deathlysilent13

[deathlysilent13]

Okay, darlings. This fandom has managed to drive an author from it and they went out with a nuke. All of their work, gone. So it's time to have a talk. I'd love to think none of you were involved in it, so hopefully this is more a reminder to reblog than to have to apply, but it's time to have a talk.

First off, I'm not going to name the author. Their story is theirs. I'm just going to talk generally.

You DO NOT tell an author to kill themselves (kys) or threaten to harm them or that you'll find them or that they're writing their story wrong. YOU JUST DON'T.

"Well that's how I joke with my friends--" Stop. Authors are not your friends. They are at best acquaintances and more likely strangers. They might be friendly with you. I'm friendly with many of you because I see you often in comments/replies and such. And some of you have become friends. But the average author is not your friend, they are a stranger. And if you're the type of person who would tell a stranger to kill themselves, you need professional help in dealing with something deep inside you and I hope you find it.

Authors are out here writing entertainment and sharing it for free. You respect that and be kind. If you can't be kind, you leave. The back button is right there.

This is not an airport, you do not need to announce your departure. If a fic goes a way that you do not like, you unsubscribe and hit that back button. If it turns too angsty or sappy or violent, back button. If their characterization bothers you, back button. You do not need to tell as stranger providing free effort that you hate what they are producing. This fandom is so damn prolific, there's something out there for you, it doesn't have to be that fic.

Please just be kind. The world is horrible enough right now. And if you can't be kind, back button.

[deathlysilent13]

Fuck Around, Find Out

HI! Hello, this is your friendly neighborhood author, who isn't feeling so friendly right now.

Listen to me very, very carefully: Fandom is a community. You have to build it, engage with it, say hi to your neighbors, and be courteous.

It seems that some of y'all have forgotten that.

Fanart, fanfics, fan analysis, GIFs, and all of the things that keep a fandom alive are made by -gasp!- real people!!

It's crazy I know, that the person who writes that fic you love, and the other person who makes those amazing GIFs, and that other person who writes in-depth character analysis are real people with real feelings! What a wild concept!

So tell me, why do y'all feel the need to be assholes? Why do you feel the need to demand updates, to demand more artwork, to tell an author how their story should go, or that you hate the direction they took a story in? Why do you tell the people are are working hard to create everything you hate about what they've done?

Why is it so damn hard for some of you people to hit the fucking X at the top of the screen? Presumably, being as you're on the internet, you know how to leave a page without announcing why you've left in the process.

Presumably, you know how to be a decent fucking human being.

This is a goddamn PSA. Fuck around and find out. If y'all keep telling authors how much you hate their works, if y'all keep telling artists how they should be drawing people, or demanding more for creators, you will find that they will leave. And they will take all their works with them. Why not? Clearly you didn't want it anyway.

You think I'm kidding? It's been done. It's happening right now.

I've had friends wonder if they should just delete their entire AO3. If they should just Nuke their Tumblrs.

Every day you act like assholes you lose more content. Which is apparently the only thing you care about, since you can't seem to remember that there's another real life breathing person on the other end of the screen.

Fuck around and find out. See how fast my AO3 vanishes. See how fast you lose work after work.

I fucking dare you.

[deathlysilent13]

So I just brushed up on my blanket permission policy and I am just going to warn you ahead of time that some time, in the near or far future, all my stories may be locked to users-only much like Off With [the Demon's] Head. I've tried to avoid this for as long as possible, because for the longest time I also read fics while logged out of my account. However, due to problems with AI scraping and third-party theft, that looks very likely to change.

For those who might not be familiar, in December of last year many fanfic authors learned about an audiobook website that had used AI to scrape their works from Ao3, without permission, for profit. That's right. They took free fanfic and tried to make you pay for it. For the record, if you need an audio-only option, screen readers exist. And you can probably find one that's free.

Here is a post that breaks down the story.

Our lovely faeriekit recently dropped a development about this story in a Discord server we share (thank you, Faer, you keep me sane). The link provided to the website is currently no longer active. However, our lovely (sarcastic) friends at word-stream still have their app. This app still has all our stolen fanfiction posted.

Here is the app for anyone curious.

Yes, it is called BookTok. It is not connected to TikTok, for the "BookTok" community there. All around, misleading and scummy, if you ask me.

Fanfiction is protected under the Fair Use copyright laws in the United States. Which is where Ao3 is based out of. For younger or newer fans, I cannot emphasize enough how hard our early fandom activists had to work to keep our fanfic out of legal trouble. That is why when we say do not reference commissions, in any shape or form in your ANs, or you can put the entire community in jeopardy. Remember Anne Rice. For a while Disney was really cracking down on perceived copyright infringement.

For the longest time I did not post fanfiction, because I did not want to be sued. To this day, I am still worried about being sued. Except it could be through no fault of my own, but because some greedy asshole thought it'd be a good idea to try to sell something they never owned the rights to.

This is the only time I want to have to say this. Respect the rules the protect the community, or risk losing the community altogether.

[deathlysilent13]

Tim has noticed something odd, about the Demon Brat.

Sometimes, the Demon Brat would look to his left, as if to start a conversation, or as if anticipating someone saying something, only to freeze. Just for a moment, a half second, because nobody was there, before looking away with painful expression. 

Months later, Tim decided to stand there, just to see what would happen. The brat didn’t look at him once, and Tim found that curious, and odd.

Another odd thing about his new, murderous brother, is that he refuses to look into the mirror. That’s not true, exactly: he would look in the mirror for basics, for necessities. 

Tim realized, months of observations later, that the brat didn’t look himself in the eyes. 

Strange. 

Tim had asked him, once, why he didn’t. As expected, all he got was a “It’s none of your business Drake.”

But that didn’t stop Tim from wondering. Tim is, if nothing else, curious to a fault and persistent to an illegal degree. 

And so the strangeness would continue, and Tim would wonder.  

The brat would look to his left, pause, and then look away. He would deftly avoid mirrors, and when asked why he would sneer and avoid those questions, too. 

Until he didn’t. 

Until he came back to the Cave battered and beaten, some dreary autumn day, the Demon Brat unusually sullen and quiet and off his game. He had sat through the lecture Bruce had given him, and sat through the quiet reaching out from Dick, and sat through the cajoling teasing meant to rile him up, to get him to say or do anything per the norm, with an unusual aplomb.

The brat apologized, said he was fine, and ignored the rest. He told Bruce he wouldn’t patrol tomorrow, and would stay home from school, because clearly he wasn’t feeling well. 

 It was like Damian wasn’t there, fully. 

So when Tim saw that the brat’s door was open, the next day, he peeked in. 

Of course he did. 

And there the brat was, sitting in front of the full length mirror he usually had covered with a cloth when it wasn’t in use, reaching up and staring directly into his own reflection’s eyes. 

“Demon Brat?” Tim asked, stepping in and concerned about the look in the other’s face. There was no answer. 

“Damian. What’s wrong.” Tim stood behind the boy, watching as Damian touched the corner of his own reflection’s eye. 

“The color’s wrong, Drake.” Damian finally said, matter of fact and almost broken, absent-minded. 

“What?” Tim asked, trying to see what he was talking about. Nothing was wrong, nothing was changed. Damian met his eyes through the mirror for a long moment, but Tim didn’t understand. 

“The color.” Damian reiterated, looking at his own reflection again. 

“The color? Of what?” Tim and Damian were never close, not really, but he was starting to feel like something was slipping away, in this moment. Damian dropped his hand, and finally looked away. 

Without answering, the boy got up and carefully draped a cloth over the mirror, ushering Tim out of his room silent as the dead. 

“Leave me be for today, Drake.” Tim reached, opened his mouth to try and say something, because something was wrong, but what? 

But Damian simply shut the door softly. 

The sound of the lock engaging felt strangely, and utterly, final in a Manor full of lockpicking detectives.

Tim laid a hand on the door, and mourned. 

[deathlysilent13]

currently at the stage in a hyperfixation cycle where im shaking old hyperfixations trying to make dopamine fall out, does anyone have any fic recs for skyrim, world of warcraft, star wars esp the tcw era, dc, danny phantom, avengers, spiderman, overwatch, lotr and the hobbit, bg3 or ghost bc TvT

[deathlysilent13]

Repeat after me:

It is OKAY to have content preferences and to be uncomfortable with certain ships or topics, controversial or not. It is OKAY to distance yourself from such content and block certain tags or creators.

It is NOT OKAY to actively hate and harass real people for creating content of fictional characters that features things that make you uncomfortable.

[deathlysilent13]

I love everything about this! It's so accurate and I am in awe!

Hello

So I’ve been binging a bunch of DPxDC crossover fics cause they’re hella fun. And I wanted to make some fanart for a handful of the fics I’ve been reading just to show how vastly different Danny gets portrayed. It’s really fun!! I love when ppl make Danny get Jack’s tall ass gene’s, but it’s also funny to see him as a scrawny lil guy. He’s a pretty moldable character

Anywho, it’s just been fun, so here’s some fanart. Thanks to the authors for writing them 🙏

Fics in order of art:

Like Beta Fish Do by @clockwayswrites

Ghost in the Morgue by @the-witchhunter

Secretary Danny by DeathlySilent13

If You Give a Bat a Burger by @noir-renard

If you give any of these a read, just make sure you mind the tags/ratings

[deathlysilent13]

DPxDC Fic Snippet: Clockwork Sets Up a Meeting

(So, I can't call this one what I want to because that would be telling af, so for now it'll stay a premonition via Clockwork. What happens after this? WHO KNOWS! lol)

Standing in this particular location is absolutely not on the list of things Danny wanted to do today. He levels the fifth glare of the hour at the calm, vaguely smug ghost floating next to him, purple cloak impeccable as always. They bypass the obvious rooms, going lower and lower down staircases that appear to simply pop into being as needed. Danny's so lost at this point he doesn't dare lose sight of Clockwork.

They come to a massive metal door. Bolts are dotted like sprinkles across it, and thicker beams cross diagonally across the whole thing in a strangely plaid adjacent pattern. There's two keyholes, one on each door, and a mounted metal head of some creature or other above each slot. This is definitely a door designed not to move.

Clockwork pulls two keys out of nowhere and one at a time sets each into it's hole and twists. The hum of the released locking mechanisms seems as complex as the door itself, but eventually it swings open. Danny expected a lot of things. A torture chamber. Mountains of gold like that cave in the beginning of Aladdin. An army waiting for Pariah Dark to wake and send them forth. A weapon's cache that would make Skulker and Danny's dad both weep with delight.

He was partially right. One wall does actually have piles of treasure looking like a pirate's haul. Youngblood can never know. But there's a wall of somewhat haphazard bookshelves filled with leather bound tomes. Words are etched into the spines in what Danny can only call holographic ectoplasm green. It makes him vaguely nauseous. Piles of scrolls, files, and objects surround these bookcases, all labeled in some form or another.

Danny follows Clockwork to this wall, skimming the titles. The names. There are names on these tomes. "Clockwork, what is this?" he asks softly, voice echoing.

The Master of Time doesn't look away. "These are the souls contractually bound to the King," the old ghost answers gently. "All are yours now. Some belong to Pariah by name, some simply to the King. By defeating him in single combat, your acceptance of your right to the crown means all things once belonging to him, even to his name specifically, are now your domain."

He pulls a tome down as he speaks, handing the book to Danny. Danny looks down at the cover, embossed square swirls lining the edge all the way around. In the middle, almost a window is embossed, the frame a thin line tracing the outermost edges of each of eight rectangles, four on top and four below. Each rectangle looks like shattered glass, the lines somehow both delicate and chaotic.

Clockwork lets him study the design in silence. "There is a braided leather bracelet embedded into the inside front cover," the old ghost says softly. "It was the binding for this contract, an odd one to be sure. Wear it, and never remove it." He says nothing further.

Danny furrows his brows, but opens the cover and pulls the bracelet from where it rests and slips it on dutifully. "What will it do?" he asks, curious. He doesn't want to read the tome, most are done in the language of demons and he hates looking at it.

Clockwork merely gives him that weird, knowing, vaguely constipated smile. "All things in time, dear Kingling," is his answer, and he leaves before Danny can say anything further. He sets the tome down and scrambles to catch up lest he be well and truly lost, only barely registering how the doors automatically close and lock behind him. He knows he's not getting anything else out of the old ghost, so he asks him slightly more general questions about the other tomes and some of the other things within the vault instead. It occupies their path out of the castle, and Clockwork bids him farewell before disappearing into a swirling blue portal, dramatic as ever.

[deathlysilent13]

DPxDC Fic Snippet: Host Club Danny

(Before we get going: this is not a Mature rated story. Genuine Host clubs/Hostess clubs have very little, if any, physical interaction and it is absolutely not sexual. Ouran High School Host Club is inaccurate, though I did draw from a tiny bit of that, as well. Basics to note: Danny co-owns the club with Harvey Dent, and very, very rarely works the floor, but when Harvey's friend's kids need a safe space, is there really any one else can can be trusted? Also, another Bad Fenton Parent story, though that isn't really more than background here.)

They reach for the food at the same time, dishing samplings of the cooking. “There’s so many things I want to throw at you,” Tim murmurs, staring down at his bruschetta, “but that NDA definitely threw me off. Don’t bother, I texted Damian, he’s already confirmed it’s damn near identical to the one he signed. You’re actually that serious about not breaking confidence, aren’t you?” 

Danny nods, digging into the caprese salad. “Our guests come to be heard without judgment, to slough off the woes of the world for a moment. That can’t happen if they have to be on edge wondering what we’re going to tattle about, whether they’re going to be Miss Vale’s latest story.” He pins Tim with a sharp look, because one of the Wayne siblings had, in fact, been in the news that morning. 

Tim grimaces. “Yeah, that’s Dick for you,” he grumbles. “Man grew up in the circus and despite living in Gotham as long as he has, he still hates being on the ground.” 

Danny smirks. He’s been told about two of the chandelier incidents. From the look on Tim’s face, he sees it, because the man just groans again. 

They get through the appetizers, and Danny’s setting Tim’s entree in front of him before he speaks again. “So, since I can’t ask about my brother,” Tim starts, pointing a fork at him, “the hell was with the bilateral NDA? Why would something like that be necessary?” 

Danny settles back in his chair, making sure he’s still outwardly calm. “Because you’re not the only one with more than one face,” he answers simply as he tucks into his mushroom risotto with truffle oil. 

Tim blinks, filet mignon halfway to his mouth. “I genuinely can’t tell what that means,” he says almost accusingly as he finally bites into his dinner. 

Danny gives him a moment to savor. “It means everything said in this room is safe, no matter how dangerous it may be elsewhere,” he answers, keeping things simple. He won’t verify anything just yet, but honestly he has a sneaking suspicion that Tim’s enjoying the attention. 

The man narrows his eyes, staring at Danny through two more bites. Instead of firing another question at Danny, however, he pulls out his phone and stares at it like it personally offended him. “What the hell did he tell you?” the man mutters, though mostly to himself. 

Danny sips his chardonnay. “He told me what he needed to,” he says. “The point is to provide a safe space to let things off the chest. You have a copy of the NDA.” The last is a reminder, and one that has Tim’s eyes widening before narrowing. 

Danny can’t help his smirk, which just makes Tim scowl. “What? You wanna talk about the years I spent alone in a house my parents couldn’t bother to heat while they were traipsing all over the country without me?” he asks sharply, though Danny can see scars long healed in his words. “Or about taking on a responsibility I never asked for because my hero had died and the city’s protector was going to kill someone if things didn’t change? The attempt on my life someplace I was supposed to be safe for trying to fill shoes I knew from the beginning were beyond me?”

Danny blinks, watching Tim rapidly approaching a breakdown. He’s pieced some of it together since learning that Damian was Robin, that Tim was before him. He doesn’t have everything, though. He manages not to sigh, wondering how many times he’s going to tell this family his own story to work around their blocks. So he does, telling him exactly what he’d told Damian about his accident, the portal, and his parents. Tim’s eyes go wider and wider as Danny continues, and he can see that the reason for the NDA sinks home. 

Tim, thankfully, is just about done with his food, because it’s forgotten. “What the fuck,” he says hollowly. “You…..your parents?” Danny just nods. 

Tim’s hand rakes through his hair. Danny watches him stare into his pinot noir. “I never wanted the cape,” he whispers. Danny can hear the confession, the secret he’s terrified to speak. “The second Robin had been killed by the Joker, Batman was losing it. Getting rougher, breaking bones for even petty crime. I’d been chasing them for years, watching. He’d caught me once, that Robin.” He pauses here, his face falling into a despondent sort of fondness. “I’d slipped off a fire escape and he was just there. Closest thing to a friend I had, and honestly if things had been different I might have loved him. I needed to help Batman, needed to get him back to the man my Robin believed in.” His breath hitches. 

Danny sits quietly, letting him talk. He doesn’t much like the picture being painted. “The failure of an adult is not a child’s burden,” he says quietly. “You should never have had to make that choice.” 

[deathlysilent13]

DPxDC Fic Snippet: Selina Finds Hurt Danny

(Basic backstory for understanding: Selina finds Danny hurt. This is absoltuly a Bad Fenton Parents WIP. He's hurt enough that he's retreated into his core and Selina took him home and has been keeping him safe until he can reform.)

Morning dawns and leaves the cat burglar behind. She doesn’t rouse until just after 11, as per usual, but when she starts to stretch out, she notices a weight on her chest that hadn’t been there before. She nearly panics, opening her eyes to see fluffy black hair. Confused, she tilts her head to look over the face attached to all the fluffy locks and has to bite down fresh panic at the literal child curled up on top of her. She’d rescued a teenager with white hair, and somehow ended up with a possible black-haired toddler.

The boy stirs, groaning lightly, and only then does she look over at her nightstand to see the little nest she’d made for her orb empty. “Oh,” the boy whispers, sounding like it hurts to speak. 

Selina sits up slowly, keeping one hand wrapped around the boy. She won’t just fling him onto the floor like an unruly cat, after all. This is still a child, even if she has no idea where he came from. The boy stays curled against her, only whimpering once in pain. Selina’s concern grows. 

She shuffles her pillows around so she can lean back just enough to keep the boy lying comfortably while still being upright enough to try and talk to him. “Good morning,” she says softly, not wanting to alarm the boy. 

He nuzzles into her sternum briefly before finally looking up and pinning her with stunning cerulean irises. “You’re the one who found me, right?” he asks softly, still very clearly hoarse. 

Selina nods. “If you’re the white-haired teenager we pulled off that silver boat, then yes,” she replies, needing the confirmation. 

The boy sighs, his eyes closing again. “I didn’t….I’d hoped……” he murmurs, likely to himself. She cards her fingers through his hair, gently detangling as she goes. She wants to push, to know what was going on, but whatever had made him young may also send him running. She knows all too well how well untethered children fare in Gotham, after all. 

They lay quietly for some time. “My parents didn’t know,” the boy finally murmurs again. “Not for ages. I thought they’d love me more than they hated ghosts.” She feels the shudders first, but it doesn’t take long for the tears to start soaking her shirt. She expects to be mildly disgusted, at least, but finds as she sits there and holds him that all she feels is sorrow. No one should be broken of the belief that they’re a parent’s priority. 

She doesn’t do anything but pet him until his stomach rumbles, and hers answers. Even with his face still smushed against her sternum, she can see his face going red. “I should still have some leftover pizza,” she says, grinning when his head pops up with much more enthusiasm than she’d seen from him thus far. “Come on, up with you. There should be a spare toothbrush, and then you can decide if you want food first or a shower.” He doesn’t go far, but all she really needs is for him to slide off. 

She scoops him up, warming at the way he squeaks and flails but curls back into her anyway. She takes him into the bathroom, letting him sit on the counter while she pulls out a fresh toothbrush. Thankfully, he doesn’t argue, and the whole ordeal goes quickly. He blushes red again, however, when he asks if he can stay for a minute and points to the toilet. Far from being bothered, Selina simply ruffles his hair and tells him to wash his hands when he’s done. 

She’s in the kitchen, a nearly full box of cold, mismatched pizza from the previous night giving him options when he wanders through, clearly hesitant. She gestures to a chair, trying not to baby him since he is, or was, a teen and she remembers all too well how each of the Robins got about their independence. She won’t intrude if she doesn’t have to. 

He climbs up, eying the box, and she does nothing more than take a second slice out and slide it over. “Help yourself,” she says as though it isn’t important. “I don’t usually have leftovers when the girls come over, so I’ll probably forget I have it anyway.” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it has him digging into the food with enough gusto that she’s probably right in it being entirely too long since he had actual food, and she’ll happily sacrifice an entire pizza to him if it helps. She’s gonna have to ask the hard questions soon enough anyway. 

[deathlysilent13]

DPxDC Fic Snippet: Danny and Damian are Twins AU but it's mean

((HEADS UP BEFORE WE GO IN: This isn't nice. I don't know where it's going, but this isn't nice. There's gonna be mentions of torture, child abuse, manipulation. This isn't an "everything's magically okay" AU and honestly I don't know if it's going to end nicely. Also, this is a continuation of my rewrite of @oliveofvanders's fic here, which isn't posted yet, but feel free to go read what started it, but MIND THE TAGS.))

They move silently, working down into the city proper and slipping through shadows. Tim’s guiding them via the plane’s onboard computer, having figured out where Danyal lived, and they’re nearly there when they hear voices. Damian slips around the corner, Bruce on his heels. Jason ducks around the other side and hears Dick stay with him. There’s a League lookout perched on a roof nearby. 

“I would rather die than go back,” Danyal says coldly, and Jason catches a glimpse of him backed against a wall. 

Talia, standing in front of him, lashes out with a dagger, and had Danyal not dodged it would probably have taken off his ear. “Do not speak to me!” Talia snarls, and Jason’s stomach drops. She turns her attention back to the assassin kneeling before her. “Bring him to the plane. Grandfather will need to remind him of his place before we drop him in Gotham. A Spare has no need to speak.” 

Jason watches Damian lunge katana first at a shocked Talia, face contorted into unbridled rage. He moves at the same time Dick does, stopping the assassin on the roof from interfering while Dick backs up Damian. The fight is short, but brutal. Talia only had the two with her, and Damian was angry enough to get her on the ground in quite possibly record time. 

Jason and Bruce had each taken an assassin out while Dick focused on keeping Damian from actually killing Talia. He doesn’t bother being gentle in knocking the person unconscious, tying them and dropping them with Bruce’s unconscious capture. Dick is holding Damian back, who appears to still be trying to genuinely kill his mother. Danyal hasn’t moved, and the way his eyes lock onto Bruce and his entire demeanor changes sets alarm bells ringing in Jason’s head. 

Bruce approaches, side stepping Talia to get a look at Danyal at last. His approach has calmed Damian, who’s watching them silently. Jason thinks this might just go well until Danyal’s gaze lowers and his hands settle at the small of his back. They all recognize the League’s parade rest and deferential sightline. 

Shit, Jason thinks.

Bruce, as well, stops cold, having recognized the shift. “Are you hurt?” he asks softly. 

Danyal shakes his head once. 

Damian is frowning now, and Dick noticeably doesn’t let him go. “So he does remember his place,” Talia spits venomously, startling everyone. 

Bruce’s gaze is hard when he looks down at her. “Explain,” he barks, and even Jason jolts at his tone. That’s not normal for Bruce, he’s very rarely that calloused. 

Talia coughs lightly, spitting blood upon the pavement. “Father never intended to keep the Spare,” she says without giving Danyal a glance. “However, Damian was attached, so I made sure he stayed in sight so as to not distract Damian from his training for the absence. He’d proved useful when Damian had gotten his right arm caught in a rockslide, his arm providing the nerves and the piece of shredded vein that prevented a complete loss of use of the limb. And again when Slade betrayed the League and destroyed Damian’s left eye.” Damian has gone still.

They all glance at him, but his focus is on Talia. “You hurt him,” Damian whispers, the accusation clear. 

Talia scoffs. “You’re the only reason he kept his life, Damian,” she says with an impressive dismissiveness. “I have no need of him now that you’ve chosen your father over me.” 

Before any of them can strangle her, a muffled shot rings out, blood blossoming across Talia’s abdomen. They all dive, barring Danyal, as the girl from earlier nears them. The gun in her hand is steady, and she looks more than willing to use it again. The boy from earlier slips behind her, heading straight for Danyal without crossing in front of the gun. “Hey, hey, come on,” he murmurs, though they can all hear him. “You’re still in Amity Park, Danny, you’re okay. She won’t take your tongue again. It’s okay, your parents are coming.” 

Damian’s face contorts, but he says nothing as Danyal blinks, shuddering as he takes in a ragged breath and latches onto the boy. “Tucker,” he says quietly, hiding his face against a sweater covered shoulder. 

Headlights come into view then, a giant metal monstrosity stopping close enough that Jason briefly thought they were actually going to hit Bruce. “The next person who comes for my baby is getting thrown through the portal!” a woman screeches as she steps out. The driver follows, somehow bigger than both Bruce and Jason and eerily quiet. Given the looks the boy and girl that had come to Danyal’s rescue share, this is definitely not his normal. 

Talia attempts to rise with the destruction. “What could you possibly want with that one? He’s worth nothing,” she croaks, holding her side. Jason can see the blood now, glinting off the headlights. That’s not an insignificant wound, and he wonders if the girl knows where she hit. 

The man pulls his own gun while the girl levels hers, and Talia’s eyes flick between them. Damian is making a fresh attempt to sink his blade into his mother’s heart. “You’re the only one here who isn’t worth shit,” the man says darkly. “And one way or another, you will never come near my son again.” Jason blinks, watching the woman coax Danyal into the back of the metal vehicle, the kids following with easy familiarity. 

[deathlysilent13]

Thank you so much for this!!! I absolutely love it!! You’re so talented and captured Nocturn’s care SO well, I’m in awe!!

A little fanart for Deathlysilent13, for his Two shot "Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep", it was really lovely!!!

The main couple is Nocturne (Danny Phantom) x Tim Drake, and really what happens is a union and platonic intimacy of the highest level, really recommended for those who want to read some good this especific trope.

You can read it here

[deathlysilent13]

FMA Fic Snippet: Modern AU, Ed’s in college.

((Basic idea here: Modern Amestris, no alchemy but automail is still a thing. Jean Havoc teaches at Central University, and Edward Elric is a student in his class. He and Alphonse are orphans (though Team Mustang doesn’t know this yet) and Alphonse is too ill for in person classes. Edward agreed to take them instead of continuing online to gain unrestricted access to the University Library for anything Alphonse might need. Jean Havoc (and all of the team, honestly) is always on the lookout for those who need a little extra support and Ed’s on Jean’s radar))

It’s been three weeks since the start of the fall term. Jean’s already half-buried by grading assignments, which means most of his colleagues are probably already in over their heads. He tries not to assign much, since anyone who’s taking his class is likely taking a full schedule of specialized courses that are going to be exponentially more demanding. He just teaches them how to research, he doesn’t go into nearly as many specifics as just about anyone else teaching masters level courses. 

This particular Friday night finds him in a restaurant and bar, nursing a beer. He’s got his old team around him, and they make a regular habit of meeting up to keep track of one another’s moods. He hasn’t said much tonight, even though he’s the one who called them together. He can’t help it. He hasn’t had anyone come through his class before who invoked such a visceral urge to kick in doors and make them listen as the boy he’s had on his mind almost constantly since the first day of the semester.

A flash of gold catches his eye, a gleam he’s coming to recognize well, and he turns his entire torso to scan the street until he finds the source. Gleaming gold silk held back in a loose braid catches the streetlights and passing headlights. It’s the purest identifier, since the owner of that shocking head of hair isn’t wearing the usual attire Jean sees on him in class. Instead he’s in a simple t-shirt, an olive bomber jacket with a fur-lined collar warding away the evening chill. Hands are tucked into the pockets of comfortable jeans, and black boots lace all the way up his ankles. Considering the kid wears a damned tie to class, the look throws Jean.

A hard thump to his shoulder reminds him that he’s sitting at a full table. “There can’t be anything out there that pretty,” Heymans Breda quips, earning a round of chuckles from the table. 

Jean snorts. “I don’t give a damn about pretty, I want to know what that kid’s story is,” he says, and this time the looks are sharper. Their former commanding officer, Roy Mustang, pins him with a fierce look second only to the one of the woman next to him. Riza Hawkeye might technically be Roy’s subordinate, but anyone who values their life and their blood volume does as she says the moment she says, Roy included. Jean and Heymans had retired at matched ranks lower down the totem pole. 

When Roy just lifts an eyebrow, Jean points the kid out. Kain Fuery, their tech wiz, whistles softly. “He looks way too young to be in one of your classes, Jean,” he says. Their last companion, Vato Falman, nods in clear agreement. He’s usually quiet, but he’s a walking encyclopedia so when he does speak, they know to listen.

Jean doesn’t even bother trying to argue. “He’s 16. Graduated high school at 13 and secured his Bachelors last year. He’d done everything online until now. Masters at most local colleges requires in person courses.” He glances out the window again, watching the way the kid moves through the crowds and manages not to be jostled despite the crush of people. Touch is a significant issue with him, Jean just doesn’t know why. 

“Why haven’t you directed him to the rec center?” Roy asks. His parents, whom he’d never met, apparently left him a fortune. He opened a medical and rehab facility for vets when the government funded one proved its inadequacy one time too many, and has since expanded it into a recreational center and library for street kids and kids with bad home lives. 

Jean lifts his hands briefly. “Look, I tried, okay? He acts like I’m luring him into the back of a van with a lollipop every time. Kid’s polite enough in class, doesn’t talk to anyone, but he bolts the minute the clock hits time. Doesn’t let anyone touch him, doesn’t stay in the quad. Shit, Roy, I don’t even know where he lives. He needs something, I just can’t figure out what.” Roy’s brow furrows, clearly thinking. 

Vato hums thoughtfully. “That explains why we got together a week early,” he says. He’s not angry, none of them are when there’s someone who needs their help. Jean just can’t get a handle on this one. He’s usually good at this, but he’s off balance by this kid. 

Roy looks like he wants to speak, but Riza, who’d watched the kid until he’d turned the corner, cuts him off. “I’ll take this one,” she says. All eyes turn to her, and they’re all shocked. Jean doesn’t think she’s ever approached the kids, she’s too straight laced for them. There’s a reason she usually oversees the vets who come in.

Roy looks at her like she’s lost her mind. “Riza, are you sure?” he asks, risking a stabbing. Heymans backs a few inches away from the table. 

Riza folds her hands on the table, which does nothing to soothe anyone. “Positive. I might know why he avoids the rec center, but I need to confirm.” They’re all blinking now, but no one challenges her. She’s damned near a force of nature, and they were with her on those sands. They all owe her their lives. 

They glance at one another around her, mildly concerned but having no way to voice it that doesn’t come out making her sound incompetent. With a sigh, even Roy finally gives in, agreeing to table it but they’ll all keep a much more active eye out until Riza’s made contact with the kid. After that, none of them can say yet.

[deathlysilent13]

FMA Fic Snippet: A glance into the current ArchKim WIP.

(PLEASE BE ADVISED: This is not okay. Even if it looks like it, the entire series is tagged non-con. There’s lack of consent, drugging, heavy manipulation, questionable boundaries (also missing boundaries). This is not kind, and the entire series is very much Not Okay stuff. READ AT OWN RISK.)

Archer picks up the collar the moment the glass is empty. “Come here, Major,” he says, watching Kimblee take in a slow breath. He comes around, despite still being lucid, and Archer doesn’t bother to hide his glee. “On your knees, pet.” He wants to see it before the drugs take hold, wants to know he’s got control. To his endless delight, despite a moment’s hesitation, Kimble does indeed kneel at Archer’s feet.

Archer takes his time, securing the leather around Kimblee’s throat so it’s tight enough to stay put but not so tight that it impedes breathing and blood flow. His hand lingers, tracing Kimblee’s jaw and sliding into his hair so he can start unwinding the ribbon that holds it back. Kimblee’s gaze is still sharp, though Archer has a mental stopwatch ticking down the seconds until that softens. 

He sees the sneer begin on Kimblee’s face, and backhands him before the man can formulate words. He rocks to the side, but doesn’t rush to his feet, so Archer leaves him there while he puts the empty glass in the sink before it can break. In the seventeen seconds it takes him to walk to the sink, Kimblee has settled back on his knees, still making no noted effort to rise. 

Satisfied, he proceeds to pull things for a sandwich out of the fridge. The drugs will hit quickly enough, but he’ll need to keep Kimblee fed so he is free to wring everything he wishes out of the man. “Strip, pet. The clothes are unnecessary this weekend, leave them on the chair.” It’s nearly time, and once he’s put food together, he turns around to the delightful sight of Kimblee naked, collar sitting in stark relief against his skin. His pupils are blown, the drugs finally taking full effect, and he’s back on his knees.

He sets Kimblee’s plate on the floor, opting to eat his own standing up to make the discrepancy in their stations that much clearer. He snaps his fingers next to his thigh once in summons. “Come here, you’re going to need the sustenance,” he says. He watches, curious, but not particularly irritated tonight. Kimblee doesn’t have a set of rules yet, and Archer is well aware that he will be doing a great deal of teaching, but the rewards are going to be well worth it. 

Kimblee gets one foot under him, and Archer scowls. “No,” he says, the sharp tone making the thoroughly drugged man freeze. “I did not grant you permission to stand. Crawl, pet, or I will beat you senseless and take you back to the dorms.” He watches, keeping his face impassive as Kimblee leans forward, letting his foot slide back as he gets on hands and knees. Archer doesn’t react until Kimblee has crawled across the floor and is sitting at his side. 

Only when the man is still does Archer move, tapping Kimblee’s chin lightly. “Unless you’re actively doing something, pet, your eyes stay on me. Just like that, yes. That’s a good boy.” Fully under, Kimblee’s head tilts against Archer’s leg as he pets the man, praising his posture when it’s to Archer’s liking. There’s been no hesitation, so Archer’s going to teach him the way he wants, and will have to see how much is remembered. 

[deathlysilent13]

FMA Fic Snippet: Kimblee lives and returns to work for the military.

(A few things to bear in mind here: Kimblee lives post-canon timeline, and he’s a mix of ‘03 and BH. Ed still has his automail and alchemy. Honestly this whole thing will probably end up being a mesh of the two animes. I do that a lot.)

All eyes lift as panicked scrambling sounds from beyond the door. Several tense moments later, the Fuhrer’s lieutenant opens the door and offering the brass standing before his desk a crisp salute. “My deepest apologies, Sir,” she says, mildly breathless, “But the Crimson Alchemist is on the grounds wearing a pocketwatch. The gate said he was demanding to see you immediately and called ahead.” There’s a ripple of movement among the group, but Fuhrer Grumman just sighs and slides his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. If he shows any fear, the command center will fall apart, and he knows this well.

“Do not stop him when he arrives, Lieutenant,” he says seriously. “I don’t want him to have any reason to focus on you. Let’s figure out what he wants and go from there.” She nods, and he can see that she is grateful to not be expected to put herself in the man’s path. No one blames her. Solf J. Kimblee is more than a wild card - he’s unhinged. No one knew what had happened to him, but they had all hoped he’d been killed in the madness leading up to Central’s destruction.

There’s just enough time for the seven people standing to move to one side before the door is flung open, revealing none other than the lunatic himself. Grumman stands, hands behind his back, and stays behind his desk. He won’t get any closer than necessary. Kimblee saunters into the room, hands in his pockets, and grins. The chain at his hip is unmistakable. “I was made a promise, and I’d like it to be honored,” the man finally says. 

There’s a few sharp inhales, but in truth Fuhrer Grumman had expected this. He’s got Kimblee’s file in his desk drawer, one of several potential problems he’d identified in the list of records that Bradley had either reactivated or modified for his own purposes. Bradley had notated a guarantee he’d verbally provided Kimblee that he’s reactivated with the full merits of a State Alchemist. Without any evidence with which to challenge it, the notations of King Bradley should stand. 

The brass will not agree, but it is no secret that Grumman has chosen to be different, to honor promises and rebuild the faith that the people no longer have in the military. He’d sent out a preliminary inquiry regarding this issue, and actually has an answer. Taking a breath, Grumman makes sure his stature befits his rank before speaking. “Solf Kimblee, I am willing to honor the promise made by my forebear, with a condition of my own in regards to your former convictions.” He lets himself be studied, knowing better than to show any trace of fear or hesitation with this man. 

Kimblee chuckles, making two of the assembled generals blatantly uncomfortable. “Alright, what condition?” he asks, unconcerned as far as anyone can tell. 

Grumman doesn’t speak, instead pulling the file from his desk and sliding it across. He’d had the formal documents drawn, because this is the only way they will be signed. If Kimblee refuses, then Grumman can lock him back up knowing he’d done his duty in attempting to honor the previous agreement without putting the population in unnecessary risk. He stands while Kimblee flips the file open, reading through the offer, and then going back and reading it again. 

His lips curl, and Grumman has just enough time to wonder if they’re going to have a problem before the lunatic laughs. “Alright, if he’s willing, you’ve got a deal,” Kimblee says, signing his name with a surprising flourish. Grumman takes the file, but forgoes signing his own name for the moment. 

Remembering the crowd in his office, Grumman bites back another sigh. “Dismissed, generals. We will reconvene tomorrow morning. Lieutenant! Will you send for Fullmetal, please?” The crowd files out, looking a touch put-out at having their meeting the Fuhrer cut short. Grumman doesn’t bother worrying, the last thing he wants is Kimblee running free, even if it means hurting the feelings of a lower general or two.