- whether it be financially or emotionally. And during those 5 years she was out and about, thats what he was quietly afraid of. He and Mc’s mom just silently hoped she’d be the prodigal daughter who’d eventually make a turn for the better— a turn for home :( but……

All this to say that yeah no sylus growingly hates her lil ‘job’ and ‘life’ she has on the side- outside of Linkon and her family- that drags her out from his and the twins’ reach and slowly wears away at her mental and physical being.

[somnoir]

Masterpost

I'll most likely just write DPxDC stuff. Either oneshots or multiple parts. I'll be taking requests soon so feel free to give me prompts or such related to DPxDC. It's just that I might not be able to writing yours because of certain preferences.

Masterpost I.

Masterpost II.

All AUs have a summary and what ship is features in, in case you are interested in very specific things. Kindly go through the Index below to see what aus are in each Masterpost

Masterpost I:

Multiple parts:

Bats and Phantoms

My Father's secretary

Gotham's newest Crime Lord

Prodigal son beyond Time

Oneshots:

Demon Twins and Death

A Family of Rogues

Ghost KingConsort?

How to pull a Batman by J. Constantine

Little Star's favorite

Damian's Future husband

Masterpost II:

Multiple parts:

Children of Diana

Down Bad in Distress

Oneshots:

Growing Pains... Literally