#also if im up to it i might post this to ao3. my ao3 is soooo not great im tempted to orphan my works from when i was like. a teenager

[starry-bi-sky]

Childhood Friends Au: Danny's in Gotham Again

when the wool is off your eyes you'll stop counting sheep at night cause you'll eat your fill of them during the daytime

A few weeks after Danny’s visit to Gotham, he buys an apartment in the city. It’s this little thing, a studio apartment on the same street he grew up in. In Crime Alley. When he tells his parents, they protest heavily. They don’t think it's safe. They think he should reconsider. There were plenty of apartments and places to live somewhere else. And what about college? 

Danny doesn’t think he’ll go to college. He isn’t sure what he wants to do, now that being an astronaut is off the table. It’d be a waste of money to go without a goal in mind, he thinks. He says he’ll take a gap year and apply at one of the community colleges funded by the Wayne Corporation, possibly. It just wasn’t in the cards right now. 

“If things get tough,” He says at dinner that night, “then I can talk to the Waynes. I’m friends with the family, remember?” He ended up getting Bruce’s number in his phone again before he left, and in the process got Tim’s as well. They don’t talk much, Danny isn’t sure what to say. But he sends Tim memes whenever he comes across one and thinks he’ll like. Tim sends memes back in return.   

His parents do remember. They remember. They also remember the horrified shriek that echoed through the house when Danny learned of Jason’s passing. They remember running up the stairs and bursting into their son’s room and finding him sobbing into his bed, curled up like a little kid, like he was in pain. He lost his voice that day, stuck between screaming out his grief and sobbing it. 

They’re still not sure if they should let him go. 

In the end, Danny wins them out, and he lets them help him search for an apartment. They take a break from their lab work to help search for cheap furniture to buy. They may have more money than when they were in Gotham, but that frugal part of you never fully goes away. They all agree that they don’t want Danny to be seen carrying in nice-looking furniture when he moves in. 

He ends up with a basic furniture set, all mismatched, and in the warm summer of June, his parents rent out a u-haul and drive him down to Gotham to move in. They meet the landlord when they arrive, a skinny and frail old man with wispy white hair and a wrinkled face. He gives Danny the keys and tells him what apartment number he is, and then he leaves. 

His parents help him move in. They help him carry his heavy furniture up to the second floor, where his apartment is. Danny isn’t sure if he wants them to help. His mom and dad are strong, but they are getting old, closer to their fifties now that their children are grown. His dad’s hair is slowly beginning to thin, and rather than the white eating at the sides of his head, it now streaks through his hair like salt-and-pepper. His mom’s hair is graying out too, and there are more lines in their faces than he remembers there being. 

When he voices his concerns, his mom laughs spiritedly and says that they may be getting old, but they are still as spry as when they were in their twenties. Danny isn’t sure if he believes them or not. He can see his dad struggle a bit when they return to get his bed frame, and they have to take a break before they go back down for the rest of their things. 

Five years ago, his dad could do this without breaking a sweat. It forces a heavy thing in the back of Danny’s throat. (He is less afraid of his own death than he is of his loved ones, and while he has always felt rocky with his parents, he still loves them more than anything else.) 

Danny’s apartment is exactly as he would have expected it to be: shabby and worn through. The entire room smells like stale cigarette smoke and weed, nicotine stains the wall with poorly covered bullet holes, and stains in the carpet that are a color he can’t discern. The fridge has a broken light and when he tries to turn on the gas stove, it click-click-clicks before lighting, fire fwooshing out while the smell of gas fills the air. There’s rat droppings in the cupboards and the closet-like bathroom is just as bad. 

The ghostly part of him can sense the heavy stench of death in the room; people have died in this room. People have died in every room of this building, he thinks. They have died on the streets outside and in the alleys squeezed between them. He can feel it like a heavy fog in the air. 

It is painfully nostalgic, a bittersweet feeling in his chest that he grimaces to. 

When the last box is placed in his apartment, his parents offer to help unpack. They are hesitant to leave and Danny knows it, although he doesn’t know if it’s from empty nest syndrome or because it's Gotham. He thinks it might be both. He is their youngest child finally leaving home to a city known for its danger. 

“Are you sure you don’t want us to stay behind, sweetie?” His mother asks, a frown she tries to hide settled in the creases of her face. She fiddles with her hands, a nervous habit Danny has since noticed when she feels truly unsure and doesn’t need to hide it. Hesitancy looms over her like a heavy cloud. 

His dad jumps in hastily, splaying his hands and smiling painfully wide to hide the glistening in his eyes. “You’re mother’s right! We can help you get everything set up, champ. I could probably do something with that stove of yours to make it faster!” He says, his voice still booming like it always does even if there’s a stumble in his words. 

It makes his heart squeeze, knowing just how much they care. It was hard last summer, telling him that he was the Phantom. Terrifying, actually. They couldn’t comprehend it. He hadn’t felt his heart beat that fast in years when he stood in front of them at the kitchen table and told them he was a halfa, begging them to believe that ghosts weren’t inherently evil. 

His parents were people of science, however, and after much, much shock, they slowly came to terms with it. How could they not? The evidence was right in front of them. Their son was dead-alive, alive-dead. Somewhere stuck in the between. The tears they shed that night could fill a river, moving from the kitchen to the living room as Danny explains how he died. 

(When Danny tells them that he died after a week Jason did, his mom and dad look horrified. His mom covers her mouth when he adds that it was his idea to go inside it, his dad looks ashy pale, gripping his pant legs so tight that his knuckles turn white. There is a conclusion coming to their minds that he can tell they don’t like.) 

(“You’ve always hated our inventions, Danny.” Mom says in a hushed voice, and Danny winces at the wording, sinking into the back of the cushions in shame. He never thought that his parents noticed. Mom quickly grabs his arm, “No, no, there’s nothing to be ashamed of Danny. We were… perhaps too careless with our inventions, too enthusiastic. You had every right to hate the things we made when they had a tendency to… to malfunction.”) 

(Malfunction is a delicate way of putting it, when Danny remembers every time they had to evacuate their old apartment complex because whatever half-baked creation his parents made inevitably blew up into ash and smoke. There were soot marks permanently stained into the ceiling.) 

(Her hand slides down and grabs his, and she cups it in both of her hands, squeezing tightly. He forces himself to look up, and there is a look like her heart breaking when he looks into his mother’s eyes. “You’ve always avoided the lab after we moved, Danny. And you had every right to, so why on Earth did you ever think about going into the portal?”)

(Danny struggles to come up with an adequate answer, a way to verbalize what came over him that day five years ago. The answer is there, hanging in the air like a knot in a noose. He opens his mouth, and then closes it.)

(Finally, with a tongue made of lead, he shrugs lamely and looks away. “I didn’t know there was an on button inside it.” He mumbles, and despite being the truth it feels like a lie. But that is the truth. He didn’t know there was an on button inside it. So he didn’t care what happened.)

(Something dulls in mom’s eyes, like she thought of something else that Danny hadn’t said. Her eyes shimmer, and she squeezes them shut, breathing in so deep that it shakes. And then she pulls him into a hug, a hand burying into his hair and pressing him close. “It must have hurt so much, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”)

(It is something that Danny doesn’t expect her to say, like missing the last step of the stairs. It startles him so much he laughs this short, bark of a thing. He feels his dad press against his back and wrap his big arms around them, his nose pushed into his hair.) 

(Because yeah. Yeah, it did hurt. It hurt more than anything else he’s ever felt before. It had torn him apart and sewn him back together again, only to rinse and repeat. The pain was nothing he ever spoke to Sam or Tucker about, and it was something they never brought up. No, that’s not true. If they ever brought it up, Tucker would call it a zap. As if Danny only experienced a mild static shock. Like it was painless. It’s a pretty lie that Danny lets him and Sam believe.)

(His eyes sting and water immediately wobbles into his vision, coming up with such a force that he doesn’t even need to blink before it spills over. “Yeah.” He forces out, voice unexpectedly rough and cracking. “Yeah, it- it hurt. A lot.”)

He tells them about fighting the Lunch Lady a month later. He tells them about finding Jason. It comes spilling out like a waterfall. “I found him, mom.” He says, holding onto her tight while she keeps him tucked under his chin like a little kid. The secret of Jason being Robin stays hidden under his tongue, it is not his secret to tell. Not his identity to expose. He grips her tighter. “I found him, mom. Right there in the Ghost Zone, and he was my Jason. He wasn’t an echo or a— an imprint of him.”

Mom is silent; quiet and attentive, and so is dad, who rubs his large hands up and down Danny’s spine in an attempt to soothe him. It only works a little. Danny breathes in like a gasp as the urge to cry overcomes him again. He always avoids talking about Jason, his grief is like a never-healing scab that can be picked off at any time. It is ingrained into his core. 

“And then I lost him.” He forces out, a sob layering under his words that he chokes on and swallows. The hand on his back stills, and he can feel mom and dad breathe in like a question. He turns his head and pushes it into mom’s shoulder. “He disappeared, mom. Just— just gone.”

“And he didn’t move on.” He says, voice snarling like teeth biting before his mom can ask, because he knows that’s what she was going to ask. It’s what Sam and Tucker asked when he came to them in tears hours after he found Jason gone. It’s what Jazz said when he finally told her about it. It’s what every one of his ghosts asked when he told them about it and begged for their help. 

Danny grits his teeth and tries not to dig his nails into mom’s clothes as a fresh wave of tears run down his face. “His haunt is still there. If Jason really moved on it would have disappeared with him. That’s how it works. But it’s still in the zone, so Jason’s out there I just don’t know where.” 

(Sam once asks him why Danny didn’t just move on from it a year after Jason’s disappearance. She asked him why he didn’t give it up. Danny nearly saw red, and nearly bit her head off for it. It was incomprehensible to him to just stop looking for Jason, to give up. Not when he was out in the zone somewhere. Because he had to be in the zone.)

(Danny once tried to take Jason through the portal with him, and much like what happened to Kitty, it didn’t work. Jason was too tied to the ghost zone to leave.) 

(Some bonds are just unbreakable, he thinks. Bonds forged through blood and time and trust, and when you’re on the streets of Gotham, you hoard what little trust you have in someone like a dragon with its gold. It is scarcely given and fiercely kept.) 

“I’ve been looking for him.” Danny whispers when talking becomes too hard for him, when it runs the risk of him crying. “When- when I’m not fighting ghosts or, or in school or with my friends, I’ve been looking for him.” He has explored the Ghost Zone in every reach he can. He has met so many people. He’s met the ghosts of aliens from planets in every corner of the galaxy. He has met gods or god-like beings and their disciples. 

He’s met famous scholars and writers (he’s gotten the autographs of all of Jason’s favorite writers). He has found entire cities that have so much life in it that it's been permanently etched into the ghost zone, like a mirror version of itself. 

He’s visited the ghostly vision of Gotham so many times, and he avoids the imprint of Wayne Manor like the plague. There are ghostly newspapers that he reads. There are the ghosts of Martha and Thomas Wayne in many of them. 

Jason’s haunt connects to Wayne Manor, but it is also the street they grew up in. It is a small brick building with a door that leads to Jason’s room. A ghost knows when someone enters their haunt, it alerts them like a doorbell in the back of their mind. A foreign ecto-signature in a place drenched in your own. 

Danny visits it every time he goes into the Ghost Zone. It’s always his first stop. 

He tells his parents all of it. He tells them of the ghosts he’s met, of the places he’s seen. And when he feels brave, he tells them about Rath and the terror that his future self brings him. He keeps some details hidden, the ones that he can afford to keep without muddling up the story. 

(Rath is a tall, spindly thing, like a funhouse mirror version of Danny himself. He has arms that are much too long and legs that are much too tall, with skinny fingers that extend into claws.He wears his suit the same as Danny does, with it partially undone and the sleeves wrapped around his waist.)

(There is a black hole in his chest that is much bigger than Danny’s own. It takes up his chest cavity and drips the same, viscous black liquid as the tears falling from his eyes. Danny never forgets his voice; a scraping, quiet thing like he’s screamed himself hoarse. Rath has a voice like goosebumps, and it haunts Danny like a bump in the night.) 

Danny speaks and speaks and speaks until he can’t think of anything else to speak of. He is tired and sad, and it feels like his heart has been ripped out and rubbed raw again. And yet, he also feels so much better. Like a long heavy weight has been taken off his chest. 

Yeah, last summer was hard. His parents walked on eggshells around him, and they forced themselves to unlearn their bias of ghosts. It was more than Danny could have ever dreamed of, and when they felt ready for it, they asked him more about the ghost zone.

He smiles sadly at his dad, “I think fixing the stove can be a priority another time, dad.” He says, watching him wilt and his smile fall. Jack Fenton was always so good at making himself look like a kicked puppy. “I can handle unpacking by myself, I promise.” 

His parents still look so unsure, like they want to argue. Danny watches his mom purse her lips tightly, confliction running across her face like a datastream. She takes dad’s hand, squeezing their fingers together despite the droop in her shoulders. 

“Oh, alright then, I suppose.” She relents, her hand placing on Jack’s arm. “I guess we could go, we’re just going to miss you so much, Danny.” 

Tears seem to have won over his dad, and Jack Fenton sniffs back before he can cry properly. “Our little boy, all grown up.” He says, voice wobbling. It makes Danny laugh, and it makes his heart pang. His smile grows impossibly wider and so much fonder. “You’ve become such a kind, wonderful young man, Danno. We’re so proud of you.” 

Danny laughs again, and it cracks. “You’re gonna make me cry, dad.” (He feels a welling of guilt in his gut that he ignores — he doesn’t feel like a kind man. He doesn’t feel like a good one either. Not with what he plans to do.) 

His father holds out his arms in hopefulness, “One last hug for your old man before we head out?” He asks, mustering up a smile on his face. 

Danny barrels into him, nearly knocking his dad over with an oomph. He’s as tall as him now, but he still feels little in his bear hugs. With arms wrapping around his middle, Danny hugs his father tight and breathes him in one last time. 

“Careful there, Danno.” He laughs, patting Danny’s back roughly. “You’ll break my ribs with that ghostly strength of yours!” But he holds on just as tight.

Out of spite, Danny bends back and lifts him off his feet, laughing when Jack tenses up and nearly scrambles out of surprise. His mom laughs with him, stepping back to give them room for the few seconds that dad is in the air. 

When it’s his mom’s turn, Danny has to hunch to hug her. Something bittersweet to him as she plants a kiss on his forehead and says that he’ll always be her baby. “Even if you do have that horrid smoking habit.” She adds on with a disapproving eyebrow raise. 

Danny turns red in embarrassment, and walks them back to the GAV. Gothamites of all kinds slow to stop and boggle at the monstrous, road-illegal thing that is parallel-parked next to the curbside. In the past, Danny would have died with mortification to be seen with it. Now it just makes him laugh. Before he goes back into the apartment building, he buys a newspaper from a nearby convenience store.  

The first thing he does when he gets back up to his room is one: make a mental note to buy a bicycle chain lock for the door. The locks jiggle and there are splinters along the side that show signs of it being broken into in the past. The second thing he does is pull his cigarettes out of his pocket and light one. 

Danny starts to unpack with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, placing the newspaper he bought onto the counter. He has a cheap loveseat that he pushes off to the side, and he moves the boxes into the kitchen. It’s a matter of organization that Danny has to think about before he does anything. 

It’s as he’s pushing the sofa up against the wall facing the windows that his phone rings a familiar tune: Sam. The phone is fished out before he can think about it and when he stares down at the screen, he realizes it's a facetime call. 

He presses answer and walks over to prop his phone up onto the counter. The smiling faces of Sam and Tucker greet him, rather than just Sam. Immediately, Danny grins. “Hey Danny.” Sam greets, smiling a dark-painted lazy thing. From the background it looks like they’re in Tucker’s room. Sam is in Tucker’s desk chair, and Tucker is behind her, leaning against it. “Have you moved in yet?” 

Danny pulls the cigarette from his mouth and huffs, a cloud of smoke following his breath. “Yeah! It’s a shithole.” He grins lopsidedly, and his feet carry him off to the side to allow Sam and Tucker view of his apartment. He lets thirty seconds pass, allowing the both of them to really see the rest of the room. And then he steps back into frame. 

Sam and Tucker both look like they’re trying not to look judgemental, like they’re trying to hide a grimace that Danny sees anyway with the small turns at the corner of their mouths. He grins wider, mirth filling his lungs. “I know, it looks awful doesn’t it?”

“It’s— it’s not so bad.” Sam says with a strain in her voice, a forced smile on her face that tries to be reassuring. Tucker nods along readily, and he looks just as unsure as Sam does. Danny stifles laughter behind his teeth. 

“No, no, it looks bad,” He takes a drag of his cigarette, shaking his head. “You can say it, I won’t get offended. It’s a fucking apartment in crime alley. Of course it looks bad.” 

Sam remains silent, a rearing of her stubbornness showing itself. Tucker takes a different approach, and heaves a dramatic sigh of relief, slumping like a weight. “Okay, you’re right. It looks bad.” He frowns, “Sorry, man.” 

While Danny snorts, Sam sighs. “Yeah, it looks bad. What even are those stains?” She asks, and both she and Tucker lean closer in tandem to the screen, eyes squinting at the floor behind him. Danny glances at the floor, and shrugs. 

“Blood, probably.” He says, and while years in Amity Park have accustomed him to a clean environment, the desensitization of Gotham still remains. Tucker and Sam both make faces and lean away, as if the stain itself was capable of passing through to them. “Yeah, there are bullet holes in the walls.” 

“Are you sure it’s safe to be there?” Tucker asks, a furrow appearing between his brows. He adjusts his glasses and leans against the chair. Sam is frowning heavily, and Danny can already see her thinking up of a new way to fix the problem. 

“Oh, I never said this place was safe.” Danny tells him cheerily, taking a last hit of his cigarette before placing the dead stick onto the counter. He itches for another one. Instead he walks over to the shelf his parents brought in and starts moving it. “It’s Crime Alley, Tuck. Safe isn’t even in its vocabulary.” 

Tucker and Sam look like they’ve both swallowed a lemon.

“But it’s where I want to be right now.” He says, grunting quietly when the shelf is against the wall he wants it to be, near the short hallway leading to the front door. He can push it in front of it if someone tries to break in. “And Crime Alley’s apartments are the only ones I can really afford right now without mooching off my parents, and I’d rather not depend on them.” 

He can hear the disapproving hesitance from where he stands. And he ignores it. 

Danny walks back into frame, lifting up a box onto the counter. He hums lightly, fingers run over the tape keeping it shut. “Why do you even want to be in Gotham, Danny?” Sam asks, and she sounds genuinely perplexed. Danny stills. “I thought this place only had bad memories for you.” 

His blood turns cold, and like a dime being flipped his slow heartbeat fills his ears. “It does.” He replies automatically, before he can think. Shit, shit. He knows that Sam or Tucker would ask that question, and yet he still feels unprepared for it. His heart pulses quickly against his ribcage, knocking, asking him what he’s going to tell them that isn’t the truth. 

Danny stammers, “I mean— I just— I guess I felt nostalgic.” He says, and it sounds like a weak defense. He looks away, finding himself instinctively scratching his jaw. A new tick of his when he’s nervous. From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam and Tucker both narrow their eyes at him. 

He cannot tell them the real reason why he’s moved back to Gotham. He can’t tell them of the little secret and vow he told himself five years ago, the one that’s been left to fester and burn like an open wound close to his core. The one that, if he thinks too much about it, sends a searing hot electricity through him, filling him from crown to toe top-full of direst wrath.  

(Danny was always the angrier one in the duo of Jason and Danny. He was always the one with glass in his mouth, cutting his teeth and tongue so that he could spit blood at the world around them. His knuckles had more blood and bruises on it than skin, once upon a time. All because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He has grown from it, that fury has turned to a small simmering candle.) (But sometimes, sometimes it rears its head, and electricity will buzz under Danny’s skin. There is lightning before the thunder, the second before a fist pulled to punch lands, the spark before it becomes a blaze.) 

He stumbles over his words, and then sighs long and low, drooping his head. “I… was thinking that I can’t avoid this place forever.” He says, and the best lies always have the truth in it. Because it’s not a lie, not completely. But it’s not close enough to the truth either. “And that maybe if I came back, I’d be able to do something about those bad memories. Make them better or make it hurt less.” 

Like wool over their eyes, it fools Sam and Tucker. Their narrowed eyes soften, and Danny feels like a snake is in his lungs as they both adopt their own versions of gentleness on their faces. “Oh, Danny.” Sam breathes out, and the snake squeezes, “Of course, we understand.”

Tucker nods, smiling at him. “Yeah, bro, that’s really brave of you. I know it can’t be easy coming back.” He says, “Maybe you can reconnect with the Waynes again, you always thought well of Mister Wayne whenever you came back from visiting.”

Danny smiles weakly, the gesture cutting into his cheeks like a knife. Perhaps he could. He was still upset with Bruce for hiding Jason’s killer from him. But he doesn’t hate him. Maybe five years ago, he did, when the death of Jason was still fresh in his mind and freshly bleeding in his heart. Now he just doesn’t know what to think of him. He was Batman. Jason was Robin, and the Joker killed Robin. 

It would need to be something he’d have to speak to Bruce about in person, he thinks, in order to resolve it. To hear his judgment on it and make an opinion from there. Danny has learned in the last five years, much to Jazz’s smug delight, that talking to people about something he was upset about did make him feel better. 

The conversation slips on from there into something more light, more breathable. And while they talk, Danny unpacks. He sets up his bed in the corner of the room, adjacent to the windows, and unpacks his cheap TV and table stand. It’s directly across from the couch, in front of the windows. He puts up knicks and knacks he’s collected over the years on the shelves.

When he puts up the curtains, he notices that more than one frame jiggles loosely. Sam makes a comment on the musty stains permanently dyed into the glass, and Danny talks about getting something to fix the cracks. Gotham winters can get brutal, and even if he can withstand the cold, doesn’t mean everything else in his apartment can. 

“Oh, watch this.” He says halfway through unpacking, and pulls out a stick of thick white chalk from a box. “This is something I learned from Clockwork a while back; I think he knew I was going to move to Gotham.” He grins sillily, popping into the camera frame to show them. “I wonder how?” 

Sam rolls her eyes, smiling while Tucker huffs. “It’s not like he’s the Master of Time and can see all past, present, and future.” Tucker snarks. 

Danny hums lightly, curt like he isn’t sure he believes Tucker, and walks to a piece of bare wall not yet blocked by furniture. He starts to draw on it. The chalk shimmers with faint ectoplasm on the wall. 

“Uhh…” Tucker’s voice cuts through, “Are you sure you should be doing that? Won’t you get in trouble for that?”

“There are bullet holes in the plaster, Tucker.” Danny retorts dryly, arching his hand to make a big circle. “I don’t think the landlord is gonna care if I get washable chalk on his walls.” Inside the circle, he inscribes the symbols of the Infinite Realms. “I don’t think he’d be able to see it anyways, he was really old.” 

When he is done, Danny steps back to admire his work. It’s not bad, he thinks, for a lack of practice. He tosses the chalk off to the side, it lands on the couch and rolls back into the cushions. Ectoplasm heats under his hand, slowly glowing from his fingertips before stretching down the rest of his palm. 

Danny’s fingers press against the wall, into the center of the circle. The result is immediate, ectoplasm is siphoned off his hand and into the circle. It glows, and then swirls. He steps off to the side for Sam and Tucker to watch its transformation. The circle fills with a swirling pool of ectoplasm, like a smaller version of the basement portal, and then it warps and stretches. 

It fills out a rectangular shape, shifting like taffy being pulled this way and that, before settling into a solid shape. It solidifies, and instead of a wall there is a glowing purple door, warped in nature and seemingly shifting like a trick of the eyes. He can hear the gentle hum of the zone standing next to it, and can see the carving of the circle in the wood. 

He gestures dramatically, grinning from ear to ear. “Ta-da~” He sings, “A door to my haunt! For whenever I feel like visiting it.” He pats the wood, making a strange thunk-thunk sound. “And then watch this.” 

Danny touches the circle again, and the door twists and recedes like water going down a drain. The circle flashes bright green, and then fades into nothing on the wall, invisible to the naked eye. “I can hide it whenever I want! So if I ever invite someone over—” which he doubts, “—I won’t have to worry about them asking, ‘Hey Danny? Why is there a creepy fucking door in your studio apartment?’”

He gets a pair of laughs for his efforts, and Danny grins wider. 

Sam and Tucker have to end the call when Danny is nearly done unpacking, leaving him alone with only his thoughts and the Gotham ambience outside. There were only a few boxes left, and they promise to call him tomorrow. He tells them that they better keep that promise. 

The silence that follows after they leave feels somberly, as if the reality of moving in has finally set in and filled the air with its loneliness. With its change. Finally, Danny lets the strangeness of moving back to Gotham hit him when he reaches the last box, and he stops to take another smoke break to let it settle. 

It feels so strange to be back in Gotham, he thinks. He’s all grown up, or almost grown up. He can vote and pay taxes, but he doesn’t feel much older than he was at fourteen. There’s a disconnect that makes him feel sad. 

There are cars running outside, driving by. He can only catch glimpses of them, his apartment faces an alleyway. There are dogs barking in the distance, strays he bets. It’s already dark out, and he wonders if he looks out the window he would see the bat-signal shining through the night and staining the permanent cloud that hangs over Gotham. 

Bruce would be so disappointed if he learned the reason for Danny’s return to Gotham. But Danny’s not here for him. He’s here for someone far more important. And like that, the simmering anger that has tucked itself into the furthest corners of his heart starts slipping through. His heart has teeth, ready to strike and snarl and bite. 

He crushes the cigarette in his hand and throws it away. When he opens the last box, it is with hands that tremble and with a face of stone. With a delicateness he does not feel, he reaches in and pulls a corkboard from the box. On the corner frame is a small, near inconspicuous carving of another ghost rune. 

Danny hangs it up on an empty space on the wall, out of sight from the window. It’s plain, and he has nothing to pin to it. He presses the small rune on the corner, pushing ectoplasm into it. Unlike the door, it does not twist and warp and shape itself into something new. Instead it bursts into green flame, eating away at the board and revealing the same thing underneath it, just in dark blue-black-purple. 

Now this board, this board Danny has something to pin to it. The newspaper he bought earlier sits abandoned on the counter, and Danny unrolls it with something like viciousness in his chest. On the front page is an image of a damaged street, and above it is titled: “JOKER STRIKES AGAIN, 3 DEAD AND 27 INJURED”

Danny rips out the first page, he rips out every mention of him. His hands shake and threaten to crumple the paper as he turns back to the board, there is hot blood pounding in his ears. There is an impending sense of finally in his chest, like a setting sun giving the stage to a starless night. There is a stern set in his jaw, five years of festering rage rushing forth like a tidal wave, threatening to make his vision swim. 

It would be so easy, he thinks, to go out as Phantom right now and hunt the clown down. It would only take a night. All it would take is a night, and then he could sink his hands into the Joker’s chest and rip out his heart where he stood. It would be so easy. 

The thought alone forces Danny to stop as he is hit with another rush of fury, really making his head and vision swim. Thorny vines wrap around his throat, making it hard to breathe. He stares at a spot on the wall until the shaking passes. 

If he wants to be discreet about this, then he can’t do it now. Even if he wants to. He doesn’t want witnesses. He doesn’t want an audience. He made a mistake, telling Red Hood about his plan. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking at all. But he can only hope that the Hood hasn’t mentioned it to Bruce. He knows it hasn’t been long since they started working together. He hopes that the Hood has already forgotten about it. 

He pins the newspaper clippings onto the black-blue-board, and stands back. It’s bare now, but it won’t be forever. 

He presses the circle again, and the pinboard reverts back to its original blank state. 

-----

Was I expecting to make a third part?? No. No I was not. I was also not expecting to make an entire google doc filled with summaries for short story ideas about this au that all tie into each other so that way if i DO continue this i have a skeleton pathway to follow rather than making everything up from scratch and potentially cornering myself

you can find this on ao3 or on tumblr 1 2 :)

[sasanka-27]

It’s real

| Fandom: supernatural | Pairing: Dean/Castiel | Words: 7k+

| Type: oneshot | Rating: Teen and up | Author: Sasanka27

Summary: Morning of his birthday Dean wakes up alone doubting if he hadn’t dream the good parts of his life.

Link:

[s0fter-sin]

new poll time lads

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

wait tell me why i apparently jotted down a bunch of dialogue for the neighbors arguing over the correct way to say "caramel" late last night. i have no memory of this

[narftasticficrequests]

Ask Box is Open!!! (For Fic Requests!)

Hello Animaniacs/PaTB fanbase! Pinky here with to announce that the ask box for fic requests is open!! I am now taking Pinky and The Brain and Animaniacs writing ideas, whether it be Brinky, Yax, or shenanigans with the Warner Siblings. Fic genre also doesn't matter that much, let your ideas be angsty, sweet, romantic, depressing (just not too sad), or the sappiest tooth-rotting fluff known to mankind. Just stick with the previously set down rules/restrictions that I've laid down in my pinned post. I'm very excited to see what interesting ideas you guys can come up with! Just please follow the guidelines so we can enjoy this together! Thanks for all the support!! Peace!!

-Pinky (theonethatyaks93)

[rainofthetwilight]

alright so ive decided the first three chapters of as the years pass by are getting rewritten!!

updates with each will be slow, but ill try to somehow release them all at once to not confuse things since there are some things i need to add, plus i realized how i wasnt actually focusing on jenna and ethan properly so yeah a rewrite here we come lmao

[cerealmonster15]

i finally made a folder of my google docs re: twst fics/plannings and looking at the names are so fun bc a lot of them i didnt use the final fic name [if it got published] so sometimes it's just a placeholder [especially if it's just notes/ideas and not a fic] and some dont have a title at all and just auto used the first few words of the doc so i have like

i think only like 5ish of these have their ao3 titles on them / on two separate occasions i named an apple juice fic prompt doc the same thing except for literally just one has an extra ! and they were like 2 months apart......... i even checked bc i thought for some reason the doc duplicated themselves but no, those are just two completely different fics, they just both happened to be Apple Juice Kiss Prompts jvdjfdsljg i didnt do that w/any of the other kiss prompt docs but. whatever i guess!!

it's a fun guessing game on looking at the titles and trying to remember which ones they are. they date back to like 2021 when i moved from word docs to google so i could more easily share them with my friend since i wasnt really publishing anything at first lol.

[casinoquartet]

"So," Red says while leaning back in his seat, "How's makin' it to round two?"

"Ehhhh," Subz says as he fumbles into the room sparsely decorated with a "Losers' Bracket" sign, "I was put up against God. Not much I could do about it."

Red hums, "Seems about right. At least you weren't like Ash."

"I still won!" Ash yells out from the other room, despite trailing into the room the previous day, covered with blood after being mercilessly pummeled. At least Subz and Clown don't look as bad as the rest of them, even if both of them have seen better days.

Clown lets out a snort, "I mean, at least I beat out Tubbo the first round. I think that counts for something."

"You barely did," Red says as he recalls Clown barely surviving the previous night, "At least you didn't get swept first round...unlike me."

Subz lets out an amused snort before walking out the door again, "Yeah, sorry," He looks at a message on his communicator, "Uh. I gotta go, Joe invited me for tea. For 'Good Sportsmanship' or something like that. Cya."

All of them say goodbye as Subz shuts the door behind him.

Branzy huffs, "Man, why don't I get invited to anything like that?! I got freaking sacrificed for goodness sakes!"

"Listen, it was a little bit funny."

"Maybe to you, Red! But not for me!" Branzy says as he medical supplies for Ash, his campaign was the one with the most losses, after all.

Red lets out a snort, "At least your campaigners didn't lose too badly, unlike As-"

"I can still hear you!"

"You weren't supposed to hear that!" Red yells back.

It's hard to hear through the muffled wall, but they're pretty sure Ash said something about "kicking their asses if he wasn't recovering in bed."

Clown shakes his head, "On the bright side Branzy, your sacrifice helped me out in round 2!"

"Oh, shut up you two!" Branzy protests back, "I even lost in the redemption poll..."

"You and me both, Branzy," Red says.

Branzy takes a deep breath.

"You and me both."

[jargyles]

jeddie - the one where they don't break up

j&e have an epic summer of love and can't wait to finish highschool together (au where the byers don't move to cali. yet), but jonathan's insecurities get in the way of their outness. they don't break up about it. | ship: jonathan byers/eddie munson | bg characters: will byers (mentioned), wayne munson (mentioned) | words: ~3.4k | warnings: mentions of drinking, recreational drug use, references past alcoholism, internalized homophobia, period-typical attitudes around queerness, jonathan-typical relationship problems. lotsa angst

summer happened.

jonathan and eddie kissed for the first time, a whip of teeth and tongue that left jonathan hopped up on a new strand of endorphins and eddie- well, the same, but back then- newly obsessed with his club member's brother. jonathan hadn't anticipated them kissing more after that, chalking it up to some hazy frolic into dying grass, a firework that left a smell. he figured that would be the case especially when the fourth of july came and eddie kissed him again, and a handful of times between then and their first kiss, and another handful of times after that.

jonathan didn't think anything of it; having eddie around, getting high, going to shows and kissing in the dark, getting drunk, kissing after long walks home, all of it seemed like something that fit into eddie's idea of "a summer you'll never forget, byers". he didn't think anything about the way eddie looked, or spoke, or played guitar, or even held him in between moments they weren't doing anything. he didn't think about any of that, but… there was something. something that drove them to where they are now, something that made jonathan fully aware of what they meant to each other, even if it took a while.

it'd be the way eddie beamed at him every time they met, thin lips brandishing wide smiles and folding into the slight chub of his cheeks. it'd be the way jonathan didn't understand what it meant to feel empty when he didn't see him smiling. it'd be the way his hair would fall in stringy curls in front of his big brown eyes during a show, or after, or before, when they'd spent a good thirty minutes trying to wrestle a blunt they were sharing away from one another. the way his eyes would linger on the bend of eddie's knuckles underneath his silver rings. sometimes it'd be his scent, his laugh, even his touch- but really it'd be the lack of it all that drove jonathan to places he never thought he'd park at. especially with eddie munson.

neither one of them expected the other to say 'i love you', but they both did, and they were both shocked and didn't know what would come after that, but then they just kind of dealt with it. they would kiss, and get high, and go to shows, and hold each other, and spend days with jonathan's family and wayne, or the party, or the rest of eddie's band, and they would smile and say 'i love you' somewhere in between all that. they didn't even question it, and after about two months or so, they just accepted it. they were dating. boyfriends, even.

summer happened and the rest of their relationship became interwoven with trips to scoops and reading comic books in the woods and making out while listening to queen, a middle ground. the theatrics and vibrato were for eddie, and the music, the lyrics, and the familiarity of it all were for jonathan. lyrics became dates of the week, and theatrics became sweat-stained t-shirts under fizzling leds. they were trapped there for a while.

eddie had to repeat his senior year (again), and jonathan was starting his. both of these milestones, so to speak, took place after summer, and they hadn't thought about that.

jonathan was mostly excited for will; getting to drive to school together, showing him where his classes were, helping him with extracurriculars and homework, not even thinking for a second that his little brother would be attending the same school as his boyfriend. eddie didn't think about that either; he was stoked to have his byers and his mini byers with him, rambling on about how 'awesome' hellfire campaigns would be, how they'd drive him to the hideout- to which jonathan immediately shot that down- and how will's freshman year would be his favorite year because 'me and big byers are gonna make you never forget it, kid' and that's all the two of them cared about, really.

they didn't think about what would happen after they showed up at school together.

will decided that he'd rather walk with the rest of his friends to school that day, and have a proper meet-up-and-recap before they all settled into new classes and opportunities, so jonathan and eddie rode to school together. in eddie's van.

the thing they don't tell most people about having a boyfriend in hawkins is that most people in hawkins who have boyfriends are girls, and most boys who date have girlfriends, and so little couple-y things like showing up to school in the same van and fixing each other's jackets would earn strange and unsettling looks from fellow student passersby. things like that, when done without a girl present or involved in the straightening or light dusting of jackets, often got someone spat on or shoved into a toilet or trash can or locker of some kind, accompanied with a brand new word for "gay" written in permanent marker somewhere on your exposed skin for everyone to see.

they have the same first period, but they don't walk to class together.

they have the same last period too, but eddie can't wait that long.

during lunch, when jonathan is washing his hands before making the trek to the parking lot to eat alone in his car, a handful of boys enter and exit their respective stalls. most of them ignore him (thankfully) and the ones that don't just stare, and it could be due to his brother- the zombie- attending school with him now, it could be the way some people definitely saw him exit the same van as eddie munson, and it could be the way it's taking him so long to raise his hands above the sink to dry them off. all in all, they're still staring. there's a rolodex of reasons to stare at jonathan byers, and none of them are good, and all of them make sense, to a certain degree.

at least jonathan can wash his hands about it. he's getting better at moving his arms past his elbows, and he's grateful for being able to wash his hands under five minutes, even if his fingers still jitter or the water feels like- something he's bound to wash away again, maybe, if he isn't careful about eddie. about will. at least he can look forward to walking by eddie's table with the rest of the hellfire club as he makes his way into peaceful (albeit, regretful) solitude. maybe eddie will shoot him a wink mid speech, or smile at him and act like he's smiling at someone else during one of his elaborate public disruptions.

instead, jonathan hears a loud, swinging screech and flinches, his arms tensing up down to the laddering of his spine, and his first instinct is to reach for something but instead he just ducks his head down and mutters an apology, as if he was the one barging in on an innocent sink-dweller. instead of barking back at him, or spitting a venom-slick synonym for 'queer' and shoving him into the nearest stall, the interrupter pulls him in for a tight hug. it startles jonathan, until he realizes the only person to hug him by lifting him a foot above the ground is-

"can't fucking do this-" and eddie’s wrapping constrictor-tight arms around him one moment, then pushing the two of them into the nearest stall the next, and holding him by the face with both hands to kiss him right after that, "can't fucking do this, byers- i can't-"

"hey, listen-" jonathan melts, and couldn't think of a way to reciprocate eddie's intensity if he tried, becoming fully swept up in words stitched in between layers of kissing, "listen, eds-"

eddie stops, because he knows when to stop, when jonathan feels like it's becoming too much, too much acting and not enough savoring, or too much closeness when he needs air. jonathan expected eddie to ramble himself into a corner, or have a smile cutting its way across his mouth, something familiar to soothe his yearning. what jonathan doesn't expect is eddie looking back at him with eyes so wet, so red, that it looks like he'd been punched everywhere but south from the time he swung that door open to the first kiss he planted on jonathan's face.

"do you- do you know?" eddie's hand is on the spot next to jonathan's head. he's practically hunched over, his lips scrunched into a frown. "do you know how hard it is to act like i don't fuckin' miss you like crazy?"

"i know, hey, i know-" and jonathan is cradling eddie's head in his shoulder like he did during the summer, when they'd open up about things like this, that left them hoveling and wrecked for hours on end. he smooths over his stringy mass of hair, pushing it out of his face while eddie tried to replace the air in his lungs with whatever jonathan had going on at the top of his neck.

"i can't fucking do this." he snaps, his voice as wet as his eyes when he yanks himself from underneath jonathan's hold.

"i know." jonathan is prepared for the worst; he's ready to kiss eddie one last time in that stall and walk out with a wrinkled shirt that's bound to turn heads. he figures it's the end of summer and eddie has a breakable heart, and it must break his heart to not be around jonathan like how he used to, so jonathan figures it's time. he sighs, putting on a brave, stoic face while giving eddie a firm squeeze on his shoulder.

eddie isn't having any of it.

"i can't fucking live like this, byers." eddie says it- live- in a way that jonathan would've easily missed had he been focused on the mess of teeth and tongue sliding its way up and down his neck, dancing just above his collarbone.

it weighs on him, the idea of eddie not being able to live without him, or the idea of eddie not being able to live without being with him, whichever idea made the most sense. jonathan knows this is nonsensical, from every angle, because eddie doesn't mean that, and jonathan shouldn't just assume things out of people he dates for a month or two, or three, or… however long it's been since their first kiss. just because eddie kissed him back then the exact same way he's kissing him now- sporadic movements and bumps of teeth, both of their skin clammy and sundried at the same time- doesn't mean they should exist in a world where hawkins isn't hawkins. it's hard for him to imagine it, a world where he and eddie could step out of the same van or even hold hands in the halls, and if he tries hard enough he can convince himself that that isn't actually what he wanted from all this, no way, no how. it's hard to convince himself of that when eddie is taking his zipper down.

"eddie, wait-" he manages to cough out, having had every cognitive thought kissed right out of him, and his featherlight wrist tries to pick at eddie's heavily accessorized one. "really, wait. c'mon, eds- we gotta- gotta talk this out, okay? talk."

eddie exhales, long and heavy through his nose, with a pleased chuckle rumbling somewhere underneath all that. jonathan is relieved, even if eddie starts pressing quiet kisses up his neck again, at least jonathan knows he's listening.

"i missed you too." jonathan leans into it, resting his palm on eddie's cheek. he does miss him, even now, but he won't say it. eddie doesn't have to know that this is hard for him too, that he wants to be doing this- kissing, no judgemental eyes or poisonous words- out in the open, with all their peers, with everyone and anyone who could see.

eddie makes a noise, disgruntled, perished, wrecked inside, and he’s pressing the flesh of his cheek into jonathan's hand, nuzzling him with a ferocity that shouldn't be described as a "nuzzle". his arms come around jonathan's waist, tight, like he's protesting the bulldozing of the place that doesn't card for cigarettes, or trying to break him in half.

"i'm serious, eds," jonathan hears himself break, for a second, in a voice crack that borders on a wheeze, "i missed you. a lot."

"yeah, no, i- i know." eddie closes his leaking eyes tight, breathing him in again. "which is why i- i can't. i can't not be with you, or around you, or act like i don't even… like we don't even… know each other? does that make sense? i don't- i don't know what i'm saying here, jonny. something in there might make sense-"

"eddie." jonathan scoffs with endearment, then his heart sinks when he thinks about not getting to hear his boyfriend ramble anymore. "i know what you mean."

they pause, silence wrapping around them like a wool blanket. they're just limbs at this point; eddie's lips still wandering aimlessly on however much skin he could find on jonathan's neck, jonathan's head curled towards him, both of their arms folded around each other as they breathed, speaking in bumps of noses and sighs of gratitude.

"we just have to be careful, okay?" jonathan is the first to pull them back to reality, as unwilling as he was. "just for the year, yeah? so people don't think… y’know."

"god," eddie groans, his forehead thumping against the wall behind them, and he chuckles again, until it bleeds into a whine. "since when do we care about what people think? since when did we have to start acting like fucking…" both of them know what that silence means, and both of them knew how to not get caught over the summer, except for when they didn't, "ugh! this fucking sucks. this sucks, byers. why do we have to pretend that we're-"

"we won't be pretending," jonathan's face feels blank, and he tightens his fingers around eddie's bicep, "we'd still be together, just… we won't tell anyone. not because of what they'll say, but because it isn't their business."

there were a lot of things jonathan was scared of, and a lot of reasons to be scared of them. for a long time, he was scared of having to hurt someone he loved, and he was prepared for the inevitability of it happening, because ever since will first went missing, he knew he'd shut himself off more. what he wasn't prepared for, in the event of letting down a person he loved, was for that person to be eddie. he especially, never in his life, would've thought to prepare for the look on eddie's face after he said that.

eddie backs off completely, unashamed tears fully streaming down his face, his hands forgetting jonathan's zipper entirely, latching onto his shoulders like jonathan would go missing without them being wound together. he shrugs, and then his head is down and jonathan hears the starts to a lot of sentences that never get finished, or even have a first word to begin with. his hands tremble, his ring-clad fingers digging dent marks into jonathan's bare ones. he sniffles, hard, and it breaks jonathan's heart right down the middle.

he knows he should say something. he knows he should pull eddie closer, tell him he didn't mean it, that they'll just float through their senior year together and it'll be a breeze, or the best year of will's life, or whatever else eddie said, but he can't. he can't bring himself to do anything when he knows that lunch period will be over soon, and someone might see them leave this stall together and assume the worst- the truth- and make their lives a living hell. eddie doesn't deserve that. he should be able to graduate in one piece without jonathan dragging him down.

"i didn't know you were-" eddie is the first to speak, because jonathan is busy holding in his own tears at seeing him like this, "i didn't think you still cared about this stuff, y'know?" he squeezes jonathan's hands in his palms, "other people seeing us, whatever, all that shit. i didn't know it mattered so much to you."

"it doesn't." jonathan's lips crinkle into a frown. eddie didn't know what he was talking about.

"yeah?" eddie meets his eyes, and they're worse than jonathan could've imagined them being. his face is flushed, and his lips are red from having kissed jonathan so much, and his mouth twitches as it opens and closes, words dying off his tongue before he could form them. "because you really seem to give a shit about being seen with me, or even fucking knowing me, actually, so what gives? what changed with you, byers? what made you make up this- this fucking game plan on how we're supposed to act now, huh?"

"nothing." jonathan's voice is tight, and his fingers feel small and dry in eddie's hands.

"bullshit." eddie's grip is more firm, more secure, but still soft. his eyes scan jonathan's face, and his eyebrows have that arch in them that jonathan had only seen when he was learning a new song on guitar. he used to admire it, found it cute, but now it terrifies him. "what, are you, like… embarrassed of me? ashamed or- or something?"

"that's not-" jonathan feels a single tear fall, and he realizes he might've been holding in a breath this entire time. he knew how eddie worked; all it took was one missed idea, or misconstrued thought, and eddie would be in his dark hole of self pity once again, and they'd done so well with his progressing sobriety over the summer that jonathan doesn't want to see what'll happen when eddie gets down there again. “i’m not.”

"you don't like me anymore, then?" that crack in his voice- jonathan hates it- makes eddie sound like a rejected kid, and even he starts to shake his head at how ridiculous it might sound. "are we not, like, clicking like we used to? is it someone else?"

"eddie-" jonathan knows he's helpless to stop this spiral, and he starts his own series of unfinished sentences that come out as shortenings of breath and hollow grunts.

"did i do something?" eddie has his shoulders fully slumped now. "i know i'm not, like, the best boyfriend in the world or anything, but, you- you gotta tell me if i mess up, y’know? so we can-"

the bell rings. jonathan swore he wouldn't miss lunch, swore to himself he wouldn't make a scene on the first day back, for everyone's sake, and here they were. eddie is stood frozen in front of him, his body solid in it's hunched stance while his eyes bug out, racing around every corner of their shared space. when jonathan snaps his fingers in front of his face, eddie heaves, his posture loosening almost instantly.

"go." jonathan wishes he didn't sound so quick to get eddie to leave, but he has to get them apart before people see, and eddie still isn't getting the picture. he grabs him by the arm, and the way eddie won't even look at him is blunt enough to crack a bone. "you have go, eds, right now, or-"

"yeah." eddie snatches his arm away, sniffs hard as he wipes his face with one hand, and pushes the stall door open to properly storm out. "already ahead of you."

jonathan watches him leave, knowing (or at least assuming to know) that they'll talk later, and that they both need to get a grip before shit gets heavier than it needs to be. it'd have to be at his trailer after school, without will tagging along or, hopefully, without wayne to mistakenly wander in on their conversation. jonathan would have to think, long and hard, about what that talk would even mean for them. worst case scenario, they break up and hate each other for the rest of their lives.

jonathan can't think of another scenario.

[tendebill]

me: man, this chapter only has 1.7k words... i don't know if i wanna post a chapter this short... meh, whatever...

also me, 2 hours later, covered in sweat, bent in half over my keyboard, with cramped fingers and a 3.5k words long chapter: i should write chapter 14 like right now.

[imogenkol]

Pairing: Imogen Kol (oc) x Bix Caleen Word Count: 2,941 Rating: Mature (18+) Warnings: casual sex implied, jealousy, possessiveness Tags: Repressed feelings, angst Read it on Ao3!

Summary: A former Imperial Inquisitor struggles with the deepening feelings she has for a mechanic from Ferrix.

Imogen Kol sauntered into the salyard as if she owned it. The cold, misted breeze of Ferrix blew through the elegant wave of her light brunette hair. Scrappers paused to watch her pass by like they always did when she paid the planet a visit. Their fear rippled through the Force to prickle at her senses and she hid a smirk. Perhaps it was the look in her stormy gray eyes – the perpetual scowl that creased her brow. Or the way she carried herself. Nothing else about her stood out, she made sure of it. Her mechanical leg had been hidden by dark layers of clothing and knee high boots. No one had ever seen her touch the blaster at her hip, much less wield the blood-red saber hidden in her tattered cloak. Yet they all knew exactly how dangerous she was. Her pace turned casual just to bask in it a little longer.

Following the distinct sounds of crackling sparks, Imogen found the mechanic right where she expected her to be. Bix crouched beside a suspended engine, face hidden behind a welder’s mask as she tinkered with the massive piece of machinery. Imogen took the opportunity of distraction to silently wander around her workshop. She picked up random spare parts or inspected tools with varying disinterest, taking her time and sneaking glances at the other woman.

“Do you have my parts?” she finally asked.

“Do you have my credits?” Bix replied like she knew Imogen had been there the entire time. She didn’t even bother to look up.

Her smirk may not have been hidden this time, but luckily Bix was too busy to notice. Imogen enjoyed the snarky game they played with each other – the challenge the mechanic always presented her without the trepidation everyone else showed. “You know I do.”

Bix straightened and pulled her mask off. Her dark hair had been tied back in a couple of messy braids, though a few loose strands fell over her tanned features. An apathetic expression met Imogen, which only privately amused the bounty hunter even more. “Then follow me.”

Imogen did as she was told, trailing close behind as Bix led her out of the garage. “You kept me waiting.”

“Moving contraband takes time,” Bix said plainly, as it was a sentence she’s had to repeat several times in the past.

“This is a salvage yard,” Imogen grumbled. “How will they miss a few extra parts?”

Bix threw her an annoyed look. “You don’t want circuits and regulators, you want combat modules modified to be installed in a custom yacht. That kind of order can tip the wrong people off.”

“I also requested a new microvalve.”

“At my suggestion because yours is defective. It takes time to gather a bundle of Imperial-grade parts without getting caught or –”

“Alright, I get it,” Imogen snapped.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get what you pay for,” Bix assured her.

They arrived in a musty storage room where countless large containers overflowing with scrap were placed and stacked seemingly without any rhyme or reason, but Bix knew exactly which bin to approach. She flipped open the lid and nodded at its contents.

“Everything’s in there. Let me know if it’s to your liking.”

Imogen stepped forward to inspect the parts she intended to purchase. Bix hadn’t been lying, she’d get exactly what she paid for. Imperial tech was top of the line and the brand new shiny parts reflected the pompous arrogance of the Empire. If they wouldn’t settle for less than pristine equipment, then why should Imogen? Especially since they’d been pestering her more often. She would make that their problem now.

The sound of an intruder caused Imogen’s head to snap in the direction of the whooshing door. A man with close cropped light brown hair and stubble entered the room, his longing gaze immediately locked on Bix. “Oh, there you are.”

Bix didn’t look half as irritated at the interruption as Imogen. “What do you need, Timm?” she asked. “I’m doing business.”

Timm eyed Imogen, but shrugged off her glare. Fool. “A few of us are gathering at Cavo’s later to watch the pod races. I was wondering if you wanted to join. There’s bets going around.”

Bix nodded. “Sure.”

“Fantastic. See you then,” Timm said with a much too fond grin for Imogen’s liking before leaving the two women.

“He likes you,” Imogen stated flatly.

“I know.”

She studied the mechanic’s face at the sound of her lightened tone. Bix’s features softened every so slightly in the direction of the door. Disgust boiled in Imogen’s chest as her upper lip twitched. “Do you like him?”

Bix’s rich brown eyes met Imogen’s. She studied her sharp features, the scowl creasing her brow, and eventually flicked her gaze down to her lips. The mechanic’s mouth flashed the briefest smirk – so quick and subtle that Imogen would have missed it if she blinked. “I thought Jedi weren’t supposed to have attachments.”

Every muscle in Imogen’s body suddenly coiled with rage. “Careful,” she whispered dangerously.

Bix took that as a challenge and invaded Imogen’s space. “There’s no such thing with you.”

“I haven’t been a Jedi for fifteen years.”

“You still have that lightsaber on your belt.” Bix reached a hand out towards her waist.

Imogen snatched her wrist hard. “It is not a Jedi weapon.”

Bix stared into the steel cold eyes of a ruthless hunter, yet she didn’t so much as flinch. “No, you used it to kill Jedi. But you’re not an Inquisitor anymore either. So, why keep it?”

If she still had any claim to that occupation, this line of questioning would have caused Imogen to cut the mechanic down without a second thought. However, just like the constantly shifting circumstances in the galaxy, Imogen changed as well. She utilized unpredictability to not only survive as long as she has, but to thrive. No matter how bold Bix became, Imogen realized she preferred her alive.

“Your credits are on my ship.” Imogen’s tone became calm and measured as she released Bix from her grasp. “I’ll pay you extra if you help me install the parts.”

“Don’t bother.” Bix glanced down at Imogen’s mouth again. “I’ll do it for free.”

“Free? ” she asked incredulously.

“What, you think I’d let you do it? After your botched job last time? The Huntress is as much mine as it is yours for all the work I’ve put into it. It kills me to see what you do to her while you're away.”

The implication that any of Imogen’s efforts were less than perfect stirred her anger once more. “If you dropped everything and ran to the other side of the galaxy, I’d be able to find you in less than a week.”

“Exactly,” Bix remarked and turned her back on the former Inquisitor. She shot a beckoning look over her shoulder, utterly unbothered by the simmering expression that pierced through her. Imogen followed again. “You’re good at hunting. I’m good at fixing ships. Let’s not get our roles mixed up.”

When she started in the Bounty Hunters’ Guild, Imogen rolled with a gunship just slightly above scrap. The guns jammed. The hull creaked. The tracking modules were inaccurate. She traded it in for scrap the first chance she got. One of her higher end bounties owned a space yacht – modest than most and perfectly unassuming. It took a few years, but with Bix’s help, she managed to customize it to hold bounties, cargo, and both defensive and offensive capabilities.

Colored a silver chrome with red accents and nothing but sleek angles and graceful wings, the ship had been dubbed The Crimson Huntress.

Whenever Bix did work on the ship, she refused to let Imogen do much other than pass her tools. Relinquishing control of her property provoked Imogen’s ire more than anything else, but the mechanic had a way of disarming her. Perhaps it had something to do with the view Imogen got to sit back and appreciate. Watching the deft confidence of Bix’s hands as they switched wires and attached screws admittedly fascinated Imogen. That and the loose strands of hair that Bix gave up on brushing back a while ago. They caressed her cheekbones and just barely brushed the corner of her mouth.

“You know I don’t like it when you watch me work,” Bix complained without looking up. “It’s distracting.”

“You should be grateful. I can be a lot more distracting than this,” Imogen quipped. She reached out from several feet away and flicked her fingers. An invisible force plucked a soldering tool out of Bix’s hand.

Her eyes rolled with her head as she snatched it out of the air. “Do you want me to get this done or not?”

“I’m in no rush,” Imogen answered nonchalantly. “But you do have a very important pod race to get to, don’t you?”

The condescending remark caused Bix to toss her tools down on the floor of the ship with a few metal clangs. A devious smile came across Imogen’s face as she watched the mechanic advance towards her. Their lips crashed into each other in a sudden and fervent cadence. Like always, it sent Imogen’s mind spinning and awakened a craving that utterly consumed her. A craving she felt the first moment she laid eyes on Bix. It tugged at her impulses and desires in a similar way to the Dark Side – only, surrendering herself to the temptation of this woman didn’t turn Imogen into anything other than herself.

Bix abruptly pulled back to hiss “This is the last time, you hear me?”

“I’ve heard you every time you’ve said it,” Imogen mused. Her hand came up to caress Bix’s cheek, her thumb charting a course from one lonely freckle to another. Then her fingers slowly dragged down to the woman’s neck where her hand wrapped around her throat. Imogen gave her a gentle squeeze. “But that one sounded like an order.”

“I’m serious this time,” Bix told her with uneven breath as she reached for Imogen’s belt.

Imogen hummed and pushed her against the wall she had been working on. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you go to Timm after we’re done.”

The weapons belt clattered on the floor next to the discarded tools. “He’s sweet.”

“How boring,” Imogen murmured and turned Bix’s head to expose her neck.

If Imogen had to give up her mechanic to a man, then she’d be sure to leave her mark. With a persistent, possessive hunger, she parted her lips and planted them on the spot where Bix’s pulse drummed the hardest. Imogen pressed herself into her and raked her teeth across the sensitive skin, relishing the quiet whimper that graced her ears. Bix had her own methods, plunging an assertive hand down the front of Imogen’s pants. The two of them writhed in tandem with each other, their shared noises of pleasure filling the cabin of the ship.

Some time later, they found themselves sharing space on the ship’s comfortable cot, totally spent. Imogen silently admired the marks she left on Bix’s tanned skin. The most noticeable formed just above the base of her graceful neck. Imogen never considered herself affectionate, but she couldn’t stop from reaching out to brush the back of her fingers down the slope of Bix’s neck and across her shoulder. It felt odd to indulge in such a candid touch, but Bix released a hum of satisfaction that filled Imogen’s chest with a slightly warm sensation.

But Bix’s gaze seemed determined not to meet Imogen’s. “You didn’t answer me.”

“About what?” Imogen asked.

“The lightsaber.”

Imogen’s eyes drifted to where it sat on the floor still attached to her utility belt. Its sleek handle caught the light, beckoning its wielder to put it to grim use. “It’s an effective weapon.”

“It’s a beacon,” Bix corrected. “For someone who likes to hide, you sure do make a name for yourself.”

“It’s a delicate balance.” Just like everything else, Imogen thought. Light. Dark. Shadows. Exposed. Wrathful. Merciful. Whatever suited her needs. Whatever she felt like, really.

Off in the distance, a bell rang to signal the end of the work day. Bix finally stirred out of the cot to retrieve her few stray articles of clothing. “I need to finish up here.”

“Or I could get a room at the hotel,” Imogen suggested as she propped her head up on her hand. A huge part of her believed Bix when she said this would be the last time. It dawned on Imogen as she watched the mechanic prepare to leave her that she actually hated the concept. And she wasn’t one to surrender anything easily. “I’ll go to Cavo’s with you. I may have credits I could burn on bets, not that I’d lose.”

Bix scoffed humorlessly and shook her head, still refusing to look at the other woman.

Imogen’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“If you wanted me to be yours, you should have asked a long time ago, Imogen.”

Here she thought only force users could sense intentions. Imogen scowled deeply and got to her feet, her movements measured. “What are you talking about?”

“Someone showed interest in me and you now can’t stand it,” Bix accused as she shrugged her vest on. “For the first time, you’re jealous. Instead of admitting to it, you want to act like you own me.”

“So what? You’ve never had a problem with that before.” Imogen grabbed her belt from the floor and strapped it back into place on her hips. Having the saber where it should be fortified her confidence. “I have never forced you into anything.”

“No. You haven’t. I’m admitting that.” Bix closed the distance between them, finally piercing the bounty hunter with an intense stare. Imogen went as still as the statues she used to pass by in the Jedi Temple as a child. “You know what I see? I see someone tripping over the roots of their past while trying to run from them.”

The ship rumbled with Imogen’s fast rising fury, but her voice was eerily calm. “You do not know me.”

Yet again, Bix stood unfazed when faced with one of the most dangerous individuals in the galaxy. “I know you better than anyone alive, I bet. You want more than this? Take it. And be honest about it.”

Imogen got the impression Bix wasn’t only referring to herself. Jedi. Inquisitor. Bounty Hunter. No matter how many titles she claimed, Imogen still felt a void within her. In fact, the emptiness seemed to grow more vast in her chest over the years. As a child, fear governed the void, and it was fear that allowed others to control her. Once fear got too tedious, Imogen replaced it with rage and learned that the more she stoked the fire of fury, the more she could control fear – not just her own. But the void remained. Always remained.

Did she want more? Yes.

She studied the mechanic from Ferrix. Bix’s eyes were as rich and warm as darkly brewed caf. Her smooth-skinned features decorated with a sporadic sprinkling of a few beauty marks. Full lips pursed in the stubborn glare Imogen had grown so familiar with. Something akin to pain pinched Imogen’s gut as she realized she couldn’t recall what her genuine smile looked like.

Yes. Imogen wanted her, too.

With the most gentle touch she was capable of giving anyone or anything – more gentle than even she thought she could be, Imogen reached up and rested her hand against Bix’s cheek. Miraculously, the glare gave way to parted lips, and a delicate breath graced Imogen’s skin. She finally allowed herself to feel the warmth seeping into her palm. That warmth traveled up her arm and into her chest. For a single heartbeat, it felt like the void shrunk the smallest amount.

“You don’t want this,” Imogen whispered softly.

“You’re wrong,” Bix replied, her hand carefully wrapping around Imogen’s wrist like she feared the other woman might disappear.

Imogen loved to take. Whether it was money, ships, bounties, or lives. Taking was second nature to her by now. The Jedi forced her to give everything she had up until the moment she plunged her blade into her own master. She never thought to give willingly. She didn’t know if she had it in her. Bix had a puzzling emotion in her expression that took a few moments for Imogen to decipher, but she soon saw the vulnerability on display for her. That is what giving is – surrender. Weakness. These were utterly foreign notions to Imogen.

Maybe she could try for the sake of her desire. Maybe that would finally reduce the emptiness.

She tilted Bix’s head down enough to place a chaste kiss to her forehead. Imogen held them there to soak in the sensations of such a strange form of affection. She found she liked everything from Bix’s scent to the heat against her lips.

The void hadn’t grown smaller, she noticed. It was filling up.

Imogen took a deep breath and pulled back to rest their foreheads together. “Finish up your work here… and then you will never have to see me again.”

“Imogen,” Bix gasped. The hurt in her voice cut through the former Jedi more than expected.

She needed this very moment to understand it. Imogen couldn’t bring herself to give any more than she could bring herself to take from the mechanic. But she had it in her to be willingly selfless for the very first time in her life. Just this once. Imogen broke all contact with Bix and stepped away. “You’ll thank me later.”

[jonathanbiers]

the guilt of deciding to abandon a wip you really liked because it's just. going to be a Lot. and you don't have the mental bandwidth for it

[didsomeonesayventus]

also hewwo i’ve vaguely returned to fic writing thanks to engage and as part of getting better at promoting my work uuhhh here (throws breadcrumbs in one convenient post) 

All the following center around M!Alear/Alcryst (alearyst? alcrear? Alal? the utterly unhinged suggestion of alal-) because oops My Favorite Dynamic, generally written as standalone

Rutilated- 3.7k, taking place between chapters 14-15, slight focus on events in chapters 10-11. Insomnia from stress turned awkward flirting turned emotional comforting.

Intergrowth- A series of 6 drabbles totaling 2.5k that take place from chapter 7 through post-game in sporadic leaps. Covers a broad spectrum of crushing angst to fluff, arranged chronologically kind of like an outline of the relationship on the side of the main plot, built around the idea of moments where they held hands

Thanatophobia- 1.3k, post-game. Alear has a nightmare because (kiragi vc) war is heck! especially when you’re dragon jesus and go through protagonist bullshit that people somehow expect you to be just Okay With.

so yeah oops finally found fic topics to latch on to and remembered I might dare have a writing following/finding people who want to read over this way so if u find this post rad or interesting please have at it and enjoy!

[devotedlystrangewizard]

oh no i have been caught by the imagining-my-ocs-in-a-visual-novel disease

[the-nsr-family]

mmmmm maybe I will come back for real this time.

I lowkey want to like. write a fanfic. issue is I’m already running one for SU and I’d never forgive myself if I abandoned my readers in the middle of such an intense moment.

[asummersday]

i'm actually so funny