#better start running Constantine

[mutalieju]

Rake at the gates of Hell

A Rainy Night at Soho

[nightingale-prompts]

Danny lives in a horror movie-DC x DP prompt

Based on my favorite book series "tales from the gas station"

It's not every day that a mission requires the league to travel to middle America in a bid to obtain a highly cursed artifact but it certainly is today.

Locating the Seal of Silent Ashes was a task usually given to Justice League Dark but Constantine was currently busy. So that meant it was left to the poster boys to get this done. They dressed in civilian attire to investigate the last location of the seal starting with the first building on the edge of town. A small dusty gas station near the woods.

The inside had an awful smell, like death and cleaning fluid. The lights gave off a greenish-blue tint. Rats could be seen out of the corner of your eyes. Most of the chips were offbrand and crappy.

Behind the counter was the teenage boy chewing gum. He looked up at the group before going back to reading his book. He had clearly seen better days but didn't show signs of caring about the state of his hair or bags under his eyes. He drank his coffee.

The air felt off.

"Hey kiddo, do you mind giving us directions?" Clark started.

The kid narrowed his eyes as he popped his gum.

"You're not from here. That or you're from that cult in the woods. Listen I'm not joining. Seriously, cosmic nihilism and fatalism sounds doomed. Hey wait-" the teen checked his notes " No, the cult killed themselves in that mass suicide 2 weeks ago. I forgot, sorry."

The teen didn't say anything else as he went back to his book.

The horrified look of the adults shared was almost hilarious. At least to the teen if he looked up.

"Oh, and stay out of the woods. I don't want the police to come back and ask about who saw you last. Seriously if whatever is in there tears you apart I won't feel bad. I put those signs out forever ago and if I get one more girl covered in blood running in here screaming about her dead friends I'll get a headache." The teen shrugged turning the page.

"What do you mean?! Why would-?! Who's killing people?!" Barry asked frantically as Bruce serched for more reports of missing people in the area.

"I don't know. Why would I know? If you want to go in the cursed forest go ahead. I mean that's how they all die. It isn't my job to stop you. My job is to sit here and watch this store." The teen huffed in annoyance.

Before anymore questions were asked the signal of the radio was disrupted and a demonic howl screeched through the radio.

"God damnit. That cunt is back. Stay here." The teen growled as he grabbed his bat from under the counter and walked out the back door. "String bean! Get off the fucking roof you bastard! You know that radio is all I have here!"

A chattering laugh like a death rattle was heard and the sound of 2 sets of feet was heard on the roof then they lept down.

"Come here so I can beat you to death!" The teen ran around the building towards the front of the gas station chasing-what the fuck is that!

It was like a human that was twisted to crabwalk on all fours backwards. Its face was contorted into a black stretched-out smile with no teeth. It had no eyes just black sockets. All its limbs were stretched out to an extra meter in length. It was a skinwalker of some kind with chalk-white skin. It was skittering away from the teen who was swinging his bat at its head.

"Stop running! I told you before what would happen if I found you fucking with me again!" The boy meant it as he finally landed a hit and began wacking it over and over it.

The skin walker screeched and tried to run for its life but couldn't.

After reducing the monster into a black puddle the black-stained teen came back inside to sit back down not paying anymore to the monster blood he was covered in.

"Sorry about that. Most of the freaks around here have learned to stay away from this place. That one is new and he doesn't listen. You'd think they'd learn but Sting Bean thinks he can torment me. Petty bastard." The teen sighed "anyways are going to buy anything or are you going to waste what oxygen we get in here with this shitty ventilation.

Diana couldn't help but admire the boldness of the boy. He had no hesitation or fear against the beasts of this area even if was crude.

"Does Constantine have a cousin or something? Just a more angry one" Barry whispered to Hal.

[colossrat]

Batman: Captain, you're hurt. Is there someone you want to get in touch with?

Well… Vic (cyborg) is already there, Barry and Diana too… who else is he friends with?

Constantine? Yes, but John doesn't like the league and will give him a hell of a lecture for getting hurt…

Harley? poison ivy? Batman wouldn't like to know they were friends. two-faces? oh- absolutely not.

Captain cold? No. Snart knows Billy, not Cap. And Batman wouldn't like that either. Maybe Barry would like…?

Freddy and Mary are probably sleeping right now…

Marvel: Can you… can you call the Fawcett zoo, sir? I have a friend who works there… I'd really like to see him right now. and say that I'm fine.

Bat makes the call, Billy asks for the phone and they chat for a while

Marvel on the phone: Oh, no, no… I'm high right now- Noo! its cus im right above the sky-- I'm fine, just space... But I think I'm also high on morphine yea, some opioids yes… no? Oh, I would love to! Yes. Uhm. The one next to… yes-- I know- i know you know, and you know, I know you know! Stop fishing. Yes, waits waits, buh-bye!! I'll see you soon. mwaaah and he gives the phone back to batman Marvel: Hey? Boss? My friend is coming to bring me some tea that I like, kay? to make me feel better. Don't be rude to him, he's called mister tawky tawny. Just stay cool, okay? Be cool…

And he drops his head on the pillow and falls asleep, snoring loudly

Nobody understands a thing and from what Batman researches, Tawky Tawny is a tiger from the zoo, and they think the captain was just delirious on morphine But not five minutes later, a bipedal tiger in a suit arrives at the watchtower via the Zeta Tubs using the captain's credentials. he carries a little madam's bag that is carrying a tea kit and some biscuits

Tawny presents himself as the gentleman he is with an education that would make Alfred blush, but he doesn't allow anyone to slow him down. He goes straight to the room where the captain is, because he can smell him maybe? The league doesn’t know for sure.

There, he takes a small table and a portable OVEN from Madame's tiny ass little bag and begins to make tea. to. make. tea. The second Tawny opens the cookie jar, Marvel wakes up to the sound and smell and starts crying with joy at seeing his best friend and familiar

he introduces him to the whole league while drinking tea and stuffing his mouth with cookies, fat tears streaming down his face and tawny just enjoys his friend's company and takes care of him, but he doesn't avoid giving a dirty look to anyone who decides to judge their friendship

Tawny, pretending to be hurt: I'm surprised by your surprise. Don't you talk about me, cap?

Marvel, afraid that he hurt the tiger's feelings: I do!!! I talk about u all the time, all the time!!! they know you are my best friend!!!

Superman: it's true! he speaks a lot and very highly of you, we just--

Barry: we thought you were crazy, bro! Tim was hacking the watchtower cameras at that time by coincidence, so in a matter of minutes Damian would be running there to see the bipedal tiger and ask to pet him and tell him everything he knows about tigers

[der-schweizer]

There's my portal

As i said on @bet-on-me-13 'Where is my portal' post, here is my short about their idea. please enjoy.

Danny sipped his coffee, slowly shuffling towards his lab. It had been a long time since he had a ‘run on two coffees and some ecto’ weekend but here he was, Monday morning, on his way to work.

He really wanted to be in bed but he had bills to pay.

Quietly he shuffled into his lab, which he found oddly drafty and oddly bright, considering he hadn’t turned on the lights yet. After flicking them on he moved on towards his desk, passing a big gaping hole in the wall and—

Danny paused, shuffled backwards a bit and then looked at the place where his portal used to be. For a long moment he just looked, then did a slow blink and took another sip of coffee.

After making sure that his portal, including parts of the wall, were really gone, he let out a sigh and held his face. “Who the fuck stole my door?”

With a sigh he pushed his bangs out of his face and walked to his PC, to check the security footage of his Cameras. For once it wasn’t Vlad who stole his shit, Vlad at least had the courtesy to leave a note that he ‘borrowed’ something. It was safe to say that he was surprised to find the footage gone. There weren't many people that could hack through Tucker's programing.

Danny sat there, looking at the black screen of his PC for a long moment before thinking aloud. “Okay, we have one or more people who can; One, break through Tuckers firewalls. Two, physically move a portal weighing around ten tons and, Three, knows their way around Arcane Runes so as to not cause a mass ghost invasion.”

He thought about it for a minute before throwing his hands up. “Fuck this, I’m just going to use the other side to find it.” He got out of his chair before transforming. 

Danny focused his power into one of his fingers before poking the air in front of him, the tip of it pierced the fabric of space which he then used to rip it open. He quickly flew through the tear before it sealed again. Despite Wulf teaching him how to do it he still sucked at it, which was the main reason he built his portal.

Once in the Zone he looked around for it. He found it after over two hours of searching, which only served to piss him off to the point where he began muttering curses under his breath.

Standing in front of it, he gave it a quick inspection. After inspecting the Runes, Danny had to admit that, whoever had stolen it, knew his way around them. They pretty much locked out anyone not authorized and or approved by the Caster. Too bad for them, Danny had the ‘Masterkey’ and went through anyway.

John Constantine was holding his face, quietly counting to ten. Neither smoking nor drinking would help in this situation. After reaching fifty he ran his hands over his head, looking at the assembled brigade of idiots in front of him.

“Okay, let me get this straight.” He started, “You,” he pointed at Batman, “found an ‘unknown energy signature’ and went to investigate. Then you found a high security lab with had an active portal to ‘who knows where’ and your first decision was to fucking steal it?!?!”

Superman moved forward, opening his mouth to counter but Constantine didn't let him. “AND you moron helped him steal it, not to mention you!” he pointed at flash, “Help install it here, in the watchtower, without telling anyone from JLD about it?”

Flash looked a bit sheepish at him. “Well, in my defense I didn’t know it was stolen.”

Constantine wanted to bash his head against the next closest bulkhead, maybe that would help.

“Okay, okay.” Constantine facepalmed, trying to stop the aneurysm from building up more.

A deep chill suddenly filled the air and sent goosebumps all over his back, “Oh this is just getting better and better.” Constantine reached into his pocket for a warding charm, before turning around and swearing. He stopped swearing when he saw who had come through. “Oh, hey Phantom.”

“Constantine, why the fuck did you steal my portal?” Danny wasn’t even pissed anymore. He knew the English drunktard too well to blame him. Granted he was obnoxious, didn’t pay back his debt and came whenever it suited him, but Danny liked the man. He didn’t exasperate problems and always did what was necessary.

“Look, I didn’t.” He then threw a thumb over his shoulder, “Those morons did.”

“Constantine, do you know this entity?” Batman already looked on high alert.

“Excuse you! I have a name. And that is my Portal. Explain why it isn't where it is supposed to be.”

“The sensors of the Watchtower found an unknown energy signature, upon investigation we found an unsecured pathway to a different dimension, so we secured it.”

Danny stared at Batman for a solid minute, then simply said, “Oh I'm going to sue your ass so hard your grandkids will feel it.”

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt 4 of forever teen Danny adopted JJ Tim and Red Hood Jason. Sorry if you're a Batman or Nightwing fan, I'm not nice to them in this one.

[Pt3: Here][pt5: here]

The last 4 years have been a riot. Danny has 2 wonderful and slightly unhinged boys that he stole from the Bats. They've gotten in so many shenanigans, between normal vigilante shit, the Bats and/or ghost/supernatural hunters trying to bag them, and them just fucking around.

It's the most fun he's had in a while. They're good kids, but they, of course, have started branching out. They're 19 (Jason) and 17(Tim) now and don't necessarily want their dad following them around. So Danny gave them his personal summons just in case and made them promise to stay close together, the two of them are good at covering for the other's weaknesses. Like how Tim only being Liminal, he can take more hits from the ghost hunters that will clock Jason as a Revenant or Jason's supernatural strength taking out the bigger assholes that target Tim for his small size or Joker mannerisms.

So he tries not to worry, simply going to work and trusting them to either deal with any trouble themselves or summon him. And for 3 months they don't need to summon him once. But at the end of month 3, he feels it.

"Hey, Eddy! I got to go! My kids are in trouble!" Danny calls to his boss, already moving to somewhere there's less witnesses to see him poof.

"Okay! See ya! ...Wait, you have kids?" Danny doesn't answer, letting the summons take ahold and pull him through the fabric of reality.

A fun side effect of being summoned is that he always ends up in his High King form. The form is humanoid in the vaguest of sense. It's also just stars and the void of space. His eyes are giant stars and his mouth is too wide and full of rows and rows of needle-like teeth. A crown of ice smokes like dry ice on his head and the ring of rage is simple stripe of neon green on his right hand's middle finger (he thought it'd be funny to flip people off with it). All in all, he's terrifying for mortals to see unprepared.

And the cussing around him tells the people hassling his sons are NOT prepared.

"HOW THE FUCK DID YOU SUMMON THE GHOST KING???" A very distraught British man shrieks. Danny would feel bad, but this idiot is standing near the Bat and Nightwing AND Danny's sons are tied up in front of them.

"DAaaaAD!" Tim whines, flopping over to look at him. "They're trying to excorise Hoodie!"

"Are they now?" Danny hisses. His voice sounds like glaciers crashing together.

"Bats! What the fuck??? You didn't tell me THAT WAS THEIR DAD!" British man sounds on the brink of a mental breakdown.

"We've never seen this entity." Batman frowns.

"Yeah! They've been calling a ghost kid dad this whole time!" Nightwing defends. "How were we supposed to know they could summon this guy??"

"What...what did you say the "kid"'s name was?" British dude asks faintly.

"We didn't." Batman says.

"Weeell, Johnny-boy!" Jason sounds like he has a shit eating grin. "What they didn't tell you is our sweet ol' adoptive father is called Phantom~!"

"Oh goodie! We're so dead..." "Johnny" says and starts chugging his flask of probably alcohol. It suddenly clicks that this is the fabled John Constantine.

"You should know better than to take a job half-assed, John Constantine." Danny grins with teeth.

"Oh good, he knows my name.." Constantine mumbles to himself.

"Give me one good reason to not kill you all for trying to kill my son and kidnap the other." Danny waves a hand and slices his sons' bindings. "I have only been so patient with you bats because my sons are fond of you, but my patience is running out."

"Tim belongs with us! He needs help and healing!" Nightwing proclaims.

"I talk to a licensed therapist twice a week and take my meds every day! Try again, Big Birdie!!" Tim snarls. "Just because I'm not what you want me to be doesn't mean I'm a broken doll in need of saving!"

"Besides, don't you have a new bird to destroy?" Jason asks with a head tilt. "The second birdie died, the third got mentally fucked, the four died... I think we can count birdie #1 as mentally fucked up, meaning if we follow the pattern, birdie #5 will be mentally fucked by the time he flies the nest."

"How do you know so much about us, Red Hood?" Batman demands with a scowl.

"He doesn't have to tell you anything!" Tim steps in front of Jason and glares.

"I'm still waiting on a reason to not kill you." Danny reminds them. The bats look towards Constantine.

"Don't look at me, mates. That's head bitch of all head bitches. The fact he's letting you plead your case after threatening what he deems as his is a step up huge from most overpowered dead guys. From what I heard, the last guy would have just killed us the moment he was summoned and then destroyed the whole dimension afterwards. This guy beat that guy in single combat." Constantine pulls out a cigarette before addressing Danny, "Your Majesty, I had no idea these were your kids. I was just told a Revenant had kidnapped and "brainwashed" the ex-Robin. Clearly, I wasn't told accurate information."

Nightwing sputters, "What Do You Mean?? Clearly Tim has been brainwashed or something!!"

Constantine whips around to Nightwing, "Oh shut up, you big blue twit! King Phantom DESPISES mind control! Which means your ex-bird is with these two completely willingly."

"There's n-" Nightwing tries, but Constantine bulldozes on.

"I don't know what you did to the kid, nor do I care. But he's considered ROYALTY to the dead and undead now. He doesn't have to have ANYTHING to do with you. If you take him away from his new and apparently accepting family, that's considered an interdimensional crime, and no magician or supernatural or even god-like being will help you." Constantine takes a long drag of his cigarette. "I suggest you apologize, make your excuses, then leave them the fuck alone. Besides, crime has been at a record low in Gotham from what I hear. Let them do what they want. "

"That's because Red Hood keeps killing the Rouges!" Nightwing protests. "Who gives him the right to be judge, jury, and executioner???"

Constantine points to Danny and says flatly. "The ruler of basically everything, that's who."

Danny grins at him, his ghost half is very pleased with the man. "I shall spare you, magic man."

Constantine looks like he's going to faint from relief, moving to park himself by the door. "Just fucking apologize and leave them be, Bats."

"But!" Nightwing looks like he's going to cry. He turns his teary eyes to Tim. "Why can't you just come home, Timmy?"

"What home?" Tim stares down his nose at Nightwing, anger clear in his voice. "The Manor was Never my home. I was simply the stand in for your and B's grief for a boy you both pushed to his death. Phantom showed me what family really was. And that was AFTER I was too broken for you to accept. I was NOT Joker Junior then or now. I'm my own fucking person and I'm staying with the family that accepts me for ALL my oddities."

"You tried to put him in Arkham when he tried to go to you." Red Hood growls. "He wanted your support and help and you were going to lock him up and throw away the key."

"We were n-"

"YOU WERE!" Tim starts to trembling in hurt and rage. "You couldn't even look at me! I wanted you so badly to help me and you were going to put me in there right next to Harley! I wanted you to be my family, but I've only ever been a tool to you!"

"You weren't-" Danny doesn't like how the Bats seem ready to jump at his kids, so he freezes the Bats' feet to the floor.

"Shut up, Dickwing." Jason snarls, pulling Tim into a hug. "You lost your chance to be his brother 4 years ago. Go pretend to care about the new cannon fodder. We don't want to hear it."

"Hood." Batman finally speaks. "Who are you?"

"Who do you think, old man?" Jason takes his hood off for the first time ever in front of the Bats. They visibly startle, recognizing him despite all the changes.

"Ja-" The Bat starts.

"Shut up." Jason glares. "You were a shit dad and brother to me in life. I found the BEST family in death."

Danny picks up his boys, deciding to let them decide on the severity of the Bats' punishment. "Maiming or death?"

"... I say maim, but only because I know the newest bird and want him to stay out of the death cult his mother's in." Jason says softly. The Bats sqawk as they Just realize Danny froze their feet to the floor. Mortal tools and fire can't break/melt his ice, but it's amusing to watch the bats try.

Tim is quiet for nearly 3 whole minutes, locked in some sort of internal battle, before he answers. "Maim in a, at least mostly, healable way. Gotham needs Batman, even if we don't."

"Hmm." Danny ignores the Bats' protests to think about what he should do. "Ah! I know exactly what to do!"

He unfreezes their feet and gently forces both to the ground and processes to break both of Nightwing's legs and both of Batman's arms. He pulls one of their coms off and hands it to Tim, he's the only one that sounds normal on normal tech. Jason hasn't been able to use normal tech since Danny fixed his ecto, so Danny modifies anything he or Jason use.

"Hi, Agent A! Batgirl!" Tim's cheerful tone barely hides his seething rage. "You should send a pick up for Dickiebird and B-man! They need medical attention! Ba-bye~!"

Danny can hear the shouting over the com, but Tim simply yeets it towards the Bats instead of listening to whatever they have to say.

"I have a reason for the injuries I picked." Danny informs the room. Jason and Tim look intrigued, Constantine looks exhausted and slightly guilty about the Bats getting hurt on his watch, and the Bats themselves look dazed and in pain, so who knows if they'll remember his reasonings. "Nightwing is an acrobat and truly a bird, so grounding him is cruel, but hopefully he feels as small and helpless as you both did. Grounding him will give him time to think on his actions and their consequences."

Danny's sons look curiously at the grounded Nightwing before looking back to him.

"I broke Batman's arms so that he's forced to ask for help and communicate. He's far too old for his shitty behavior." Danny frowns. "They both need therapy, but I doubt the flying furries will actually get the help they need."

Tim suddenly cackles in delight. "Maybe THEY should check THEMSELVES into Arkham! Ya know! Since they think I, the one ACTUALLY getting help, should be in there!"

Jason starts cackling alongside his brother while Danny chuckles.

"I shall take my children home now, good day." Danny says while wrapping his sons in his invisibility and intangibility and takes them home. A cozy 3 bedroom apartment on the top floor of a building Jason owns as Red Hood.

[clockwayswrites]

5 Times the JL Learned Batman was Married and the 1 Time They Met the Spouse.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. + 1

“What is going on?” Batman asked the group as he swept into the room.

John stayed focused on the circle, not wanting to mess up now. It would be a lot of faff for nothing if he did.

“Constantine believes he has a contact to help us with our current issue,” Superman explained. “He is working on the summoning circle now.”

“Is that safe to do on the Watchtower?” Batman asked, as cautious as ever.

“Yeah, mate,” John answered for himself. “This one is a good one. Haven’t met them myself, but real helpful sort of fellow from everything I’ve heard. Or at least real helpful for the things that they can help with.”

Careful not to smudge any lines, John moved backwards out of the circle and gave it a good look over. The rest of the lot were talking about something, but if Batman hadn’t stopped him yet, John figured he was good and intended to keep working. A little slice to his finger, a few drops of blood, the right words, and it was done.

The white markings of the circle seemed to shudder and warp, like the lines on a desert street. Then they snapped a bright green and the inner lines seemed to fall away into an endless void. The void rippled and suddenly a hand reached out of it. The claws made the worst sound as they gripped into the metal floor.

Another hand joined it.

And then the being pulled themselves out of the summoning circle.

John knew better than to try and comprehend what he was seeing. It was all shadow and green flames and fear anyways.

“Who dares to call upon the Ghost King?” the being asked. The voice echoed through the room, through John’s head, through his soul. It sounded like a thousand screaming voices of the dead speaking all at once.

Toxic green eyes in the black mass swept over the group. It was like they were being seen; their souls, their very beings, every aspect of them flayed open and on display for this other worldly entity. John swallowed reflexively when the eyes paused on him for a moment. He wasn’t scared, but there was still a primal part of his brain that said he should run.

Then the gaze landed on Batman and stayed there. Superman stepped forward, slightly, as if to shield Batman from the being’s view.

The being didn’t seem to care and leaned forward up to the edge of the circle. “B?”

Batman inclined his head slightly, “Phantom.”

“Shit. This Justice League approved, huh? Sorry about the dramatics. Usually I only get summoned by cultists who want Pariah Dark, the old king, to give them power or cleanse the world of life or blah blah blah. Best to show up and put the fear of me into them,” the being said, motioning to themselves and all their horror. The reverb of their voice had settled some, now only like a few voices overlapping.

“Understandable,” Batman agreed, seemingly unaffected by it all.

John could only shrug incredulously at Superman’s questioning gaze. Fuck if he knew. Sure, Bats was unflappable, but everyone knew he avoided the supernatural stuff if he could.

The being pulled the last of itself out of the portal which sealed with a sickening squelch. “You could have just called though. Like, I get summoning is a quick way to travel, but it's a little painful."

“Painful?” Batman asked, turning to stare at John, who swallowed nervously at the cold tone.

“Yeah. This was a pretty clean circle though, props to the maker—”

“Thanks, I think?” John mumbled at he watched the being start to shift. It was like watching a black hole collapse in on itself.

“—so it's not that bad, but still it feels like ripping some duct tape off my skin or something,” the being continued. They were much more human shaped now, though they still smiled with an alarming number of very white teeth.

“We'll keep that in mind in the future. I was unaware of who, exactly, they were summoning.”

The rest of the roiling darkness settled on their shoulders like a half cape— one that seemed to hold the infinity of the night sky inside it. The vortex of flames settled into a crown of fire that floated above a head of stark white hair. They flexed their claws and the limbs settled into normal hands that they tucked into pockets of their three piece black suit with its sharp white accents. Then they stepped over the live of what was supposed to be an unbreakable summoning circle.

Like it was just waking through a door.

Like it was nothing.

John took a reflexive step back. This kind of rule breaking shit was exactly why he liked to avoid the Infinite Realms when he could; they were too chaotic to easily manage.

“All good,” they said with a shrug and a fanged smile. “So, what did you need the Ghost King for?”

-

Bruce watched Phantom scan the meeting room as they entered. Their eyes caught, just for a moment, and a million thoughts ran through Bruce’s head. Did he want to do this? Was it time? He trusted the Justice League. They had issues and conflicts, like any group, but they were heroes through and through.

Revealing this also did not mean revealing either of their civilian identities.

The nod was barely any movement at all, but Bruce knew that Phantom had caught it and understood. After so many years together, they hardly needed words, which Bruce often appreciated. Words had never been easy for Bruce. He worked on it for his family. He had to after…

Bruce forced himself not to think about that. Danny had saved Jason, even if the resulting years without Danny there were some of the hardest for the family. They were together again and better for it. Bruce let out a careful breath and took his normal seat.

“Thank you for your assistance, King Phantom,” Wonder Woman started. Phantom held up a hand.

“I didn’t say I could assist. I’ll listen and help if I can and see fit, but there are a great many things that are not mine to aid in,” Phantom said sternly, though his voice was carefully kind. “My influence is only over those closely tied to death and of the Infinite Realms. The living are outside of my jurisdiction.”

“Of course,” Superman said quickly as he could without rushing the words. “Listening is a great start. If you’ll take a seat.”

Phantom nodded and strode right past the indicated seat. With a casual ease that Bruce had always envied, Phantom sat on the arm of Bruce’s chair.

“Um, King Phantom, your majesty?” Flash started nervously. “Batman doesn’t really like to be touched?”

“Really?” Phantom asked innocently. Bruce couldn’t see it, but knew exactly the smirk Phantom had as he leaned back to lounge against Bruce’s shoulder. (Bruce loved that smile.)

Bruce schooled his expression as he watched Flash and Hal exchange looks and frantic hand signs to each other.

J’onn tilted his head curiously as he took his own seat. Bruce could see J’onn come to an understanding as his eyes flickered down the the black metal brand around Phantom’s ring finger in the shape of a flying bat.

“Ah,” J’onn said softly.

“Ah? Ah what?” Flash asked, his words almost a whine. “What do you know?”

Bruce rested his hand lightly on Phantom’s hip, well aware that the motion was in sight of both Superman and Wonder Woman.

“Ah,” Wonder Woman said with a little smile. “J’onn knows something we all know, though not in this context. It is good to meet you, Phantom.”

“Good to meet you also, Wonder Woman. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Phantom said as she sat down next to them.

“I wish I could say the same,” she said with a teasing smile directed Bruce’s way.

“Hn.”

Phantom just laughed, the sound echoing like a ringing bell. “It’s okay, I know what B is like. Trust me, that you know anything at all is a big deal. He’s just bad at doing things the normal way.”

Bruce held back a sigh and just pinched Phantom’s side again, making the other squeak and backhand Bruce in the chest.

“Holy shit!” Hal jutted a finger at Phantom. “You’re Batman’s husband!”

“Guilty as charged,” Phantom said.

“Wait, no, you’re what?” Flash asked and zipped closer to the table. “Huh. You are so not what I expected. I mean, I guess ghost plus Spooky works but you’re so… lively! Wait— is that like, offensive to call the dead lively?”

Phantom laughed again and shook his head. “No, but not everyone in the realms will take it as a compliment. I don’t mind and besides, I’m only half-dead.”

“Half-dead?” Superman asked with his brow furrowed worriedly.

Phantom just waved the concern away. “It’s complicated. Mostly it just means that I still get to live out my human life as simply a human. Ghosts move slower, having eternity and all, so there’s not too much for me to do as the king other than attend to summons and make slow changes.”

“So,” Hal started, ignoring Bruce’s glare and sliding into a seat finally. “You’re married to Batman in your civilian form as well?”

“Of course, it would be silly otherwise,��� Phantom said and then added, “and no, I won’t tell you who B is. That’s for him to choose.”

“Okay, but like, we can talk to you, right?” Flash asked, eager as ever.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I? But work first. What do you think I can help you all with?”

Bruce moved his hand to rest on the small of Phantom’s back and watched his husband command the room like the king he was.

--- AN: and here's the last part! The JL finally meet Batman's husband, or at least once side of him!

[niwaart]

Secret of Shadows

(John Constantine’s son x Batfam)

-part1... -part2...

It was a stormy night in Gotham, the rain pounding furiously on the sidewalks, and the wind howling like hungry wolves. In a slum, Red Robin was chasing one of the Penguin's drug dealers, who was trying to escape across the rooftops. Tim was closing in, planning to bring him down with one blow...

But suddenly, a small green and red shadow leaped in front of him with a sword drawn.

Robin stood in Tim's way with a smug grin. "This criminal is mine. Find another."

"Get out of my way, Robin! This is no time for play!" Tim growled, trying to swerve around him, but Damian leaped back to block his path.

"I told you, that's my goal!"

"You're a spoiled brawler!"

"And you're a boring replacement!"

The argument escalated into a fistfight on the rooftop, while the drug dealer took advantage and fled. But he didn't just flee... he pulled out a remote detonator.

"A bomb..." Tim whispered in astonishment after seeing what the criminal was carrying.

Before the building exploded, a massive black shadow swooped down from the sky like lightning. Batman. He grabbed the dealer with one hand and destroyed the detonator with the other at the last moment.

But the rage in Batman's eyes was more terrifying than any bomb as he looked at Red Robin and Robin.

After Batman made sure the civilians were safe, he turned to Tim and Damian, his eyes burning with rage beneath his mask.

"What is this nonsense?!" Batman roared, his voice like thunder.

Damian stood silent, but Tim tried to explain. "I was about to catch the criminal, but Damian—"

"Enough!" Batman cut him off. "Tim, you're the elder. You should have acted responsibly, not gotten involved in a childish squabble!"

Tim felt like he'd been stabbed. "But he started—"

"It doesn't matter who started it!" Batman said harshly. "I expected better from you. I'm disappointed."

Those words were like a knife to Tim's heart.

Tim returned to the apartment he shared with Y/N, his face as dark as the night that followed. Tim completely ignored the stream of jokes Y/N cracked upon seeing him:

"Wow! Your face looks like my father when i burned his cigarette! Want me to read you a bedtime story?"

Tim didn't reply. He walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

Y/N stood in front the bathroom door waiting, and after five minutes of silence, decided to knock. "I'm going in, so you'd better at least put your pants on."

Before Tim could reply, Y/N opened the door. He found him hunched over the sink, water running down his head as if he were trying to drown himself.

Y/N looked at him for a moment, then said quietly, "There are quicker ways to commit suicide than drowning in a sink."

Tim lifted his head, his eyes red, but he didn't cry... yet.

"I'm sure you'll get my father's wrinkles if you keep pouting like that." Y/N said sarcastically, stepping closer to Tim.

And Tim? He finally exploded.

"Shut up!" he yelled, pushing Y/N away. "Everything is going wrong! I became Robin after Jason died just to help Bruce, and no one thanks me! All the blame is on me, not Damian's! I'm doing everything I can, but no one notices!"

Tim didn't realize he'd started crying until he felt Y/N's arms wrap tightly around him.

"It's okay... Scream all you want," Y/N said, knowing what he was doing. He wanted Tim to explode, to let out all the pent-up emotions inside him. He held him tight, letting him scream, cry, everything.

He didn't care that his shirt was soaking wet from Tim's tears.

After Tim calmed down, Y/N took him for a sandwich in the middle of the night, then put him back in bed. He stayed by his side, holding him until he fell asleep.

But Y/N didn't sleep. He want to revenge.

He concocted a small spell. "Now, they'll see what Tim feels."

First, Bruce had disturbing dreams of Thomas and Martha being shot again and again, while his sons (Dick, Jason, Damian, even Tim) were killed one by one

in front of him.

Then, Damian watched Alfred fall dead while he was powerless to save him, handcuffed.

And Jason relived that night in the warehouse with the Joker, the laughter suddenly fading into a deathly silence.

Finally, Dick watched his parents fall again and again, but this time, he was the one pushing them.

Each of them woke up early in the morning, drenched in a cold sweat, their hearts pounding with terror.

And vice versa for Y/N.

The sun gently peeked through the window curtains, illuminating the room with a warm, golden light. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as Y/N sat on the kitchen chair, watching Tim struggle to open his sleepy eyes after a restless night.

Y/N smiled broadly, "Good morning, Mr. Drake! Did you know your face looks like mashed potatoes when you wake up?"

Tim yawned, trying to ignore him. "Shut up..."

Y/N laughed and pushed a cup of coffee towards him. "Don't worry, I added enough sugar to kill a horse, just like you like it."

Tim took the cup and took a sip, then grimaced. "This... is so sweet my teeth hurt."

Y/N pretended to be shocked. "And this is appreciation after everything I've done for you?!" He put his hand over his head dramatically. "But I can't imagine if I hadn't met you, my dear friend... I'd be living in a trash can among naughty cats!"

Tim raises an eyebrow. “A trash can? Really?”

Y/N nods solemnly. “Yeah! Or maybe in my father’ crappy old apartment that hasn’t seen the light of day in a thousand years! Which, by the way, is worse than a trash can. At least the cats like me!” He pretends to wipe away the tears that haven’t fallen. “I would have been a hideous zombie, like a battered doll from a cheap horror movie!”

Tim can’t hold back his laughter. “You’re a freak.”

Y/N grabs Tim’s hand exaggeratedly. “But thanks to you, I’m here now! Drinking poison coffee, living with my potato-like ex-Robin!” He winks. “So… thank you.”

Tim’s cheeks turn slightly pink as he finishes his coffee. “You… aren’t worth the effort.”

Y/N grabs a pillow and throws it at him. “Of course not! But you love me anyway!”

Tim grabs the pillow and throws it back, finally smiling. "Maybe."

After a moment of silence, Y/N speaks in a gentler voice, "Seriously, Tim... I'm glad you're here. Not just because you saved me from the trash can." He laughs, "But because... you made me feel like I wasn't alone."

Tim looks at him, then looks away, smiling, "You're an idiot."

Y/N grabs a piece of toast and pops it full into his mouth, then speaks as he grins, "And that's why you love me!"

Tim ignores him, but his laughter gives him away: "Disgusting."

Y/N smiles and then hugs Tim tightly. "Let's watch TV."

That afternoon, while Tim is watching the TV Y/N suggested, which is so bad, he doesn't know how Y/N can laugh at this movie, but Tim can't help but laugh with Y/N, and then the doorbell rings. Y/N didn't move from his seat. After all, this was Tim's house, and hardly anyone knew about Y/N living with Tim except for his family. So Tim got up to look at the screen to see behind the door. He found his entire family standing in front of it... and... why was Jason holding a gun and looking angry?

Tim immediately opened the door and saw their pale faces, their eyes filled with nightmares.

It didn't take more than two seconds for Tim to conclude that Y/N had done something... after all, it wasn't the first time Y/N had done something stupid for Tim.

"What...did you do?" Tim looked at the naughty Y/N who was pretending to watch TV.

But Bruce couldn't stand the pretense. He stormed into the room and pulled Y/N up by the shirt.

"You! What did you do to us tonight?!"

"What? What are you talking about?" Y/N said with fake innocence.

"Enough with the lies!" Bruce growled. A voice was heard from behind Bruce, Jason, who was about to blow Y/N's head off. "We've all had nightmares... and I'm pretty sure it was you!"

"Maybe it's your conscience?" Y/N sneered as he looked at Jason's gun. Dick was barely holding Jason back from shooting, and needless to say, Damian was ready to stab him if his father wasn't right there in front of him.

At that moment, Bruce decided he needed outside reinforcements. So he literally dragged Y/N from Tim's house to his limo, took him to the Batcave, and immediately called John Constantine. It took him more than three attempts to answer, which made Y/N laugh.

"Bloody Hell, Batman. This is early even for hell." Constantine replied, his hair disheveled like someone who had just woken up.

"Your son is here in Gotham," Batman said, his impatience harsh.

"Huh? Which one?"

At that moment, Bruce appeared to Y/N, still holding him by the collar. "Hello, dear old father, my favorite person."

Constantine stared at Y/N for a few seconds before looking up in shock. "What?! What are you doing there, you little bastard?!"

"I want him back where he came from. Tell me how to get rid of him." Batman ordered angrily.

John looked at his son in disbelief. "If I knew, I'd get rid of him myself! He steals my money, burns my coat, and disappears whenever I need him!"

"The coat was old! Be thankful!" Y/N grimaced at his father.

"Give me back the five dollars first, you thief!"

As everyone looked at this messed-up family, Tim started laughing... he couldn't contain himself.

"I think there's a worse family than us," Dick said, while Jason burst out laughing like a maniac, at Y/N and J'onn's fight.

And Batman? He felt that Gotham was in more danger than ever.

[theonottsbxtch]

A CROWN LEFT BEHIND | IH6

an: i was feeling nostalgic and was missing home again so i wrote an isack aladdin au! i made this exta special because i used arabic darija in this fic (obvs with translation) i hope you guys enjoy this baby i wrote

wc: 13.5k

summary: a street thief with nothing but a dog and a smile. a princess trapped behind gold and glass, longing for freedom. one quiet escape into the night changes both their fates. secrets whispered in alleyways, promises carried on the wind. in the end, the streets remember what the palace chooses to forget.

ALGIERS NEVER TRULY SLEPT.

Even in the dusk between call to prayer and moonrise, when the shadows stretched long like fingers across whitewashed walls, the medina whispered. The breeze carried the scent of cumin and orange blossom, the air warm like honey clinging to the skin.

Somewhere, the sound of a flute curled upward from a rooftop. Laughter, sharp, drunken, echoed in the alleyways below.

And Isack ran.

Barefoot, nimble, heart thudding like a darbuka drum in his chest, he darted through the tight alleys of the Kasbah. His curls stuck to his brow, a sliver of stolen gold tucked into his sash. He had the grin of someone used to running, used to getting away.

“Waqef! Waqef ya l’kleb!” Stop! Stop, you dog!

He didn’t stop.

Instead, he vaulted over a market cart, snatched a fig from a vendor’s stall mid-air, and winked at the shouting man behind him. It was a dance, the only one he knew. The guards were slow. He was fast. And the streets were his.

By the time he climbed the back wall of a half-collapsed riad and collapsed onto the tiled rooftop, the sky had turned gold. He bit into the fig, sweet and overripe, and let the juice run down his chin.

Below, the city pulsed. Blue doors, stray cats, distant call to prayer. A woman’s laughter from an open window. Laundry snapping in the wind.

He loved this place. It was cruel, yes. Hungry. But it was his.

He leaned back, golden-brown eyes flicking upward toward the first stars emerging in the indigo sky. The city’s noise became a hum, and for a moment, he felt almost like a king.

And elsewhere, behind tall palace walls, she watched the city from her window, veiled and silent.

Below her, chaos, life, fire. A city she was not allowed to touch. A city that belonged to her only in name.

They called her princess, l’amira, daughter of the land, of bloodlines older than the red earth itself. She had her mother’s cheekbones, her father’s eyes. But her soul? That was her own.

She pressed a hand to the cold lattice, eyes following a small boy climbing a wall far in the distance. Free. Barefoot. Laughing.

She envied him.

Her maid’s voice broke the silence.

“L’amira, your father, he says there’s a suitor. Another one.”

Another one. Another man with polished words and ancient rings, sent to ask for a piece of her like she was a jewel in the souk.

She didn’t answer. Only watched the horizon, where the rooftops met the sky. Somewhere beyond it, the stars were starting to blink awake.

She wished one would fall.

The palace walls were smooth sandstone, gold-dusted and cruel.

They caught the sun at every hour, gleaming like something divine, but she knew better. Inside them, everything was hushed and heavy. Voices behind curtains, steps softened on marble. Nothing real ever made it past the gates.

She sat now on a silken cushion, spine straight, wrists wrapped in gauze-thin silk, and tried not to scream.

Across from her, the suitor spoke in a voice as smooth as almond oil, his words polished to a shine. He was a noble from Constantine,  or maybe Tlemcen, she couldn’t remember, and he wore his robes like armor. Perfect posture. Perfect manners. Perfect boredom.

He was talking about the scent of jasmine in his summer home.

She nodded politely.

Her tea had gone cold.

Behind him, just past the carved archway that opened onto the courtyard, the muezzin’s call rose into the air, haunting, beautiful. The day was sinking into twilight, and the world outside was moving.

She turned her head slightly, not enough to be scolded, and looked past him.

The gates beyond the garden had been opened for the breeze, and through them, beyond the veil of palm leaves, she saw the street.

Children ran barefoot toward the mosque, drawn by the call to prayer. She saw a boy with wild black curls tugging his younger sister along, both of them laughing, racing the call. Their djellabas fluttered behind them like wings. One of the guards smiled as they passed.

A knot tightened in her throat.

That life, so ordinary, so loud, so free, would never be hers. She had never run in the street. She had never laughed outside the palace walls. She had never once stood beside strangers and bowed her head in prayer as an equal. Even her worship was private, sterile, behind curtains and gold incense burners.

She looked back at the prince.

He had stopped speaking.

He was watching her with a soft frown, like he’d seen something he wasn’t meant to. “Forgive me,” he said gently, setting his cup down. “I don’t think I interest you.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. There was no real way to explain it.

“You’re not unkind,” she managed, at last. “You’re just not real.”

He blinked. “Not real?”

She offered the smallest of smiles. “Not enough.”

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

She shed her jewels. Let her hair fall unbound down her back. The moonlight caught the copper strands threaded through it, a family trait, they said. Her birthright. Her burden.

The palace was quiet. Too quiet. Like a tomb that smelled of oud and rosewater.

She walked barefoot through the colonnade, cool tile beneath her feet, heart fluttering like a trapped swallow in her chest.

From her window, the city glowed, a thousand flickering oil lamps, rooftops like mosaic pieces laid out for the stars.

She didn’t know exactly where the thought came from. Only that it arrived fully formed.

She was leaving.

Not tomorrow. Not with guards. Not with permission.

Tonight.

She turned from the window and began to move, silent, deliberate, pulling on a plain linen tunic left behind by one of the maids, wrapping her hair in a faded scarf. She looked nothing like a princess now. And maybe for once, that was the point.

Her pulse sang.

Outside, the world waited. Wild, sharp-edged, and beautiful.

And the palace slept.

She moved like a shadow past the guards, heart hammering in her ribs, the scarf around her head slipping ever so slightly in the breeze. No one looked at her twice, not like this. Not dressed in rough linen, no kohl on her eyes, no scent of amber trailing her steps.

For the first time in her life, she was invisible.

And it thrilled her.

Once beyond the palace gates, the city opened up like a book she’d never been allowed to read.

The air at night was cooler, threaded with the scent of charcoal smoke and distant mint tea. Lanterns swung gently from the iron hooks above doorways, casting dappled patterns across cobbled streets. Stray cats watched her from rooftops. Someone played a flute off-key in the dark. The call to Isha’a had passed, but the buzz of night lingered.

She wandered deeper into the medina, past shuttered stalls and old men playing dominoes beneath a flickering bulb. Nobody recognised her. Nobody bowed. No one whispered l’amira like a ghost.

She felt giddy. Lightheaded with it. Free.

She didn’t even notice the man at first.

He’d been sitting on a step, smoking. When she passed, he straightened. Followed.

It wasn’t until the footsteps quickened behind her that her stomach turned.

She kept walking. Turned into a narrower street.

Too narrow.

She should have gone back. She should have kept to the open, where there were people. But her legs moved faster than her thoughts. And then he was there, in front of her now, as if he’d appeared from the shadows themselves.

He was older. Unshaven. Smelt like cheap wine and sweat. A smirk played at his lips as he stepped into her path.

“Labas ‘lik, zine?” What’s a pretty girl like you doing out alone at this hour?

She tried to step aside, but he mirrored her.

“I don’t— I don’t want trouble.”

“Oh, I’m not trouble,” he said, teeth flashing. “Not unless you make me be.”

He reached for her wrist. She pulled back, fast, panic blooming in her throat. Her breath caught.

And then—

A low growl sliced through the quiet.

The man froze.

From the darkness of the alley, a shape emerged, all silhouette and shadow. First the dog: big, bone-coloured, eyes sharp like molten gold. Then the boy. Barefoot. Loose shirt open at the throat, curls wild, a crooked grin stitched across his face like sin.

He took one look at the man and smiled, slow and lazy.

“Khoya,” Brother he said, voice like honey over blades. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to girls who don’t want to talk to you?”

The man sneered. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Isack tilted his head. “Lah ybarek, I think it does.” God Bless

He clicked his tongue once.

The dog lunged.

The man screamed, stumbling back, barely dodging a snap of teeth. “Wah! Get it off—!”

Isack gave a soft whistle. The dog stopped, but only just. Still growling, still close enough to bite.

“Mazal barki,” Too early, Isack said calmly. “He’s just playing. If he were serious, you’d already be on the floor.”

The man spat on the ground. “You’ll regret this.”

Isack took a single step forward. The dog took two.

The man ran.

Silence settled in the alley.

Isack looked at her then, but really looked. His eyes softened slightly, but his smile stayed wicked.

“Bit far from the palace, aren’t you?” he said, almost teasing.

She blinked. “How—?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “You lot smell different. Like roses and gold coins.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended.

Isack held out a hand.

“Come on, l’amira. You’re not going to last ten minutes out here without someone like me.”

She hesitated. Looked at the dog, then back at him.

Then she took his hand.

And just like that, the world tilted on its axis.

They walked side by side through the sleeping veins of the city, the dog padding ahead of them like a quiet sentinel. The lanterns were dimmer now, the night heavy with spice and dust, and still, the thrill hadn’t left her chest.

She kept glancing sideways at him, the boy who'd appeared from the shadows like a spirit, all cocky swagger and barefoot confidence. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

Eventually, she spoke.

“Where are you taking me?”

Isack gave a half-shrug, as if that question had no weight.

“I’m assuming you wanted to live a real life. Not many other reasons a girl like you leaves a palace in the middle of the night.” He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’re sneaking out to see a lover. That would be scandalous.”

She scowled. “No.”

“Shame.” He grinned. “Would’ve made a good story.”

She stopped walking. “You think this is a joke?”

His grin faltered, not completely, just softened at the edges. “No,” he said, more quietly. “I think it’s a risk. And risks are either foolish or brave.”

They walked in silence after that, her arms folded tightly over her chest, his hands buried in his pockets. The city around them seemed to pulse with a life she’d never noticed before, an old women leaning out of windows to gossip, a boy chasing a chicken down a lane, the rustle of music from a distant courtyard.

At last, they turned into a narrow side street, its end lit by a single flickering bulb above a door.

“Come on,” he said, pushing it open. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had this man’s mint tea.”

The teahouse was small and dimly lit, smelling of cardamom, smoke, and dried orange peel. Rugs layered the floor, and the low wooden tables were uneven. There were no other customers, just an old man behind the counter with a wiry beard and thick glasses, hunched over a chessboard.

He looked up when he saw Isack and groaned.

“Ya weledi, not you again. I’m not running a charity.”

He sighed.

Isack held up a hand, grinning. “Sidi Ahmed, Allah ybarek fik w fi shay bik.” Sidi Ahmed, may God bless you and your tea.

“Rahmt Allah fi sabrek, mashi fiya.” God’s mercy is in His patience, not mine.

He eyed Isack’s companion. “At least this time you bring someone polite.”

Isack gave her a look. “Don’t let the scarf fool you.”

She sat carefully on a cushion by the wall, her spine still too straight, her eyes absorbing everything. The chipped glasses, the way the steam curled from the kettle, the way Ahmed measured sugar like it was gold dust.

He poured two small glasses and set them down with a grumble. “Pay this time, Isack. I’m not running a zawiya.”

Isack patted his pocket, dramatically empty. “We’ve talked about this.”

The old man turned away, muttering, “Sh-shabab li mabghawsh ykhadmou.” The youth who don’t want to work.

She looked between them, and without thinking, slipped one of her bangles off her wrist. It was thin gold, etched with delicate Berber script, a gift from her grandmother.

She stood and offered it gently across the counter. “Please,” she said. “Let this cover both.”

Before Ahmed could take it, Isack’s hand came down over hers.

“La,” he said under his breath. No. “Khalih.” Leave it.

She stared at him. “Why not?”

He leaned closer, voice soft. “You don’t trade gold for tea. Not here. Not tonight.”

Then he turned, all charm again, flashing a grin at the old man. “Tell you what, you still need that window patched? I’ll come tomorrow. Ghadwa, inshallah.” Tomorrow, God willing.

Ahmed narrowed his eyes. “You said that three bukras ago.”

“And now I have an audience to impress. I’ll even sweep the floor, if that helps.”

The old man gave a long sigh, more theatre than protest, and waved them off.

“Yallah, sit before I change my mind.” Come on.

Back at the table, Isack slid her glass toward her. The tea was hot, sweet, filled with bruised mint.

She took a sip.

It was rich and strange and entirely perfect.

“You were going to pay,” he said, watching her. “With something real.”

“I was trying to help.”

“You’re not here to help,” he said, without cruelty. “You’re here to learn.”

She set the glass down carefully. “What makes you think you have anything to teach me?”

Isack’s grin didn’t falter. “Oh, l’amira, I’ve got a whole city to teach you.”

And across from him, for the first time since leaving the palace, she smiled without hesitation.

The tea had cooled by the time their conversation found stillness again.

Outside, the street hummed with distant laughter and the thud of footsteps against stone. But inside the teahouse, everything felt quieter, as though the night had folded itself around the two of them and held its breath.

She sat with her knees drawn in, hands wrapped around the chipped glass. Across from her, Isack leaned back against the cushion, head tipped slightly to the side as he watched her. Not in the way men usually did, not with hunger or calculation, but with curiosity, like she was something rare he hadn’t quite made sense of yet.

“So,” he said, gently, “what were you planning to do?”

She blinked at him.

“What?”

“Out there,” he nodded toward the door. “On your own. No guards, no money, just what? Wander through the city until you found a better life?”

She looked down at the rug beneath them, at the intricate threads that felt far more grounded than she did.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

He gave a soft laugh, not mocking, more surprised than anything.

“You really didn’t have a plan?”

She shook her head. “Only that I couldn’t stay there. That I needed out.”

There was a silence then. Not awkward, thoughtful.

He took another sip of tea and set the glass aside, speaking without looking at her.

“I don’t usually do this. Take people in.”

She turned her head, slightly wary. “Take people in?”

“To where I stay,” he said. “It’s not much. But it’s safe.”

She blinked, startled. “You’re offering?”

He nodded. “For tonight. You can leave in the morning if you want. But the streets, they change after midnight. Not even your silk cloak will keep you safe then.”

She hesitated, lips parting, but no protest came. Just a quiet breath of surrender.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I mean it.”

He looked at her then, really looked. No teasing, no smirk, just something careful in his eyes. A flicker of understanding.

“Come on then, l’amira.”

“Still calling me that?”

“Until you tell me different,” he said over his shoulder. “Or until you learn to walk like someone who doesn’t own the world.”

She rose, following him out into the night, her footsteps softer now.

She had no idea where he was taking her. And for the first time in her life she didn’t mind.

They weaved through the medina like shadows, the narrow alleys stitched with silence and stars. The dog trotted ahead confidently, tail swishing, as if it knew the way by heart.

Eventually, Isack stopped beside a faded wooden door nestled between two closed shops. An old fig tree leaned over it, casting broken leaves across the stoop.

“Here?” she asked, surprised.

He didn’t answer straight away, just offered a hand and gestured upwards. “Not quite.”

He led her down a short passage, then up a creaking set of exterior stairs. They climbed to a flat rooftop covered in laundry lines and rusted water drums, then over a low wall onto another roof just below.

The dog leapt across first, landing clumsily with a thump before padding toward a slanted wooden hatch tucked beneath the shade of some old cloth draped like a makeshift canopy.

“Mind your step,” Isack said, and helped her across with an easy grip. His hands were calloused but warm.

She landed lightly beside him, breath caught more by the moment than the leap.

It was a small space, little more than a cove made from old beams and patched fabric. But inside, it was gently lived in. Worn futons lined the edges. There was a low crate filled with books, a chipped mirror hung on the far wall, and a faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air.

The dog circled twice before flopping onto a blanket with a sigh.

“This is…” she began, then hesitated. “It’s lovely.”

Isack shrugged, already crouching beside the hatch. “It does the job.”

Before she could respond, he swung himself halfway back down through the opening and called softly, “Hadja kayna waḥda mikhadda?” Hadja, do you have a pillow?

A voice snapped back immediately from the flat below.

“A pillow, Isack? At this hour? Wallah, you treat me like a hotel!”

“Just one,” he laughed. “For a guest.”

There was a short pause. Then the shuffle of slippers, the thud of a cupboard.

A plump hand emerged through the gap, clutching a well-worn cushion. “Here, waldi, take it, and no more surprises tonight, tfaddal.”

“N’barek fik, Hadja.” Bless you, Hadja.

He climbed back in with the pillow in hand, a bit of thread clinging to his hair.

She had been watching the exchange silently, eyes wide in quiet mesmerisation.

“She called you waldi,” she said.

He smiled as he tossed the pillow onto one of the futons. “She’s not my mother. But she pretends she is.”

“She gave it to you anyway.”

“She always does. Even when she’s cross.”

He gestured for her to sit, then settled across from her on the floor, back resting against the far wall.

“She took me in when I was ten. Found me trying to steal her olives.” He smirked. “Didn’t succeed, by the way. She hit me with a broom and then fed me loubia anyway.”

She laughed, properly this time, not the polite laughter of courts and expectations, but something warm and unguarded.

He watched her. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Good,” she said. “Neither are you.”

They talked until the city slept.

Not just quiet, but truly asleep, the kind of stillness that only arrived deep in the night, when even the stray cats gave up their prowling, and the moon hung low like a watchful eye over the rooftops.

Isack had lit a stub of a candle from a jar tucked in the corner. It flickered beside them, casting shifting shapes across the patched fabric walls.

He told her about growing up with his back against the stone, the days when food came from the hands of strangers or not at all, how Hadja would scold him and feed him in the same breath. He spoke of the souks, the rooftops, the ocean he’d only seen twice, and how sometimes, when the wind came in strong from the coast, he could still taste the salt on the air.

She told him little things. That her mother had died young. That she was educated, but not free. That there was always someone watching, waiting, measuring her every word, her every breath. That she didn’t know what to do with freedom now that she’d found it, or something like it.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Leaving the palace tonight?”

He nodded.

She looked out through the fabric flap where the stars peeked in, and shook her head.

“No. I regret waiting this long.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just offered her a second cushion, and a smile that didn’t need explaining.

Eventually, her eyelids began to lower. The weight of the day, the years, pulling gently at her bones.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“I don’t want to take your bed.”

“You’re not.” He motioned to the futon. “That one’s for guests.”

She arched a brow. “How many guests do you usually have?”

He grinned. “None.”

He laid out a folded blanket, then pulled the cushion from the futon before she could object. Dropped it to the floor and settled beside the wall, arms folded behind his head, long legs crossed at the ankles.

“Isack—”

“Let me,” he said simply, eyes closed now.

She hesitated, but something in his tone made it impossible to argue.

So she lay down, curling onto the futon, fingers brushing the edge of the thin mattress. The dog gave a soft snore from the corner. The candle had gone out, leaving only moonlight, the kind that made everything look a little silver, a little softer.

She stared at the ceiling, expecting her mind to race the way it always did, with lists, and rules, and voices, and what-ifs.

But it didn’t.

For the first time in her life, there was no marble floor beneath her. No silk sheets. No guards. No walls.

Just the scent of sandalwood, and mint tea, and something faintly like hope.

And sleep, when it came, came gently, and held her like it meant to keep her.

She woke to the sound of the adhan, the call to fajr, curling through the air like the voice of the city itself.

It came from somewhere distant but clear, high and smooth and mournful in the way only the earliest hours could carry. The dog shifted but didn’t rise, only thumped its tail gently once and settled again.

She blinked, still tucked into the futon, a thin sheet drawn up around her shoulders. The world around her was a shade of soft blue, the sky just beginning to brighten in the east. It cast everything in hush,the worn crates, the fluttering fabric, the half-drunk tea still resting in its glass.

Isack was still asleep, curled slightly on his side on the floor, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely against his chest. In the half-light, he looked younger or perhaps just less guarded. A small furrow sat between his brows even in sleep, like he’d never quite let go of watchfulness.

She sat up slowly, the futon sighing beneath her.

The call continued, echoing from minaret to minaret across the rooftops. As-salatu khayrun minan-nawm… Prayer is better than sleep.

She knew she had to go.

There was no panic. No urgency. Only a quiet knowing. If she stayed longer, if she let herself fall even a step deeper into this stolen freedom, she wouldn’t return at all. And the world, her world, wasn’t ready for that.

She slipped her feet into her shoes, the silence stretching around her like a shawl.

The dog opened one eye but didn’t move, watching her with the calm understanding of someone who knew better than to bark at goodbyes.

She glanced over at Isack once more.

Then, with a breath, she reached for her wrist.

She slid off two of her bangles, the thinner ones, delicate, etched in the filigree of her mother’s people, and set them quietly on the edge of the futon where she’d slept.

Not payment.

A mark. A memory. A thank you.

She didn’t write a note. He would understand.

Then she pulled the scarf tighter around her face and stepped out into the early light, down through the hatch and over the rooftop. The air was cool and clean, the streets below still drowsy, not yet stirring with market cries or children’s footsteps.

The city hadn’t woken, but she had.

And by the time the sun had fully lifted above the rooftops of Algiers, she was already crossing back through the hidden door in the palace wall, the scent of mint and dust and candle smoke still clinging to her clothes.

Isack woke to the faint chill of dawn slipping through the cracks in the wooden hatch. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and mint, the scent she’d left behind.

He blinked, stretched his hand out instinctively and found the futon beside him empty.

His heart sank a little, slow and steady like the weight of knowing.

She was gone.

On the edge of the futon, catching the soft morning light, were two thin bangles, delicate and filigreed, the ones she had worn when she arrived.

He picked them up carefully, rolling them between his fingers, feeling the cool metal and the slight dents that told stories of a life far from his own.

A soft sigh escaped him. “Mashi moshkil.” It’s okay

He understood. She had her world to return to.

He slipped on the bangles and let his shirt cover the gold from the sunlight.

Downstairs, the old wooden door creaked open and the smell of strong tea and cooking filled the air.

“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Hadja.” Good morning, Hadja

“Sbāḥ l-nūr, waldi. Katḥess b’raḥtek lyom?” Good morning, my boy. Feeling alright today?

He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kān bghī nsaʿdek shwiya f’dar.” I wanted to help you around the house a bit.

Hadja smiled, hands busy folding fresh flatbread. “Daima mzyan, waldi. Ma tkhafsh, ghadi nkhdem mʿak.” Always good, my boy. Don’t worry, I’ll work with you.

As he handed her a kettle, she caught sight of the bangles peeking from beneath his sleeve.

“Shno had lḥwayej?” What are these things?

He hesitated, then showed them to her.

“Tqdr tsawb bihom flus bzzaf,” You could make a lot of money with these she murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. 

Isack shook his head, a faint smile tugging his lips.

“Hadi, mashī ghir ljawhra.” They’re more than just jewellery.

He grabbed a length of string from the counter and carefully threaded the bangles onto it, pulling the makeshift necklace over his head.

Hadja watched, then chuckled softly.

“Mashi mzyan, waldi. La tkoun ḥmar w mat'ttīsh rasek.” Not smart, my boy. Don’t be stupid and don’t get caught.

He grinned wider, a spark in his golden-brown eyes.

“Ana mabghītsh nshouf hadchi,” I never get caught, Hadja he said, voice low and certain.

She shook her head, but there was no real scolding in her voice, just the warmth of someone who’d seen too much but still hoped.

He tucked the string beneath his shirt and turned back to the rising sun outside.

His thoughts drifted, to the girl who had left the bangles, to the quiet promise of a night that had felt, somehow, like home.

By mid-morning, the streets were wide awake, sun burning the rooftops, voices rising from alleyways, children darting between market stalls like fish in water.

Isack moved through it all like he belonged there, because he did. The city knew him, and he knew it back. The dog loped along beside him, tongue out, tail wagging every time someone threw them a passing “salam” or scrap of bread.

He reached Sidi Ahmed’s place just as the old man was dragging out a broken wooden cart wheel, grumbling under his breath.

“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Sidi,” Good morning, Sidi. Isack called, crouching beside the wheel.

The old man grunted. “Mzyan jeeti. Rah kayna chghol bzzaf.” Good you came. There’s a lot of work.

Isack smiled and set to it, sleeves rolled, sweat already gathering at the back of his neck. The wheel was splintered, but nothing beyond saving, a couple of new dowels, some sanding, a bit of patience.

Sidi Ahmed’s son, Youssef, lingered nearby, watching with a lazy sort of interest, chewing on a stem of wild mint.

“Chouf,” Isack said after a while, glancing over at him, “tqder tsaʿdni f waḥed lsu2al?” Can you help me with something?

Youssef raised a brow. “Dirti chi musiba khra?” Have you done something stupid again?

“La, la, had mara....” No, no, this time…

Youssef understood the unspoken words and spat out the stem. “Go on.”

Isack wiped his brow with his sleeve and leaned back slightly against the wall, gaze fixed on the wheel but mind clearly elsewhere.

“Say you meet someone,” he began, slow. “Someone who’s not from your world. Proper different. But you get on, like, really get on. And then they vanish.”

Youssef squinted at him. “She run off with your shoes?”

Isack huffed a quiet laugh. “Not quite. Just left. No goodbye. But left something behind.”

Youssef’s face softened slightly, as if he’d caught the edge of what Isack wasn’t saying.

“What did she leave?”

Isack hesitated, then tugged the string out slightly from beneath his shirt, just enough to let the bangles glint in the sunlight.

Youssef whistled under his breath.

“Hadchi mn lkasr?” This from the palace?

“Ma-gult walou.” Isack shrugged. I didn’t say anything

Youssef leaned in slightly. “You want advice?”

He nodded.

“Nsuḥk. Khalli l’aql qbl lqlb.” My advice. Keep your head before your heart.

Isack looked down at the bangles, his thumb tracing the edge.

“W ila ma bghītsh ndīr haka?” And what if I don’t want to do that?

Youssef laughed. “Then may God help you, Isack. Because no one else will.”

They both chuckled, the tension breaking for a moment.

Isack stood, stretching, wiping dust from his palms. “Come on then, help me lift this wheel. Unless you just came to offer useless wisdom.”

Youssef grinned and bent down beside him. “Ana daba fassḥab raḥna f chi hikayat dyal Alf Layla w Layla.” I feel like we’re in some story out of One Thousand and One Nights.

Isack didn’t reply straight away, just smiled faintly, eyes catching the sunlight, the bangles warm against his chest.

The palace was quiet in the way that only vast, marbled halls could be, a kind of elegant, echoing silence that never let you forget how alone you really were.

She sat in the morning sunroom, half-curled on one of the velvet chaise lounges, fingers absently twisting the end of her braid. A tray of untouched figs and almonds lay on the table beside her, along with a fresh pot of tea that had already grown cold.

Her father entered without knocking, as he always did. The sharp scent of musk and cedar preceded him, the trailing end of his white robe brushing softly against the mosaic tiles.

“You’re off,” he said without greeting, eyes narrowing as he took her in, from the slight slump in her shoulders to the vague shadows under her eyes.

She didn’t look up. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Clearly.” He stepped closer. “What kept you up?”

She shrugged, keeping her tone light. “The usual. Thoughts. Expectations. Century-old ceilings.”

“Don’t get clever.”

That earned him a glance. “Don’t ask stupid questions, then.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, brief, but visible. He came to stand beside her, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“You never speak to me like that.”

“I suppose I’m tired of speaking like I’m being examined.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You used to confide in me.”

“When I was ten, and thought you ruled the sun,” she muttered.

There was a pause. He let it hang in the air just long enough to shift the mood.

Then, with the same cold precision she knew too well, he dropped a rolled scroll onto the table beside the figs.

“What’s this?” she asked, already knowing.

“A list.”

“Of?”

“Potential suitors. From respectable bloodlines. Royal, military, or diplomatic, no lesser. And no more poets.”

She stared at the scroll. Didn’t touch it.

“You’re serious.”

“Entirely.”

“And if I don’t?” Her voice was tight now, clipped at the edges.

“If you don’t choose one by July,” he said calmly, “then we’ll have an issue.”

She stood suddenly, pushing the chair back with more force than she meant to. “An issue.”

“Yes.”

“Like a diplomatic incident, or just another daughter buried in silk and obedience?”

His jaw tightened. “Watch your tongue.”

She met his gaze, hers unflinching, gold-flecked and defiant. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was a wall, and she’d lived behind it all her life.

He gestured to the scroll.

“Make a decision. You’re not a child anymore.”

Then he turned, and just like that, he was gone, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the hush of a palace built more for power than people.

She sat slowly, eyes still fixed on the scroll. Somewhere far beyond the stone walls and manicured gardens, the city lived and breathed without her.

She reached for a fig. Bit into it absentmindedly.

It tasted like nothing.

She let it roll on her tongue, slowly chewing, but it crumbled like ash. Sweet and hollow. Like the walls of this palace. Like her life.

With a quiet breath, she set the fruit back onto the tray and rose, silk skirts whispering against the marble as she slipped through the archway and into the palace gardens.

The air outside was cooler, fragrant with orange blossom and rosemary, soft earth beneath the soles of her slippers. Here, the palace forgot itself. Here, at least, the stone gave way to soil, and life.

She walked past the cypress trees, fingers grazing their rough trunks, until she reached the familiar little corner where the rose bushes curled like old memories around a simple stone marker.

Her mother’s grave.

The marble was smooth, the engraved words worn by years of wind and rain.

She knelt, brushing away a few stray petals from the base, and folded her hands in her lap.

“Salam, Mama,” Peace (Hello), Mama she murmured softly. 

The wind stirred the roses gently, as if in answer.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered, voice barely carrying. “I don’t know what I want or who I am supposed to be.”

Her fingers tightened in the folds of her gown.

“I met someone,” she went on, casting her eyes down. “A boy. A boy with dirt beneath his nails and laughter in his eyes. With his feet on the ground and his heart open. Full. More than he has. More than he can give.”

She closed her eyes.

“Bzaf ʿlih... bzzaf ʿlia.” Too much for him... too much for me

She exhaled, slow and long.

“I wanted to be free, Mama. I wanted to run and see and breathe. But now I’ve tasted it, I don’t know if I can go back. I don’t know if I can fit in this life any longer.”

Footsteps crunched lightly on the gravel behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Lalla,” Little girl, came the familiar soft voice, her mother’s old maid, gentle and lined with age. “You sit here like your mother did. All these years, nothing changes.”

She felt the old woman settle beside her with a quiet sigh.

“What would you do?” she asked softly. “You knew my mother better than she knew herself. What would you tell her, if she stood where I am now?”

The maid smiled faintly, folding her wrinkled hands in her lap.

“Tāmen b’Allah... w tmshi b’qlbek. Huwa li ghadi yurik triq.” Believe in Allah... and follow your heart. He will show you the way

The girl swallowed, throat tight. “And if my heart leads me away from here?”

The old woman touched her hand, warm and steady.

“Then you were never meant to stay, bnti.” my daughter

For a long moment, they sat in the quiet, the scent of roses thick in the air, the world turning softly beyond the palace walls.

Later that night, she sat alone on the terrace, the one on the farthest wing of the palace, furthest from her father’s private quarters and the endless eyes of the guards.

The marble beneath her legs was cool, her bare feet curling against the stone edge as the evening wind lifted strands of her hair. Above her, the sky stretched wide and endless, scattered with stars, silver threads sewn across velvet black. The moon hung low and full, casting the palace rooftops in gentle light.

She breathed in the air, the scent of distant jasmine and city dust, the distant echo of life beyond the walls. It felt like sitting between two worlds. On one side, the endless gardens, the sharp spires, the cold, polished perfection of the palace. On the other, the old city, asleep and breathing, warm and rough-edged, untamed.

Her gaze lingered there, past the battlements, past the dividing walls, past the courtyards where only soldiers and servants tread. She tilted her head, lost in thought, wondering if the boy with the sun-darkened curls and the restless smile was asleep somewhere beneath that same sky.

A soft sound pulled her from her reverie.

She stiffened.

There it was again, a scrape, gentle but clear. A footfall against stone.

Her heart quickened. She glanced back towards the archway, towards the shadowed corridor behind her, empty. Still.

Then from the wall that marked the boundary between palace and city, the high old wall she’d once scaled as a child before she’d been caught and forbidden to try again came a quiet voice, low and teasing.

“L’amira...” Princess

Her breath caught. Familiar. Impossible.

She turned sharply and there he was.

Perched like a cat upon the wall, crouched comfortably as if he belonged there, was Isack. His hair caught the moonlight in soft curls, his eyes glinting with quiet mischief, his grin wide and unrepentant. 

She gaped, mouth slightly open. “You—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “Do you want half the guard waking up?”

“How—how did you get up here?” she hissed, eyes darting nervously to the shadows behind her. “You’ll be killed if they see you.”

He swung his leg over the wall, now sitting casually, unbothered by the drop beneath him. “I’ve been climbing these streets my whole life, l’amira. Walls don’t frighten me. Neither do guards.” His grin widened. “Nor kings.”

She stood, her silk robe slipping from one shoulder as she stared at him in disbelief, hands curling into the stone balustrade.

“You’re mad,” she breathed. “Completely mad.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, easy as rain. “But you left before I could say goodbye. Before you could say anything at all. That’s rude, you know.”

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. “I had to go.”

“I know.” His gaze softened, the teasing edge fading, something quieter behind his eyes now. “But I couldn’t let it end like that. Not without seeing you again.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other across the terrace, palace silk against street dust, gold against leather, two pieces of a story that shouldn’t have touched.

She swallowed hard, voice low. “What are you doing here, Isack?”

He grinned again, but this time it was softer. Less bravado. More truth.

“Kan-fakker fik.” I was thinking of you

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering breath, steadying her racing heart.

“And what do you plan to do now that you’re here?”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes dancing in the moonlight.

“Depends. Do you want to see the city from the rooftops? Like a real life? Or are you going to stay here, on this cold stone, and dream of it forever?”

For a long moment, the world was silent, save for the wind in the olive trees and the distant call of a night bird.

Then she smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Help me over,” she said softly. “Before someone sees you and you lose that charming head of yours.”

His grin lit up his whole face.

“Mzyana bzaaf,” Very good he murmured. 

His hand was rough when she took it, warm and steady, calloused from years of work and climbing and living. Not like the soft, perfumed hands of the princes she’d been paraded before.

“Careful, l’amira,” he murmured with a crooked smile, steadying her as she clambered up onto the wall beside him. “Palace girls aren’t used to balancing this high.”

“I’m not palace born,” she whispered back, grinning despite herself. “My mother birthed me out of the palace, something the Sultan would not want anyone to know.”

Isack chuckled softly. “So you do have secrets.”

She glanced at him sideways. “More than you’d guess.”

“Good.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Hold on.”

And then, like two shadows slipping from their chains, they swung down onto the flat rooftops of the old city, his dog jumping up at the sight of them with a soft whine of excitement. The stones beneath their feet were warm from the day’s heat, glowing faintly under the moon. The air smelled of spice and dust and distant sea wind.

They ran.

Across roof tiles and crumbling plaster, over narrow alleyways and sleeping courtyards. The city stretched wide beneath the sky, full of twisting streets and secrets. She laughed, sudden, wild, unguarded, the sound breaking free from her chest like a bird uncaged.

It startled her.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that. Like a girl, not a daughter of kings.

Isack grinned at her, breathless, pulling her forward. “Raki mzyana…” You’re beautiful His voice was low, teasing, but something in it was true and soft.

She ignored the heat in her cheeks and ran faster.

They went down twisting iron staircases into a courtyard where a fountain murmured in the dark. Past shuttered shops and quiet mosques, their tall silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the stars. The old souk lay deserted at this hour, only the scent of cinnamon and leather lingering in the air, and they wove through its maze, her slippers scattering sand and dust behind them.

They paused near a quiet square, where an old fig tree grew beside a shuttered bakery. Isack caught her hand, pulling her into the shadow of the branches.

“Look,” he whispered, nodding upwards.

There, the sky above the rooftops opened wide, and the stars poured down like light on water. The moon hung low and close, so bright it painted silver across his face, across the soft dark curls of his hair.

She leaned against the tree, breathless. Smiling.

“I haven’t seen the city like this since I was a child,” she murmured. “I’d almost forgotten what it smelled like. The dust, the baking bread, the night air...”

“Machi nshan, l’amira,” It’s not forgotten, princess he said softly.

He crouched by the base of the tree, resting a hand on the warm stone. “It’s in you still. The city. Like breath. Like blood.”

His dog sniffed the cobblestones, tail wagging slowly.

She crouched beside him, tucking her silk robe beneath her knees. “And this is your life. Dust and stone and sky.”

“And tea,” he grinned, pulling a tiny wrapped sweet from his pocket. “Never forget tea.” He unwrapped it, split the piece and offered her half. “You eat like the street folk tonight.”

She laughed softly, taking the sweet from his hand, their fingers brushing. “I think I prefer it.”

For a while they sat like that, sharing the sweet, listening to the quiet city breathe.

Then he stood, holding out a hand again. “Come. There’s more to see before the sun comes.”

And she went.

He led her down the back alleys where old women hung strings of chillies to dry; past the little mosque where boys gathered before dawn; over the market square where, tomorrow, the traders would shout for customers. She touched the walls, the stalls, the rough stones worn smooth by centuries of feet. She smelled mint and old wood, old iron and salt from the far-off sea.

When they reached the sea wall, they sat, side by side, legs swinging high above the water. Below them, the waves lapped gently against the old harbour.

“Tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me why you live like this. So free. So careless.”

He smiled faintly, gazing at the dark water.

“Because no one expects anything from me, l’amira. No crown. No bloodline. I wake. I eat. I live. That’s enough.”

She watched his profile in the moonlight, the ease in his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his voice.

“I don’t know what that feels like,” she whispered.

He turned to her, gently.

“Maybe tonight you do.”

For a while they sat in silence, and it was enough.

When the sky began to pale towards dawn, he stood and dusted off his hands.

“Come. One more place.”

He took her up a steep stairway to the rooftops again, to a flat-topped house where the whole city spread beneath them, rooftops and minarets, domes and arches, all touched with silver light.

She turned slowly, breath caught in her throat.

“I’ve never seen it like this.”

“It’s yours,” he murmured beside her. “All this. Yours to hold or let go.”

She looked at him, at the dog sitting quietly at his side, and something old and tight in her chest eased.

“I don’t want to go back.”

He smiled sadly. “But you will.”

She touched his arm gently. “For now let’s stay until the sun rises.”

And they did.

Until the first light touched the city’s edges, soft and golden, and the distant call to Fajr prayer rose into the waking sky.

For one night, she had lived.

For one night, she had been free.

The first light of dawn crept over the sleeping city, turning the edges of the old stone buildings to gentle gold. The minarets stood like watchful sentinels against the softening sky, and far in the distance, the call to Fajr rose, a quiet, melodic thread carried on the morning breeze.

She stood atop the rooftop, her silk robe stirring gently against her ankles, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. The night’s freedom clung to her skin like perfume, warm and giddy. A soft yawn escaped her lips, unwilling, but honest, and when she rubbed her eyes like a child, Isack laughed quietly beside her.

“Let’s get you home, l’amira,” he murmured, gentle and amused, the corners of his mouth lifting.

She turned her gaze to him, eyes still bright with the thrill of the night. “No,” she said softly, firmly. “Not home. Just the palace. These streets...” She let her gaze sweep across the waking rooftops, the winding alleys below, the scent of baked earth and mint and dawn filling her senses. “These streets are home.”

He looked at her, properly looked, as if seeing something new unfold, and smiled. A real smile. Quiet. Fond. As if he understood without needing any more words.

Together they made their way back to the high wall separating her world from his, the wall that divided gold from dust, silk from leather, crown from calloused hand. His dog padded silently behind them, yawning as it trotted.

At the wall, he crouched first, bracing his hands, offering her a boost.

“Up you go, l’amira,” he whispered with mock ceremony.

She grinned and took the step, his strong hands steady at her waist as he lifted her. Her slippers found the old stones with ease, and she pulled herself over, turning back just as she perched atop the crumbling edge.

Isack swung up lightly beside her, half his body leaning over the top, one leg still hooked to the city’s side.

He rested his forearms on the cold stone, his face close to hers in the pale light of dawn. His voice dropped low, gentle as the breeze that stirred her loose hair.

“You know where to find me,” he said softly. “Just call my name, l’amira, and I’ll hear you. It’ll carry through the winds and I’ll come for you.”

Her heart gave a quiet, aching twist.

She reached out, without fear, without hesitation, and brushed the dark curls back from his forehead. Her fingertips lingered a moment longer than they should.

“Thank you,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “My Isack.”

And then, daring, bold, the way she had not been for all her carefully caged years, she leaned forward and pressed her lips softly to his cheek.

A kiss, warm and fleeting, left just beneath the edge of his eye.

For a heartbeat, he stilled, surprise flickering in his golden-brown gaze, before the familiar, crooked smile curved his mouth once more.

“Tsbah bel khir, l’amira,” Sleep well, princess he murmured. 

She smiled back, heart thudding against her ribs.

And then she dropped silently to the palace side of the wall, back into the world of marble and duty, secrets and silk.

Isack stayed a moment longer, watching, his dog seated patiently at his feet, and then, like a breath on the wind, he was gone.

But her heart stayed wild in her chest, like the streets. Like him.

For the first time in her life, the palace felt far less like home.

Since that night, the months slipped by like sand through his fingers.

First April, when the city blossomed with the scent of oranges and the sea air grew soft and warm. Then May, hot and golden, when the sun lingered late into the evening and the alley cats grew lazy in the shade. June followed, dry and sharp, with the dust rising in thin curls from the streets. And now July was beginning to creep in, slow and heavy with its heat, the sky pale and cloudless as far as the eye could see.

And she had not called his name. Not once.

Hadja had warned him, wagging a crooked finger in his face as she stirred her pot of lentils. “Ma tderhach, waldi. Don’t go waiting for her. Girls like that, palace girls, they fly high and they never look down.” Don’t do this my boy

But his heart, that foolish, disobedient thing, still yearned.

Every evening he’d find himself drifting along the edge of the palace wall, pretending he was walking the dog, pretending he wasn’t hoping to hear her voice on the wind. But nothing came. Only the distant murmurs of the guards. Only the scent of jasmine and stone.

When the morning rose he wandered to Sidi Ahmed’s little shop near the mosque, the dog padding along beside him, tongue lolling. The old man sat outside, grumbling over a chipped tea glass, puffing on his thin roll of tobacco as he squinted at the quiet street.

“Sbah el kheir, Sidi,” Good morning Sidi Isack greeted, swinging down onto the low wall beside him. 

“Sbah en-nour,” the old man grunted back, eyeing him sideways. “Mafi shghal? You’ve time to waste this morning?” No work today?

“Waiting on wood delivery for you,” Isack shrugged, scratching the dog behind the ears. “And tea. You promised tea, old man.”

Sidi grunted and waved a hand. “Go make it yourself, I’m too angry for tea.”

Isack smirked. “What now? Someone insult your prices again?”

“La, worse,” Sidi huffed, dragging deeply on his cigarette. “The streets are closing for two days. Two whole days. For that cursed royal wedding.” He spat into the dust. “Two days no trade, no customers, no deliveries, no work. All because of that stupid fuss.”

Isack frowned, stirring the tea leaves lazily in the pot. “Wedding? Which wedding?”

Sidi gave him a look of disbelief, squinting one eye. “Yal himar” You donkey “You live under the sky and you know nothing, boy? The princess. The l’amira. She’s to marry that fool from Tizi Ouzou. Some prince’s son. Their tents are already pitched outside the palace walls. The wedding’s at the week’s end.”

Isack’s hand stilled on the teapot.

“Shkun...” His throat tightened. “Shkun bnat l’malik?” Which princess?

Sidi snorted. “As if there are many. The king’s only daughter, of course. The pretty one with the Berber cheekbones, the one who never smiles. But she will soon, I suppose. Once she’s properly wed, hm?”

Isack felt the breath leave his chest as if someone had punched him. The dog whined softly at his feet, sensing the sudden change in him.

“She never said...” he murmured under his breath, staring blankly at the steam curling from the teapot. “She never said anything.”

Sidi leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. “Wach bik? What’s this face, boy? You look like you’ve swallowed a bad date.” What’s wrong with you?

“Nothing,” Isack said quickly, shaking his head. “Nothing at all.”

But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Two days the streets would close. Two days of silk and gold and music. Two days and she would belong to another man, some polished stranger from the mountains who smelled of mint and power, who had never run the streets with dust in his hair or tea stolen in the market, who had never touched the old fig tree under the stars.

His hand drifted to the string around his neck, fingers brushing the hidden bracelets tied close to his skin. Cold now. Silent.

Hadja’s words whispered in the back of his mind.

“Palace girls never look down, waldi...”

But she had looked down once. And smiled. And kissed his cheek.

And now she was to be caged again, gilded and perfumed, behind marble walls.

“La tkoon hmaq,” Sidi muttered, grumbling as he refilled his glass. “Don’t be stupid, boy. This is their world. Not ours.”

But Isack said nothing.

He only sat in silence, the tea cooling between his hands, staring at the city that no longer felt like home.

She was to be wed.

To another man.

In three days.

And then she would vanish behind those marble walls forever, a shadow behind silken curtains, a memory pressed flat like petals between the pages of an old book.

Unless...

He set the glass down with a quiet clink.

There was no time to waste.

That night he paced the narrow cove above Hadja’s house, the bracelets heavy against his chest, as the old woman snored softly below. The dog lay awake by the door, tail thumping once when Isack knelt beside him.

“N’har el Khmis,”  Thursday Isack whispered, running a hand through the thick fur. “You and me, boy. One last foolish thing.”

He sketched the plan in his mind as clearly as a carpenter laying out his wood. Simple. Sharp. No room for mistakes.

Early in the morning on the wedding day, the streets lay quiet, stripped of their usual noise. Banners of white and crimson fluttered from the palace walls. The gates stood heavy and closed, but not for him.

He slipped along the shadowed alleys, the dog at his heel. When they reached the outer court, he knelt low, cupping the hound’s face in his hands.

“Sma’ni, a sahbi.” Listen to me, my friend

He tugged gently at the dog’s ear. “Run to the court. Bark. Chase. Bite the silk if you must. Make every guard chase you. And don’t stop until you hear my whistle.”

The dog wagged its tail, tongue lolling, clever dark eyes bright.

“Go.”

He bounded away, streaking through the open side gate just as the servants brought out wedding garlands. With a sudden wild barking and a flurry of paws, chaos broke like a summer storm. Men shouted, cloth ripped, baskets fell; the dog danced circles round them all, scattering petals and kicking over vases.

And while the front court swarmed in shouting confusion, Isack slipped silent as breath to the side wall.

He pulled himself up, grunting softly, legs swinging over the stone as he dropped to the inner courtyard where the date palms whispered. His heart thudded loud in his ears, not with fear. With something far more dangerous.

Hope.

Up the servant stairs, fast and quiet, barefoot. Past the scent of rose oil and incense. He knew the way; he’d listened to Hadja’s stories of the palace, of secret paths and quiet doors. Now they led him straight to her chambers.

He heard her voice from within, soft, distracted.

“You aren’t allowed to see me until after the wedding,” she called, assuming it was her betrothed, come foolishly to break the old tradition.

A grin touched Isack’s mouth as he leaned on the doorframe, careless and sure.

“Well, l’amira, lucky for you, I never cared much for rules.”

The room fell silent.

The curtain stirred, and she stepped out.

And for the first time in his life, Isack forgot every clever word he had ever known.

She stood there in her wedding kaftan, ivory silk, embroidered with gold threads that caught the light like dawn’s first glow. Her hair was plaited with fine jewels, little silver charms from the old mountains woven between the strands. Kohl lined her eyes, making them deep and dark and filled with too many feelings at once.

“Isack...?” Her voice was a whisper, barely breathing.

He swallowed hard, staring, utterly and beautifully lost.

“Ya lahbibti,” he managed, a soft smile curling at the edge of his lips. “You’re something the poets forgot to write about.”

Her gaze flickered to the door, to the chaos far below, then back to him, wild and bright, like the girl who had run laughing through the streets with him under the stars.

And in that quiet moment, caught between the palace and the world beyond, the air hummed with something ancient and fierce.

A promise.

A choice.

A beginning.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The soft scent of jasmine oil hung heavy in the air, mingling with the crisp tang of fresh silk. Somewhere below, the shouting and chaos of the courtyard still stirred, muffled by distance, but here, in this quiet chamber high above the world, time itself seemed to have stopped.

Isack swallowed, his gaze steady on her, his chest tight with something raw and reckless.

“Come with me,” he said softly. His voice was not a command, nor a plea, but something gentle, a thread stretched between hope and fear.

Her hand gripped the carved edge of the dressing table; her knuckles pale against the dark wood.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

He stepped closer, eyes dark and steady. “Can’t or won’t?”

She said nothing.

The silence between them grew thick, not of anger or doubt, but fear. Old fear. Palace fear. The kind spun into your bones from birth, as heavy and clinging as the scent of burning myrrh in the halls.

Isack smiled sadly, tilting his head as if listening to the wind through the date palms.

“It’s fear, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “Not the walls, not your father, not even this ridiculous silk cage they’ve put you in. Just fear. Like a thread round your throat. It’s the oldest prison of all, l’amira.” His voice dropped low, rough as dusk on old stone. “Fear of wanting more than they told you you deserved. Of flying too far from the cage door. Of hearing your own name echo back from the wind and realising you were always meant for the sky.”

She closed her eyes, a shiver racing down her spine.

He stepped close enough to reach her wrist where it rested by her side, the silk of her kaftan soft beneath his fingers. Gently, reverently, he touched the thin golden bracelet there, the one she always wore, with its old engraving worn soft by time.

His thumb brushed across the script, his mouth quietly shaping the words in Arabic:

"Ul-iwazzan ur ttur, ul-iwazzan ur ikkes; ul-iwazzan ur ifus, zriɣ deg ul-iwazzan." The heart that is given is never lost; the hand that offers is never empty; the soul that dares is never broken.

Berber words. Mountain words. Old as the wind.

He smiled faintly.

“Your mother’s?” he asked softly.

She gave the smallest nod, her throat tight.

He traced the bracelet once more, his fingers lingering on the warmth of her skin. Then he raised his gaze to hers, dark eyes bright with something fierce and unspoken.

“Give me a chance,” he murmured. “I’ve nothing but a cove above Hadja’s roof and a dog that’s tearing up the palace court as we speak but if you’ll have me—” he breathed, the smile touching the edge of his mouth, soft and sure, “—I’ll make every breath of this life worth it. Every step. Every dawn. Until you forget what fear ever tasted like.”

The silence quivered between them.

And for the first time in her life, she wondered what it would feel like to be free.

To fly.

To fall.

And never break.

She stood frozen. A breath caught at the edge of her lips, the weight of centuries resting on her shoulders.

For a heartbeat Isack feared she would say no, that the palace would win, that the fear woven into the very stones of this place would tighten its grip and pull her back to the life she hated. Her eyes dropped to the floor; her hand trembled faintly against the silk folds of her wedding kaftan.

Then, a sound.

Her father’s voice, low and steady, carried down the corridor with the heavy certainty of all things expected.

“Binti” My daughter “It’s time. Come. We must go to the mosque.”

The words hung like iron in the air.

Her gaze flickered to the door, to the weight of her father’s voice, and then back to Isack, standing there in his worn shirt, dust on his skin, light in his eyes.

She lifted her chin, something fierce sparking in the dark pools of her eyes. Her fingers reached for the bracelet he had touched, her mother’s words warm against her wrist.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice suddenly clear and strong, like water breaking stone. “Take me from here. Take me to the mosque, but only if you promise one thing, ya Isack.”

He stilled, breath caught.

“Promise me that you will wed me yourself. With no lords, no gold, no court. No lies. In the mosque, in the sight of Allah, with nothing but the truth between us. And let me be free of this life. Forever.”

His heart clenched. He reached out, gently cupping her face as he smiled, a slow, soft smile that held the sky itself.

“I swear on my life,” he said. “On my breath, on my dog, on the roof that shelters me and the streets that made me, I swear, l’amira. I’ll take you to the mosque with my own hand and you will be free. No walls. No cages. No fear.”

For the first time, she smiled, real and unguarded, bright as the morning sun cracking over the sea.

“Then let’s go.”

Without another word, he took her hand rough against the silk, and led her to the window. Below, the court was still in chaos, guards chasing the barking hound who darted between their legs like a spirit from the stories.

With a quiet laugh, Isack helped her swing over the terrace ledge, steadying her as her golden slippers met the stone. She glanced once over her shoulder, at the life she’d lived, the father who called for her, the walls that had held her since birth.

And then she leapt.

Into the dawn.

Into the world.

Into freedom.

Isack grinned, pulling her close as they dashed for the stairs, the wind rushing warm and alive against their faces.

“Come, l’amira,” he breathed as they ran, hearts pounding like drums. “Let’s get you wed, properly.”

And hand in hand, they fled into the waking streets of Algiers, where the call to prayer rose soft and silver into the sky, and the city opened before them, endless and wild as the sea.

They ran through the streets like the children she’d once watched with longing eyes, but now she was part of that world, part of the dawn, part of life.

Her slippers barely touched the cobbles, her golden bangles chiming softly with each hurried step, her silken wedding kaftan billowing like a cloud behind her. Jewels still clung to her neck and wrists, shimmering under the dim light of the waking city. Beside her, Isack ran barefoot in his worn scraps and dust-stained linen, his laughter breathless, his grin as bright as the sun rising behind them.

And together, like foolish lovers from some old street tale, they dashed towards the mosque.

The great white walls rose before them, calm and still against the blue-tinged sky, the call to prayer fading softly into the air. The old wooden doors stood half open, light from within spilling golden onto the stone.

Isack pushed through first, his dog waiting outside, tail wagging fiercely at the steps.

Inside, the familiar scent of oud and old prayer rugs filled the air. And there, bending to arrange the worn books of scripture, stood the imam, a stout man with a silver beard and thick brows, muttering to himself as he worked.

“Ya khoya!” Brother Isack called, grinning as he hurried forward. “Remember when I caught your runaway rooster last winter and you promised me a favour?”

The imam straightened slowly, squinting at him.

“Ya waldi, I’ve no dinar to pay you for that rooster,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I told you already, that bird brought me nothing but bad luck.”

Isack only laughed, glancing at her, breathless, radiant in her silks and gold.

“I’m not here for money, imam Saïdi,” he said softly, the grin fading into something almost shy, almost sacred. “I’ve come for my payment. Please, wed me to the woman who holds my heart. Now. Quickly. We’re in a rush.”

The imam stared, from Isack’s rough clothes to her shining wedding jewels, then back again.

“Are you sure, boy?” the old man asked, voice low with the weight of tradition. “This is no small thing, not a game to win and laugh over. Marriage is binding before Allah, here, and in the next life.”

Isack turned to her, his hand reaching for hers, fingers twining tight. She met his gaze, her heart thudding hard and wild.

“Yes,” she whispered, voice steady. “We are sure.”

The imam sighed, but the faintest smile curved his lips beneath his beard.

“Very well, waladi. Come here. Both of you.”

And so, beneath the carved wooden beams of the mosque, before the worn prayer rugs and the quiet dawn, the old man began the nikah.

Isack spoke first, his voice clear: his ijab, his offer to take her as his wife. Her heart jumped as she gave her quiet qabul, accepting him, her breath soft and warm in the hushed air.

Witnessed by Allah. No gold. No courts. No walls.

Only truth.

Only choice.

Only freedom.

The imam prayed over them, his hands lifted gently, invoking peace, blessing, mercy. The words of the Qur’an wrapped around them like light, weaving them into something whole and sacred.

“Baraka Allahu lakuma,” May Allah bless you both he said softly at last. 

But before the final words could fall, the heavy crash of iron-shod boots broke the quiet, and the wide doors of the mosque burst open.

Palace guards.

Dozens of them.

Their dark leather armour gleamed, swords glinting under the oil lamps. The captain stepped forward, gaze sharp and cruel.

“There they are!” he barked. “Seize them, by order of the Sultan himself!”

The peace of the mosque shattered, but Isack only smiled, fingers tightening around his new wife’s hand.

“Ya Allah...” the imam muttered, clutching his beads.

Steel-clad hands grabbed Isack roughly by the arms, wrenching him backwards with such force his shoulder jarred painfully. The dog growled low and deep from outside but dared not move as three more guards kept their blades close.

At the far end of the prayer hall, she stood, now alone, radiant in her wedding silk, defiant as the sunrise behind her. Her dark eyes flashed as the heavy tread of boots approached.

The Sultan himself entered the mosque, flanked by advisors and more guards, the weight of his presence sinking into the air like stone into water. His robe of deep emerald trailed behind him.

He halted in the centre of the prayer hall, eyes flicking from the bound street boy to his daughter, who was supposed to be waiting at the palace gates for her grand procession.

His face darkened.

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice cut sharp through the silence, hard as steel drawn from its sheath. “What foolishness is this? Binti, explain yourself. Now.”

She lifted her chin, her heart pounding against her ribs. “I have nothing to explain to you, Father,” she said, her voice low, steady. “I have done what you never let me do, I chose.”

His gaze narrowed, dark with warning. “Chose?” he spat. “Chose what? This—” he flung a hand towards the struggling Isack, “this gutter rat? This thief from the streets? You throw away a kingdom for him?”

He strode towards her, his robe whispering against the tiles. His hand shot out, catching her chin hard, lifting her face so her eyes were forced to meet his.

“You shame me,” he hissed. “You shame your mother’s name. Your country. What have you done?”

Before she could speak, Isack's voice cracked the air, hoarse but fierce, his whole body straining against the guards’ grip.

“Don’t touch my wife!”

The words hung like thunder in the mosque.

The Sultan froze.

So did every guard.

Even the imam, who stood quietly by the prayer books, bowed his head and folded his hands before him.

“She speaks the truth, sidi,” the old imam said softly, his voice carrying clear and unafraid through the vast chamber. “By Allah’s law and witness, they are wed. Just now. With her qabul and his ijab. With me as their witness. The nikah is done.”

The Sultan’s hand dropped slowly from her face.

His breath hissed between his teeth as he stared at his daughter, who stood unflinching, her chin high, her eyes clear and bright.

“You married him,” he said, voice low with disbelief. “You married this... street boy. Without my blessing. Without the court. Without—” His hand trembled. “You dare defy me, your father, the Sultan?”

“I dared, Father,” she said softly, “because you left me no choice. You caged me all my life. This is my freedom. My will. My faith.” Her voice hardened. “And he is my husband.”

Silence fell like a heavy cloth over the mosque, save for the dog’s soft, warning growl and the faint creak of armour.

The Sultan stared at them, the gilded princess and the dusty street boy, joined in defiance and faith.

His jaw tightened.

And the air held still, waiting for his judgement.

The Sultan’s face darkened, rage twisting the lines of his mouth as the weight of his shame settled upon him. In front of his men. In the house of God. His pride, his own blood, choosing a street rat over the throne.

His hand shot out.

A sharp crack split the air as his palm struck her cheek, sending her head whipping to the side.

A breathless hush swept the mosque.

Isack roared.

With a violent wrench, he tore free from the guards' grip, their surprise too slow, their hands grasping at empty air as the boy, lean and lithe from a lifetime of running and scrapping, lunged across the space between them.

He grabbed the Sultan by the front of his robes, strong, hands knotting into the silken lapels and hauled him forward until their faces were but inches apart. His chest heaved; his golden-brown eyes burned bright as fire.

“The only thing holding me back from sending you to your death for laying a hand on my wife,” he growled, voice low and shaking with fury, “is that we stand in the house of Allah. But God is my witness, Sultan, if I see you again, and you dare try one more thing against her, against us, you shan’t live to say the word ‘La’.” No

A gasp rippled through the guards.

Even the dog bared its teeth, hackles raised, a low rumble thrumming in its throat.

The Sultan’s eyes, wide with shock, stared into Isack’s face, the breath stolen from his chest. No man, no beggar, no prince had ever dared grip him so. His guards hovered, hesitating, unsure whether to drag Isack down and risk defiling the mosque further.

Isack shook him once, hard, before shoving him back, hard enough that the Sultan staggered on his feet, his robes twisting about him like wounded pride.

She gasped softly, her fingers brushing her stinging cheek, but her heart swelled with something wild and bright. Isack, this boy from the streets, stood tall before a king without fear.

The Imam stepped forward quietly, his old hands raised.

“Enough. Baraka min hadshi.” Enough of this

His voice cut the tension like a blade, heavy with the quiet authority of one who spoke for God.

“All of you, this is sacred ground. No more violence beneath Allah’s roof. Leave your wrath outside.”

Isack stood firm, breathing hard, the fire still in his eyes.

The Sultan straightened his robe, hand trembling slightly as he brushed the silk smooth, his gaze burning into the boy before him.

“You have shamed me,” the Sultan hissed. “Both of you. This is not over.”

Isack smiled, slow, dangerous, wolfish.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s only just begun.”

Her hand slipped into his, fingers tightening around his as the guards shifted uneasily, no man daring to break the Imam’s peace, no sword daring to fall where Allah’s name was spoken.

And in that quiet moment, beneath the great dome of the mosque and the morning light streaming in, they stood, husband and wife, defiant and unbroken.

And free.

The weight of the morning’s confrontation still clung to them as she and Isack made their way through the narrow, twisting streets, fingers intertwined. They arrived at Hadja’s humble home.

Hadja greeted them with a knowing smile, her eyes sharp beneath heavy brows that had witnessed decades of stories. “Ah, waldi,” she said softly, her voice thick with affection. “And l’amira, the princess with the heart of a rebel.” She welcomed them inside, where the scent of mint tea and spices wove through the air like a familiar song.

Once seated, tea poured and steam swirling upwards, they looked to her for guidance. Hadja’s gaze softened as she began, her voice falling into a quiet rhythm, the past and present folding together.

“Love,” she murmured, she smiled faintly, “is a wild flame. I was once foolishly in love, too.”

Her eyes drifted to a faraway place, as though seeing a younger version of herself beneath a fading lantern’s light.

“There was a boy from a far village, kan zwin, he was handsome, kind, but life had other plans. Tqadit I was deceived. I thought love alone would be enough, but it was not.”

“Knt bghit nhss b huriya I wanted to feel free. But freedom, l’amira, isn’t given; it’s taken. And love is the courage to take it.”

When she finished, silence settled, the weight of her words hanging in the air.

Hadja’s hand reached out, worn and steady, resting on Isack’s.

“My son Isack, listen carefully. Take passage from here to Ghazaouet. It’s not safe for you here anymore.”

Isack’s brow furrowed, surprise flickering across his face.

Hadja turned to l’amira, eyes shimmering with a secret long kept.

“l’amira, your mother was from Ghazaouet. I took passage with her to Algiers long ago. She was brave, she’d be proud of you.”

Her breath caught, fingers tightening around Isack’s hand.

“My sister works in the palace, she was your mother’s maid. You were closer than you ever knew.”

A tear traced a line down Hadja’s cheek, touched by both sorrow and hope.

“You’ll find fertile land there, and people who will welcome you. Seek out the trader named Rashid, he will guide you.”

The room felt alive with possibility, the past and future intertwining in Hadja’s words.

Isack nodded, determination hardening in his gaze.

She felt a quiet hope bloom inside her, fragile but fierce.

Together, they would chase the horizon.

Together, they would find freedom.

That night, they found passage to Ghazaouet, with nothing but a dog, a cloth bundling their meagre belongings, and their hearts. The road was long and winding, carving through desert and coast, dust clinging to their clothes and salt from the sea staining their hair. But they carried no burden heavier than the lives they had shed behind them.

It took five days. Five days of quiet prayers, whispered plans, shared bread, and watching the dog run wild through the hills as though he had always known freedom. On the evening of the fifth day, with the sun resting low like a gold coin on the edge of the horizon, they arrived.

They found Rashid just as Hadja had said. A man with lines on his face from years of salt and sand, eyes that knew the weight of secrets, and a heart that softened the moment he saw her face.

“Bint Laila” he whispered, as if he were seeing a ghost. “Your mother would be at peace now.”

He led them to the land her mother had left behind, acres upon acres of olive trees and wild thyme, crowned by a single stone house, worn by time but strong, built upon a rise that overlooked the endless sea. It had a stah, a courtyard with faded tiles and jasmine climbing along the old walls. Her mother had kept it all untouched, in case she too bore a restless heart, as she once had.

They did not return to Algiers. The city forgot them, as all cities forget their rebels and dreamers.

Isack worked with Rashid, hands calloused by honest labour, skin browned by the coastal sun. He returned home each day to a house alive with laughter and the scent of mint and coriander. His wife was no longer a princess. She was something far freer, a woman of her own making. She walked barefoot in the morning dew, learned the names of herbs, stitched cushions for the stah, and left her hair uncovered to dance with the wind.

They lived slowly. They lived wholly. And in quiet moments beneath the olive trees, Isack would take her hand and kiss her wrist where the bangle once sat and say, “You, l’amira, are the only kingdom I’ll ever kneel for.”

Years passed like the tide, soft but certain. No one remembered the boy from the streets of Algiers who stole the heart of a princess. No one spoke of the princess at all. The crown she once wore died with her old name, and she never mourned it.

In the spring of their third year by the sea, they welcomed a son. Isack held him with trembling arms and named him Nur el-Din, the light of faith, for he came into their lives as proof that their love had been blessed.

Years later, a daughter followed, born beneath a full moon. She named her Amal Layali, the hope of nights, for she had once looked to the stars and prayed for freedom, and the stars had listened.

They raised their children on stories and soil, on faith and fire, and on the unshakable truth that love, when pure, needs no crown to be sacred.

And in time, no one remembered the palace or the boy who walked its shadows.

But on the cliffs of Ghazaouet, where jasmine grows wild and the sea sings to the shore, you can still find the house with the stah, where a dog once slept in the sun, and where two hearts, once lost, found their way home.

And if you listen closely to the wind, you might still hear her whisper his name.

the end.

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[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

DEATHSTROKE!READER HEADCANONS CUZ YALL LOVE THEM SO MUCH!!!

Deathstroke reader's hair is fried, like it was back when they used to be Robin. They used to straighten their hair to an unreasonable amount. Actually, think of Steph back in her Robin days—that was literally the reader's hair back when they were Robin, but it didn't work well for their hair type, resulting in terrible and irreversible hair damage. When they joined Deathstroke, they shaved all their hair off and started fresh. Fresh hair. The reader has a buzz cut that is gelled to be spiky and styled; it's actually pretty good. They used to dye their hair a lot, like blonde, which also contributed to the hair damage. Last but not least, the Wilson family loves to rub your freshly buzzed hair.

Deathstroke reader has acne around their face, which is basically your fault because you wear a lot of makeup, causing some acne. Also, your mask makes you sweat, clogging your pores. You've been thinking about getting a skincare routine, but you're too lazy, so Rose does your skincare every now and then. Your acne isn't really noticeable; it's just there. But as long as you keep up with those face masks, you'll be fine.

Deathstroke reader is non-binary; they go by all pronouns and wear both masculine and feminine clothing. They used to only wear masculine clothes back in their Robin days because they hated femininity due to their mother. I'll get into this deeper in a later fic. Deathstroke reader is also around 19 to mid-20s; I wanted to make them older compared to the other readers, who are either in high school or in college. Deathstroke reader is pretty tall, like basketball-level tall, standing right next to Slade's shoulder.

Deathstroke reader smokes; Rose does too, and I'm pretty sure I saw a comic where Slade smokes. It runs in the family, I guess, but you can't find your lighter anywhere—borrowed by Rose, or you lost it some way, somehow. So you find intricate ways to light a cigarette. Hell yeah, the Flash's electric speed definitely helps your Green Lantern boyfriend light your cigarette for you. Totally, Deathstroke reader will literally walk up to Bruce, smoking in his face. The rest of the Bat Family hates the fact that you smoke, scolding you and saying it's bad for you, like you're some child, even though you're about to be pushing 30. It gets on your nerves.

Deathstroke reader isn't much into relationships; mostly, they have meaningless flings. When you're thinking about getting into a relationship, you're already waking up with someone gone. You have an ongoing fling with Constantine—not a serious relationship, really; it’s routine at this point. You call him up for a favor or he does, and you both get a drink, maybe a smoke. You end up at his dank apartment, then you leave the next day. You don't intend on staying, and you don't intend on loving him either, but he's developing warm feelings in his chest because of you. You always have to remind him it's just a fling. Roy, on the other hand, isn't so easily persuaded. That ginger will not believe it started as a one-time thing. The moment he saw you playing around with Lian was the moment he declared you his. So gentle with her, so sweet; you only say it's because you have siblings, but he knows better. The nights you two spent together are passionate and sweet, but you always seem to leave his bed with no intention of coming back. You're breaking his heart.

When Deathstroke reader was Robin, they had internalized misogyny within them, not just because the Robin mantle used to be for guys, but also because of their relationship with their mom. Think about the "I Hate My Mom" song by GRLwood—like, they used to hate almost anything feminine because it reminded them of their mother: long nails, makeup, eyelashes, dresses, skirts, all that stuff. It's not until they worked with Slade that they started to embrace this part of themselves. You're not like your mother; you never will be. It doesn't make you weak, and it doesn't make you any less strong. That's something I can understand—makeup and flashy clothing, embracing yourself more.

Deathstroke reader is brutal when it comes to fights; they do not fight fair at all—biting, slapping, scratching, kicking—almost anything. Sure, they do know fighting styles, but their greatest strengths are brute force and ambushing their attacker with punches to the point where they're unable to react. You had a fight with Cass one time, and you dominated her with hits over and over again, not letting her let up. Sure, she can read body movements, but yours are so aggressive that it's honestly too hard to fight back. You're pummeling Damien like he's not your little brother, more like a stray dog on the street begging for scraps. Your head-butting Jason's Red Hood mask, making cracks in his mask and giving him a black eye in the process. Sure, your head was ringing for at least an hour, but it was worth seeing the shock on his face. You remember one time Bruce visited you at Arkham Asylum—the asylum he put you in—trying to manipulate you into coming home. You jumped across the table, beating the shit out of him. It took multiple nurses to get you off of him. Anytime the Bat Family comes to visit, especially Bruce, you're stuck in a straitjacket with a glass wall in front of you. There's literally a struggle at Arkham to try and get you into the meeting room. They have to roll you in a wheelchair like luggage out of an airport because you tried to escape multiple times, but it always fails, and you're stuck in that meeting room. They're rambling on and on, saying they'll bring you back home. Yeah, right.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 102

 Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. In for ten seconds, out for eight. Alright. Okay. “Let me get this straight,” he didn’t motion to the three teens- or not teens even if two apparently looked like they were- but it was a close thing. “You-” 

 Phantom perked up, white hair flickering with what he was pretty sure were stars as they turned away from the window looking out into space. “-are two years old.” The fae-esque being who looked more like a fourteen year old gave a half-distracted nod. Which, for a toddler, they were paying attention pretty well. 

 “You-” Klarion looked up from where he was fiddling with the cuffs that had been on him, cat sprawled on his shoulder now that it was out of the carrier. “-are six?” Another distracted nod, the apparently-child seemingly enamored with the sounds the cuffs made when they clinked together. 

  “And you-” He turned towards Marvel, who shrank back before seemingly steeling themself. “-are in fact ten.” The… well they had thought demigod but apparently all three were some sort of realms-being, which had apparently made Constantine pale and start cursing before stomping out of the Watchtower. Another nod and shaky thumbs up. 

 Alright. Okay. They had in fact let a ten-year old join the league, which wouldn’t have been so bad if they had known. Especially the fact that apparently Marvel was only half-human, which suddenly explained so much about how he didn’t know so many things about a human life. Which-

 “You,” he turned towards Phantom again to make sure he was listening before returning his attention to Marvel. “And you have both lived at least a year in the human realm with human companions, but your-” He turned his gaze towards the ravenette in the center. The six year old apparently. “-experience with the human realm is literally just with the Light.” 

 Yet another distracted nod. Okay. Bruce was tempted to scream in a room for the entire situation that had cropped up from the single action of taking Klarion’s familiar and then the boy himself into custody. Then again, it was honestly a much better thing they had apparently caught this. 

 “Alright,” he sighed, suddenly feeling incredibly exhausted. “To make sure I have all of this correct-” Because it was already a shitshow and the amount of shouting had absolutely spooked the child. To the point he’d- according to Marvel- made what was apparently some sort of very distressed noise that had made both him and Phantom running. Or rather flying and portaling. 

 “-in the realms, people there make friends through fighting,” Bruce pauses to make sure he got that part correct. The origin of this entire misunderstanding with the chaos-lord. Lordling? 

 All three nodded, Klarion losing interest in the cuffs and starting to pet his cat. Familiar. Everyone had referred to it as a familiar and Marvel had appeared utterly horrified that they had taken said familiar away. Somehow he was the one the trio were currently trusting and weren’t doing the same towards any of the other league members. 

 “And you have been trying to make friends with the Jr team, which they have been taking as an attack due to this miscommunication.” Honestly they should have gotten more information, though he couldn’t exactly blame any of the teens, what with everything they were currently dealing with. 

 “... is there any sort of guardian or something you might have, that can be contacted? Or anyone that could help prevent a situation like this from happening again?” All three avoided his eyes, suddenly finding things like the table and walls very interesting. 

 Oh. Hm. This could be a problem.

[thewitchblue]

"What do you mean you were in love with John Constantine at one point?"

Bruce asked. He was in denial and disbelief. Constantine is his age! What is he doing with his daughter?

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. Bruce dates women twenty years younger than him all the time. What's the big deal with John?

"Not 'used to.' She currently is in love with Constantine."

Tim added unhelpfully. You turned to him with a look of betrayal, but he merely sipped his coffee with a smile. He watched the drama unfold like a cat watched a glass they hit fall to the floor. You turned on him in an instant,

"Oh, you want to go there, Tim? Tim is engaged!"

Tim choked on his coffee when Bruce turned his disapproving gaze at him. He didn't even tell you about his fiancée. He thought he hid him better than that. How did you find out?

"Why don't we all calm down?"

Dick tried to soothe the heated battle about to happen before everyone in the Batcave.

"Dick, don't act like you don't have secrets, too. You impregnated Starfire twice. When were you going to tell Bruce he's a grandpa?"

Bruce whipped his head to Dick. He could feel his hair go grey the more secrets come out. What the hell happens when he goes out? Why didn't Alfred stop you guys?

Jason laughed loudly until your baleful eyes landed on him. What do you know? There's so much shit he's done.

Tim was still recovering from his coffee choke when you said,

"Jason had sex with Roy in the Batmobile."

The look of horror on Bruce's face calmed your anger slightly. Good for Jason. You didn't care why he did what he did. They had sex in the driver's seat. It's not like you sit there.

"How the fuck do you know about that?!"

Jason was floored. He had made triple sure he was alone in the manor when he had sex with Roy. He originally wanted to do it in Bruce's bed as a power move, but he couldn't stomach the idea of contaminating Roy with Bruce's cologne, so he settled for the Batmobile.

"It's TRUE?!"

Bruce snapped back in disbelief. You watched in satisfaction as Jason quickly started backpedalling.

"Of course not! I would never, well, not never, but I haven't fucked anybody in the Batmobile."

Bruce couldn't believe his ears. He was horrified about what else you could be withholding.

"I'll let you continue dating Constantine IF you tell me everything you know."

Every single kid screeched,

"NO!"

What else do you know? The other kids didn't want to know. Damian had the gull to say,

"It will be considered an act of war if you tell father anything relating to me."

You snorted an amused laugh. Yeah, sure, pipsqueak. You said,

"Damian has hidden a girlfriend from you for two years."

Damian reached for his sword, but John portaled into the Batcave with a lit cigarette before he could draw it. He said smoothly,

"Date time, love."

You gave them all a cold smile. Oh, this wasn't over. You had more dirt to bury them with.

You took John's offered hand and kissed him quickly. You turned and bowed with a mocking smile.

"Until next time, losers."

You said while waving goodbye. You followed John through a wormhole he opened into a bar in Ireland. Your favourite bar.

The chaos that followed when you left turned into a war of blackmail.

"Jason is still dating Roy and adopted Lian!"

"Dick is married!"

"Tim uses Connor's heat vision during sex!"

"Damian almost got a girl pregnant!"

Bruce was so overwhelmed by the chaos of five children ganging up on each other.

He felt like he was learning his children for the first time. He can't handle all this information. He saw them all in a new light.

"Cass is dating Wonder Woman!"

Cass twirled a dagger threateningly in her hand. She would be out for blood if Bruce dared to reject her relationship. She is the best person prepared to take out Batman. Her mother would be so proud at the discomfort Bruce felt when her gaze pierced through him. Bruce felt exhausted. He asked,

"Are you all done?"

They had all run out of blackmail veey quickly, but the tension was thick in the air. Bruce grounded everyone and said he would handle Gotham with you and you alone. Outrage spread like wildfire.

"That's not fair!"

"I don't live in this city!"

"My AK-47 thinks otherwise."

Tim was passed out with this head on the keyboard of the Batcomputer. If he's going to be grounded, he can at least sleep. He'll find blackmail against you again.

You got engaged and then married that same night, and you texted Bruce to let him know before Tim could hack into government websites and find the marriage certificate.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GOT MARRIED?!"

Bruce yelled. He called you the minute he got your text. You smiled on the other side of the phone while John listened in with a whiskey bottle in his hand. He grinned at you before taking a long swig from the bottle.

"I'm married. You have to deal with that."

You said in a deadpan tone. What's so hard to comprehend?

Bruce sighed. He wished it was anybody else. He'd even take one of his villains over John Constantine. Constantine is a weaselly man who is often more trouble than he's worth.

Bruce sighed on the other side of the phone. Everybody who was in the cave heard his explosion and began listening in.

"There's nothing I can do to convince you to divorce him, is there?"

You chuckled, and Bruce admitted defeat in that moment. You told him in a light-hearted tone,

"Nope. You're stuck with John for life now, dad."

Bruce groaned at the thought. Why are his children dating his colleagues? You sent phone kisses before hanging up.

"How'd he take it, love? I heard him scream."

You laughed. There is nothing Bruce can do. You aren't the first one to get married, but you are the first one to give John Constantine a chance.

John is loyal despite being a total prick. He's kind towards those he cares about, and he's gentle unless you cross him. He's a guarded man with many secrets and a worrisome past, but he stole your heart, and that's what matters.

"He has no choice but to get over it. We're not divorcing."

John smirked. He loves your attitude. You don't care one bit about what others think; not even your own family's opinions and thoughts matter. You paved your own path and don't care one bit about who disapproves.

John sets down the whiskey bottle and wraps his arms around you. He rests his head on top of yours as he holds you. He never in a thousand lifetimes thought he'd get married or find the love of his life, yet here he is: holding his most precious love.

"I love you."

His voice was quiet, as if his love for you was still a secret between the two. You buried your face in his chest and said in a muffled voice,

"I love you so much, John."

[nanenna]

Meeting the Mayor

Sleepy King Master Post

Mayor Masters had left their little group waiting for far too long. It was clearly a power move, something Batman expected of someone like Lex Luthor, not the mayor of a small town that had been all but swallowed up by the nearby larger city. It was so predictable that he even started a mental countdown on when they would be allowed to meet Masters. He was, of course, right.

On entering the mayor’s office, Masters was sitting behind his desk, an oily smile spread across his face. He didn’t even stand to greet them. “Good afternoon, it’s not every day…” Masters trailed off as his face scrunched up. “Strawberry shortcake! Did some youths play a prank on you?”

Batman glanced briefly towards his fellow League members, they looked just as confused as he was. Diana squared her shoulders, “What do you mean?”

“You don’t…” Masters frowned as he looked them over, “Nevermind, my mistake. What did you want to discuss?” The man smiled brightly as he leaned over and pressed a button on a small desk fan, the blades whirred to life.

Diana smiled just as brightly and just as fakely as she sat down in front of his desk. “We’re here to make sure you’re aware of the resources the Justice League has made available to any municipal body.”

Constantine took his cue and lounged in the chair next to Diana while Batman chose to loom over her shoulder.

“Resources?” Masters asked with a raised brow.

“Yes, we understand that attacks on a “super villain” level can leave a lot of collateral damage that smaller cities may struggle to repair, especially those that haven’t had to deal with such things before. The Justice League provides aid to anyone who applies.”

“Ah, how generous!” Masters gave a smile that made Batman’s skin crawl. “But I’m sure even you have limited funds, would not they be better left to those truly in need? As you’ve seen, our little town is doing just fine without your help.”

“And how is that?” Batman asked. “There’ve been reports of numerous attacks over the last two years, where is Amity Park getting the resources to repair the damage?”

“Believe it or not, ghosts are incorporeal and thus don’t cause as much collateral damage. Also, the appearance of ghosts has caused a spike in tourists, which has been quite the boost to our economy. And lastly, as the mayor is it not my civic duty to support my town, which I love so dearly? Of course I’ve been supplementing Amity’s budget, and I’ve been making sure to hire only local businesses to keep Amity Park’s money inside Amity Park.”

Batman narrowed his eyes. He chose not to mention that Vlad had only moved to Amity Park shortly before running for mayor, or that he had bought and combined a few local construction companies and has been using them exclusively. Certainly everything about the man was suspicious, but that wasn’t what they were here to talk about. Instead he pulled several pamphlets from his utility belt. “While you’ve been lucky so far, it would be in your best interests to be fully aware of the resources available to you and your fine town in case something larger scale happens.” Not that it hadn’t already, he couldn’t imagine anything larger scale than the entire town and neighboring city getting pulled into another dimension by an undead tyrant king.

While Batman and Diana painstakingly went over the pamphlets with Masters, who’s smile wilted more and more the longer they took, Constantine kept muttering under his breath and making motions with his hands where Masters couldn’t see them, staring intensely at the mayor the whole time. Batman was curious what he was seeing.

The wall suddenly burst, small bits of plaster and wood showering over Masters and the cape Batman had used to shield himself and his fellow League members.

“Vladdie!” A familiar voice called boisterously, “You won’t believe what happened! Oh, I didn’t know you had guests.”

Masters was brushing debris from his person as he spoke with clear disdain, “Yes, well, if you would use the door as. I’ve. Asked! Numerous time. This whole situation could be avoided.”

“Hello again,” Dr. Jack Fenton said cheerfully with a little wave. “What are you doing visiting Vladdie?”

“We were just ensuring Mayor Masters was aware of all the JL resources available to him,” Batman said as he let his cap fall back around his body.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Diana said brightly. “We also have support available for minors doing hero work, you wouldn’t happen to be able to get in contact with Phantom, would you?”

Dr. Madeline Fenton, along with both their children, approached as Diana asked her question. Masters’s eyes trailed over to the group before focusing back on the League members. “No, I’m afraid not. He’s a ghost, you know. Likely he spends most of his time in the Ghost Zone, only comes here to play around with his ghost friends and cause collateral damage.”

“Hey!” Danny said indignantly. “Phantom is a hero who’s working really hard to keep the town safe!”

“Yes yes,” Masters said while waving his hand at the family. “I know you and all your little friends think Phantom hung the moon and stars. Wait, shouldn’t you two be at school?”

“There was an incident,” Jack said proudly.

Masters sighed, “It wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with these fine people, would it?” He waved at the League members as he spoke.

“Good guess, Vladdie!”

“I thought so.” Masters swept the pamphlets into his desk drawer. “Well thank you very much for your concern, I shall make sure to keep these in case we ever do need assistance. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to contact someone about repairing my wall. Have a lovely day.” Masters stood and simply walked through the busted wall with the Fenton family.

Batman watched them leave through narrowed eyes.

“Not the oddest town I’ve been in,” Diana remarked thoughtfully.

Batman simply turned to look in Constantine’s direction.

“The mayor is also dead as a doornail, but fully alive.”

“He also clearly smelled your demon blood,” Batman added.

Constantine nodded. “I'm getting all kinds of odd readings off the mayor, no I'm not explaining it. Just know he's weird, but still not as weird as the kid, though he's close."

"Should we not follow them?" Diana asked.

"I put trackers and bugs on all of them," Batman replied.

"'Course you did, mate."

[toobytoobs]

I need a fic where all the magic users know that the Champion of Magic is a child so they just start unintentionally co-parenting Billy.

Like, John Constantine will take him on outings to hell. Billy will run off and come back with a piece of Constantine’s soul that had been gambled away and Billy will refuse to explain how he got it.

Dr. Fate (against his better judgment) sets up a playdate between Billy and Klarion the Witch Boy where they are just running around causing chaos (nothing harmful thanks to Billy)

Zatanna lets Billy come to her shows where he’s putting every other audience member to shame with how loud he claps and cheers whenever Zatanna does a trick.

Give me a scenario where magic users are regularly teleporting into the watchtower just to give Captain Marvel a packed lunch, and telling him off —in front of the JL— for forgetting it.

[sthilarions]

Proposal: Edwin stuck as the center point in a long-term time loop.

Every time Charles says he loves him back, or kisses him, or otherwise makes romantic intentions unavoidably clear, it knocks him into the past. Not to what Edwin thinks should be the inciting moment, on the steps of Hell (at least then it would be useful, he could save Niko). But to a seemingly random moment, in the office, just him and Charles, as the snow falls against their window.

Sometimes it takes months; once a loop lasts only moments, as Charles looks down at him from where he’s sitting on the desk, and kisses him in front of the snowfall. Edwin has learned how to stretch the loops, by delaying Charles’s realization or confession.

He tried running away twice, but only twice, as it turned out that separation and anxiety were a good way to jumpstart Charles’s realization, and also Charles is quite good at hunting him down. But there are other ways. He has tried withdrawing and pressing Charles closer to Crystal; tried becoming more and more snappish; tried acting utterly oblivious; tried telling Charles that he’s gotten over his own feelings and moved on; tried getting involved with the Cat King; tried simply cutting Charles off every time he looked like he was about to speak on the matter; once he started to get truly desperate, he tried both necromancy (returning Charles to life, where surely, Edwin thought, Charles would forget about him) and an anti-love spell (Charles broke through it in a matter of hours, despite the spell being supposedly guaranteed).

No matter what he does, Charles loves him anyway. And Edwin is knocked back to the office, Charles leaning down towards him, snow falling against the window, and the two of them looking forward at - at what? At who?

There is something stopping him from acting directly against the loop. He tries to tell Charles, then tries to tell Crystal, then tries to tell Constantine then Zatanna then Ethel the dodgy potioneer; even once tries to tell Dennis the warlock while he has them captured and is giving a truly embarassing evil monologue. He can’t ever get the words out. He tries to look into books, and most of the time he forgets what he’s doing before he can get to the book; when he is able, the words dance in front of his eyes, turn to false Latin, lorem ipsum dolor sit amet. He’s barely even able to think about it; over time he starts to learn when he can and cannot, when the Eyes are on him and when his thoughts are free.

He’s centuries older, now. And he’s starting to be able to stretch the loop out to a year, if he tries, if he’s lucky. And he’s getting better and better at telling when the Eyes are watching, and how to act so that they don’t look back at him. And he’s starting to wonder if it’s time to try talking to an Endless…

[umbrelladripdrop]

DPxDC Idea 2

This one I've actually attempted to write at one point but only got a lil over a chapter done before I moved on and while I do want to write it, I'm also being realistic when I say I probably won't so for a compromise I'll post it here:

Basicly after DP canon has run its course (sans phantom planet obviously) Danny is just chilling with Sam and Tucker when suddenly there's a snag in the conversation that Danny just can't handle. They've all been working together and been there for each other through all the crazy that's happened after the 'portal incident', but at the same time, Sam and Tucker, and even Jazz, can't quite be there for Danny for everything. More specifically, when it comes to the fact that Danny actually died and the effects that has on him.

In my attempt at a fic it came up with Danny complaining to Sam and Tucker about Jazz being overprotective, even if she has been getting better at not being so bad about it all the time, and Sam ends up actually agreeing with Jazz. The friction comes from Sam and Tucker saying how they wish Danny didn't have to be a hero which hurts Danny because he needs to help, he needs to protect the town, and yet his friends are saying that they wish he didn't. It's a bit of a miscommunication sure, but it's also that Sam and Tucker just can't get it and Danny does eventually realize this but not before he storms off and flies all across town.

And on that flight, is where he says those dreaded words:

"I wish that I could just- just talk to someone who understands for once!"

And *boop*! In a sparkle of green dust pops out a real confused Red Hood stranded on a rooftop that has now been thouraly left in Danny's dust as the teen said the words while flying at least 100 miles an hour and therefore did not see the sudden appearance of a person who was not there five seconds ago.

Yep, Desiree is here but literally only for plot stuff as she's the jumping-off point for this fic. She's like the 'big bad' if you want to call her that, but only because they need to fight and defeat her to undo the spell but other than that this would be a pretty chill fic with some nice Jason and Danny (and even Tim and Danny) bonding and shenanigans.

The premise is that, after this wish and first instance of Danny accidentally summoning someone, it keeps happening. After Jason finally meets up with Danny (Red Hood finds himself in a new area so after like a day or two of research and no contact with the bats [ghostly/GIW caused radio black out or something] he does the smart thing and seeks out the towns resident hero) he gets flashes of why he's here and now he knows he's here cause both he and the kid share the experience of death so yeah he's helping this kid now. After that he and Danny (and Tucker and Sam cause they all made up now) find out that anytime Danny states a fact about his life that's weird or slightly traumatizing, he ends up summoning someone who shares that experience with him. Some examples/possibilities I came up with are:

"Who else fights eldrich horrors and what are essentially God's on the regular?" Cue John Constantine popping up, taking one look at Danny, and giving an emphatic fuck this and teleporting out.

"Well- uh- I bet no one else has had their DNA stolen by a freaky billionaire who's weirdly obsessed with them and then cloned them!" Cue Clark showing up frazzled until he sees Jason and just sighs in acceptance of the Weird Bat Shit.

"No! I refuse! There's no way in hell that someone's had to go and fight their future evil self because they came back in time to stop me from making it so their timeline never comes to pass!" Oh and now Tim is here, now him and Jason can start planin on how to fix this mess (and Tim and Danny can start to be friends too. All the bat bonding).

Those are just the first few back to back ones that Danny spews out in his denial that this is even happening after that initial meet up and explination with Jason. Clark ends up dipping with a promise to tell Bruce that Jason and Tim are alright an are just on a mission now I guess, they're not stuck since both Clark and Constantine could leave but it's not like they were just gonna let this shit slide, so yeah they're staying to help out.

Cue plot/shenanigans/accidentally trauma dumping since the spell makes Danny more suseptible to spewing his guts that way the spell can work more by summoning more people. The summons are based off proximity in a sense because they pull in the person closest that can relate to whatever Danny said.

This leads to Jason and Tim end up getting re-summoned again with a few other points like:

"Getting kidnaped by some old creep on the regular is not a fun time." Tim gets teleported back to Danny and they just... stare at each other because didn't this already happen? Aka this is when they figure out the summoning can apparently stack.

"Yeah like I was supposed to know that getting kidnapped by a ‘father figure’ for ‘my own good’ and wanting to strangle said father figure on multiple occasions was a universal experience." Jason who was sitting in a chair ten feet away is now only two feet away and no longer sitting in a chair and falls to the ground with a waterfall of swears.

"None of you get what it's like to have an older sibling as overbearing as jazz!"Jason teleports again and absolutely flips his shit and goes to fucking gag the twirp because this is the third god damned time Danny!

After Jason's 3rd teleportation, they pause the search for what's happening in favor of trying to figure out why he seems incapable of keeping his mouth shut. Literally. Even Danny says that he doesn't know why he's saying all this. They head down to the lab, which leads to this:

"Oh yeah we can go down here all the time, comes with the territory of borderline neglectful parents." Tim who wasn't on the stairs is suddenly now on the stairs (Jazz was leading the way and therefore farther away) and tips head over tea kettle which makes Jason laugh his ass off all while going how does it feel now?!

There's a potential for so many more summonings and accidentally trauma dumping shenanigans/emotional comfort opportunities but these were just all the ones I could come up with.

The day is eventually saved when they trick Desiree back but Jason and Tim end up staying in touch with Danny and end off with everyone being friends cause I'm a sucker for good endings and fluff. Again I might get to making this an actual fic but I'm already working on a big one (and slacking on it a bit my bad) so who knows? But I at least wanted to get the idea out there somewhere in case someone else wanted to play with the idea.

[thevoidstaredback]

Batman pulled up a world map as soon as the alarm started blaring. There was a red dot centered in Illinois, so that's where the map zoomed in.

"That's Amity Park!" Robin exclaimed.

Batman hummed. "Robin, contact Red Huntress and find out what's going on from her end." The boy nodded and left the room. "Constantine, Zatanna, figure out what's going on."

"Already on it, Batsy!" Constantine called in English before going back to his now four alternating conversations in Esperanto and Latin. Zatanna didn't even acknowledge the order.

"Everyone else," he continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, "set up a perimeter a few miles out from the town. Keep it in your line of vision, but don't get too close." He turned to look directly at The Flash. "I want you to run recon. Make sure this is the only place they're coming from. Once we find out their goal, that's what you'll be looking for."

"Aren't they looking for a child?" The Flash asked. He was ignored.

The heroes emptied the room swiftly, quick to ZETA as close as they could to the town before setting up a perimeter ten miles out. Close enough to see the town, but not close enough to cause any panic.

It was nearly twenty-five minutes later before Constantine and Zatanna joined them all. Though, they were both quick to make it known that the town was wholly aware that they were there.

Constantine went to join the hero's block-in, though he didn't stay in one place. He moved from hero to hero, keeping both eyes and one ear on Amity Park. If it was going to move, he would be aware of it only seconds before it did. He needed to be ready.

Zatanna pulled five of the American based heroes away from their posts to explain what she knew. It was barely any better than a recap from the meeting that they had vacated.

"Like we tried to explain earlier, they're looking for a child that the US Government took from them."

"The one from the pictures right?" Aquaman said, "Phantom??"

Zatanna nodded. "Yep. He's the town vigilante; Operating for several months longer than Red Huntress. From what Deadman told me and Constantine, Phantom is a baby ghost; he's only been dead for about a year." She ignored the various reactions. "He's also favored by several Ancient Beings."

"'Ancient Begins'?" Superman asked.

"Think Primordials,"

"Oh, dear," Wonder Woman muttered.

The magician continued, "Don't attack any of the R̶͎͔̿̅ḛ̴̗̦̯̭͇̰̎͑a̸̻̜̤̼͕͔̘̱̫̓ĺ̴͉̘̥͚̪̹́̈́͋̓͜m̶̬͇̅͑͌ṣ̷̨̺̜̣̮͔̤͕̃̍́͂ denizens under any circumstances. They're already going to be hostile towards us, we don't need to give them another reason to be."

"A bit late for that, don't ya think?" A new voice called, startling the heroes into falling into defensive stances.

It took several seconds to find the source. When they did, Batman asked, "Who are you?"

The being, female in appearance, was above and slightly to the left of the group. She looked to be in her late teens with teal-grey skin, a slight teal glow, and flaming teal hair tied in a high pony, bangs framing her face. Her eyes glowed the same radioactive green as Phantom's had in the picture, though less so. She was wearing black pants, a black crop-top, grey knee boots, and a single black elbow glove. There was a guitar strapped to her back that gave off a slight purple glow. Even from where the Justice League heroes were standing, they could feel heat radiating off of her.

"It doesn't matter who I am, does it?" the girl sneered down at them, "What matters is that you dickheads took on of ours, and we intend to get him back." She very obviously assessed the group, not hiding her distaste. "Phantom told me this world had other heroes." She lowered slightly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Where were you."

"Excuse me?" Green Lantern asked.

"Where were you?" she reiterated.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"You're talking about the threats here, right?" Zatanna asked.

The being turned her full attention to the magician. "You knew?"

Zatanna nodded. "My colleagues and I have been keeping an eye on Amity Park since the rifts opened up last year."

The girl's eyes narrowed and she nodded at the five heroes. "These your colleagues?"

"Technically."

"I don't much like technicalities," she hummed. "You must be the one Deadman told us about."

"You know Deadman?" Green Lantern asked. He was ignored.

"Yeah?" Zatanna nodded.

"I'm Ember," she said after a moment, touching down in front of Zatanna. "Deadman convinced the Council to hold in Amity Park until the end of the day. The second the sun goes down, we act on our own."

"I'm Zatanna," she shook her hand, "We're going to find him."

Ember glared, her grip tightening. "You better. He's done more for your world than any of you could ever acknowledge." She turned her glare on the five heroes before flying back up. "And once he's back with us, where he belongs, we'll think about calling a ceasefire." She left before another word could be said.

Zatanna fell into a crouch, her hands covering her face. "This is a nightmare," she whispered before popping back to her full height. "That could've gone better."

"It also could've gone worse." Aquaman tried to console. It didnt work.

"Well, you heard her, we have less than twelve hours to find the kid before the R̶͎͔̿̅ḛ̴̗̦̯̭͇̰̎͑a̸̻̜̤̼͕͔̘̱̫̓ĺ̴͉̘̥͚̪̹́̈́͋̓͜m̶̬͇̅͑͌ṣ̷̨̺̜̣̮͔̤͕̃̍́͂ denizens set themselves loose."

The group shared a loo, quickly moving to pass on the word to everyone else. Off to the side, Superman was relaying to The Flash.

***

Barry had worked on time limits before. Hel, he was usually pretty good at meeting them ever since he got his powers! What he wasn't great at was working under huge amounts of pressure.

He had to cover the entire United States in less than twelve hours. Easy, done. Adding on every out-of-country US Base around the world? Slightly less easy, but still very doable. Looking for a child in what was probably a secret, undocumented, or at least heavily covered, US Base is a bit harder, especially undetected.

Normally, the Justice League would have no problems with making their opinions on matters known, but this was a delicate matter. Even more delicate than the Metahuman Rights Act and Diplomatic Missions to other worlds. This was an issue they'd not been previously aware of, and the dimension that it most affected was now very close to decaring war.

No pressure.

He'd already cleared all of the known Government Bases along the East Coast and was steadily moving inland. Superman, upon Zatanna's and Constantine's advisement, was being productive away from Amity Park. With The Flash covering the US and Superman literally everywhere else, they had hopes of finding the child within the next few hours. The problems were going to start anew after that.

Batman was already working on several extraction plans based off of the blueprints for every US Gov. Base he has access to- don't ask. But, without knowing the actual building's layout, guard posts, shifts, security, whereabouts, etc., no one could make a concrete plan.

There were too many unknowns and it was upsetting everyone.

Robin had managed to get ahold of both his team, readying them for evacuation, and Red Huntress. Apparently, there was nothing she could do. She'd tried to capture the ghosts - as she'd called them - but they'd quickly overwhelmed her. Everyone was locked in their homes until further notice. Luckily, the ghosts seemed content to them the humans alone as long as they stayed out of the way.

There was now five hours until the sun set in Illinois, and Barry had only just cleared the Midwest.

Nothing. Not a single hint as to where they were keeping this child! They had the two fastest heroes out looking for him, the had pictures of what he looked like! By all means, they should have found him already! And yet, they were still empty handed.

The people of Amity Park were getting restless. The ghosts that had taken over Amity Park were getting restless. The Justice League were getting restless.

Constantine and Zatanna had declared that the town would likely not be moving any time soon, not that anyone even knew what the meant. They'd still be keeping an eye and ear on the town, but it no longer had most of their focus. Instead, they were trying to get ahold of Deadman with little success. If they didn't reach them soon, one of them would have to go into the town proper and talk to the ghosts. No one was very excited for that.

Minutes before the sunset in Illinois, Robin received an emergency call from Red Huntress. One that everyone was patched into.

A boy was missing from his house. Daniel Fenton, son of the town's resident Ghost Hunters, hadn't been accounted for.

The sun set over Amity Park Illinois.

Part 3 Part 5