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dcxdpdabbles · 9 months

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DC x DP: The Real Blood Son

It's a year after Damian came to live with them that he decides it is an excellent time to bombard Bruce with his news.

"I had a blood brother." He says to Tim after the other commented how important blood meant to Bruce-ie, not enough to make him get rid of his other sons. "He was the first from the artificial womb mother made with Father's DNA; however, he was disposed of once his heart condition became known. I highly doubt you will last even twice as long Drake-"

"What"

Bruce didn't know that he could make his voice that cold. That dead. What in the world does he mean disposed.

Damian goes still. The kind of still where he isn't sure if he just earned a punishment and is trying not to react to the fear. "My elder brother. Did mother not inform you?"

"Damian," Bruce struggles to level his tone at Dick's hard stare. "She hadn't even informed me of you. Please, can you explain more about your brother."

The youngest nods. "He had no name, but he was my biological brother. He was forced to grow to age of three before they realized he was defective. Grandfather had him sacrificed to the pit."

Jason growls "what do you mean?"

Damian looks confused- as confused as he can with his league training kicking in. "The Lazarus pit is made from the bodies of young virgins. No older then ten. They are sacrificed in exchange for the Infinite Realms' power to sink into the water. The children are not aware of what is happening to them until the very end. They do not suffer."

Bruce feels sick.

They talk a bit more, on how certain followers throughout history were more then happy to offer the great Ra's their own children to renew the pit. How Damain had watched three children when he was seven be sacrifice- it happened every five years- and how the children were given the best week of their lives.

They purposely given the most joy they could feel before the blades to make the Pit as pure as possible. He talked a lot about watching the youngest- five years- be laughing and splashing in the Lazarus water before his mother cut him down, his screams drowning in the green liquid.

"They say the Pit absorbs the last emotion of the sacrifice. Grandfather hopes the children realize the importance and honor they have to be ended for a glorious cause, but occasionally a few are disloyal. When Todd had taken a dip, the previous Renew, had a brilliant girl who figured out what was happening and attempted to escape. She failed, of course, and her arm was amputated in a mission, but she died angry. That's why Todd had such strong madness compared to-!"

"SHUT UP!" Jason roars suddenly, eyes glowing green, and for a brief moment, Bruce swears he hears an undertone of a young girl in his scream "SHUT UP! YOU DONT KNOW ANYTHING! YOUR OWN BROTHER IS IN THERE"

Damain scowls "it's a honor. My brother's body was defective. But he at least had aidded in a glorious ritual."

Bruce can't help it; he leans over the BatCave Railing and hurls his dinner. Damian finally realizes that something is wrong.

They host a funeral for his three-year-old son, who died without a name, and place his gravestone next to his parents. They explain to Damian why the Renewal ritual is horrific but Bruce feels it take years before his son can see that.

Jason, went out into Crime Alley to let off some steam and had been going on a rampage against the underbelly of Gotham. He can't find it I'm himself to stop him.

Bruce asks Constantine to come over and do a small ritual, to hopefully unbound his child and let his son soul move on. Constantine warns that with the kid's name it may not work and that they could only free souls they share blood to but the English man tries anyway.

They send his son their prayers, and hopes. And they try to put him to rest.

Across the Infinite Releams to three dimensions to the right of the Wayne's soul resting ritual, The Fenton's adoptived son, Danny Fenton jolts in his English Class.

The strange stabbing scar above his heart- which is why he never takes off his shirt- burns then cools as if someone had tried to place the temperature-changing ointment. He rubs his best, confused.

What was that?

He'll have to check with FrostBite. Maybe his heart condition is acting up again. It happens every five years even though no doctors his parents have taken him to could figure out what it was.

Until Frostbite. The yeti claimed it had something to do with dark arts, but he's unsure what type.

Frostbite is still doing more testing.

"I wish you had lived, brother. I wish I knew you name"

The wind whispers, and Danny feels a flash of deep longing and grief before it's gone. Yeah, he needs to talk to Frostbite.

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Tw: Child human sacrifice #Danny was sacrificed but he slipped into the Realms and floated to the Fenton's before dying #Jack and Maddie found him at a natural portal #they adoptive him #raised him #and Damian was born two years later #Danny can feel the bats

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bluejaysandblackbats · 1 month

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Wild Eyes

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam, Batman Rogues

Summary: This is an AU where Jason ends up in Peña Dura with Bane after stowing away on a boat trying to escape Gotham.

Chapters: 3/?

Characters: Bane DC, Jason Todd, Birdy, Bruce Wayne

Additional Tags: Parent Bane (DCU), Canon Divergent AU, Father-Son Relationship, Jason Todd is Not Red Hood, Unconventional Families, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Three: My Church Has Triple Belly Floppers

I’d only been gone a short while before Jason and I were reunited, but Jason seemed much older than his seventeen years. I’d never seen him fight, but he fought ruthlessly and tirelessly. His hair was plastered with sweat, blood, and water as the rain poured on our heads. His eyes seemed so far away as rage twisted his sweet face into a frightening scowl. I don’t think he saw me. I can’t imagine he saw anyone. “Jason,” I called in the rain, knocking men’s heads together. I forced my way through armed men to reach him. “Jason!”

Our men joined me at the helicopter, and I waited. He couldn’t hear me. “Jason!” I hollered, and he scrambled to his feet, smiling as his chest heaved up and down. His face changed, and he looked like my boy again. I stood firm as he rushed into my arms and pressed his face into my chest.

“Papa! You’re alright!” Jason shouted. I wrapped my arms around him, my heart slowing to a gentle bum bum bum. I pulled away, holding a steady hand on his shoulder, and he looked into my eyes. He might’ve grown to be a man with a stature comparable to mine, but he was a child in his heart. I nodded, and he relaxed his shoulders. We joined the men and the warden on the helicopter.

He stood beside me as I exacted my revenge against our warden, but he grabbed my hand before I could offer one act of mercy. “He dies a man’s death in exchange for the imprisonment of children,” Jason whispered as he snatched Osito from the warden.

“Jason—.”

“Papa, he belongs to you. Not him,” Jason interrupted. I nodded. I gave Osito to Jason before completing the warden’s death sentence, and Jason took a bag off his back to dole out rations. “Papa, this is for you.”

I took my food and watched as he fed everyone except himself. “No one eats,” I commanded. Jason and the men’s foreheads wrinkled, but only Jason could ask why. “Everyone take a portion of their rations and give them to Jason.” They obeyed, and I gave him some of my food as well.

I nodded, and we all ate together. All the while, Jason watched me. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing… I just—. You can do anything… I guess—. I never met anybody that keeps promises like you do,” Jason replied, “I’ve never had that before. But you did the impossible and got us out.”

I could see the sparkle of tears forming in Jason’s eyes. He tried to return Osito to me, and I shook my head. “He’s yours now. Consider it the first of many gifts to come,” I replied. I mussed his hair and grinned. “Rest. We’ll be home soon.”

Jason obeyed, curled up beside Bird, and fell asleep. I kept watch over Jason the whole flight to New Jersey. Bird made a call, and someone brought us a change of clothes and a key to a hotel room. I carried Jason to bed, and I sat with the men. It wouldn’t be long before I felt the illness setting in. I couldn’t allow Jason to see it, but I’d gotten so used to his company that I couldn’t sleep if we were apart. I tossed and turned all night, plagued by the same dreams that haunted me as a child. When I awakened, Jason lay curled into a ball by my side, a thin sheet covering us both. I could hear him whispering, but he wasn’t asleep. Jason spoke so fast I couldn’t make out his words. He only whispered that way when he prayed. His memory served him well. Those were the prayers he whispered when the men were sick. I memorized his cadence, focusing on the breaths he took to decipher the prayer. “Jason?” I whispered. I sat up, shielding my eyes from the sliver of light peeking through the cracked door, and Jason patted my arm.

“Papa, it’s alright,” Jason mumbled, still half-asleep. He sat up, his hair sticking up in some places while plastered to his forehead in others. He stood and pushed his hair back. “I have to go out for a little while. Will you be alright?”

“Do you want one me to accompany—?”

Jason crouched beside me and kissed my cheek. “No, Papa… It’s a surprise. I’ll be home soon,” Jason whispered, “Don’t worry, okay?”

I nodded, watching as he grabbed clothes from the chest and changed. “Should I stay awake?” I asked.

“I’ll wake you… Besides, I want you to get some rest. I want to take you to my church tomorrow night. Maybe Father Tyler will be there,” Jason smiled. I grabbed his wrist. I fought every desperate thought I had regarding the idea of separating. “It’s my turn to make promises, Papa. I’ll be back soon. I promise you.” I lay awake wondering if he’d return. I had to let him go. Even if he’d broken his promise, I would’ve loved him the same as I always did. But he returned no more than two hours after he left. He carried a large bag with him, but I paid it no mind as I grabbed Jason and pulled him into a relieved embrace.

“Where did you go?” I asked, remembering to be gentle in my tone. Jason picked up on every little change in pitch and tonation in my speech. It was one of many things that I loved about our closeness.

“I made a little cash and got you a Triple Belly Flopper with the works… And I got onion rings because it doesn’t seem right to have french fries with a burger as excellent as this one,” Jason smiled, “And don’t worry. I got something for everybody.” Jason reached into the bag and handed me a wrapped sandwich. My mouth watered as soon as I smelled it.

I chuckled involuntarily. “Sorry, I—.” And then I laughed. “It’s a sandwich. I thought it was a swimmer.”

Jason chewed his lip to keep from laughing but quickly joined me in my humorous moment. “Take a bite,” Jason whispered once he collected himself. He ripped the bag open and grabbed an identical sandwich for himself. We ate quickly, but I savored the last bite. It was unlike anything I’d ever tasted. My first of many convenient culinary delights. Jason smiled as I ate the onion rings. He waited until I’d finished eating to speak. “What did you think?”

I wiped my hands with a napkin and lifted his chin. “My church has Triple Belly Floppers,” I grinned. Jason laughed.

Then it dawned on me. I had no idea where Jason got the money. “Jason, how—? How could you afford this?” I questioned.

“I sold tires… I stole them and sold them. I could’ve gotten more money for a whole car, but tires are easier to replace and harder to trace back to me,” Jason explained, “Besides, I made a ton of money in an hour because I’m stronger than I was as a kid… And you won’t believe whose tires I lifted.”

“Whose?” I questioned.

“The Batman,” Jason smiled. He wanted to make me proud.

“You outsmarted him?” I asked. Jason shook his head.

“No, I took advantage of a distraction in the area. He never saw me… But I saw him. I watched him, Papa. He used to have a friend… A partner… But I didn’t see him. The Bat stands alone,” Jason whispered excitedly. My heart dropped into my stomach.

“Stay far away from him. Do you understand me?” I asked. I grabbed his arms. Jason was my child, but he no longer resembled the small boy I saw. To Batman, he would be another adversary. I couldn’t fathom the thought of Batman brutalizing the one I loved most. My dearest treasure. The men at the prison and the warden were different. They were weak… And they were tools to train Jason for survival… But, none of that readied him to beat the Bat, and I wouldn’t stand for him getting hurt on my behalf.

“Papa? I don’t understand. I thought this was what you wanted,” Jason frowned.

“Leave that to me and the men… For now, I want you to enjoy your freedom. Do the things you’ve always dreamt of… It will all be yours soon,” I replied.

#fic #wild eyes fic #batfam #batman rogues #Bane DC #Jason Todd #Birdy #Bruce Wayne #Parent Bane (DCU)#Canon Divergent AU #Father-Son Relationship #Jason Todd is Not Red Hood #Unconventional Families #Emotional Hurt/Comfort

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weird-al-song-tourney · 1 year

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Are there any songs that you think its a missed opportunity for Al to have not parodied yet?

Well honeslty I'd love for all the artists that rejected him to have yknow...not been a bunch of sticks in the mud. >:[

But honeslty I'm surprised songs like "Call Me Maybe" , "Despacito", "Gangam Style" or other songs that yknow got...crazy ass popular didn't get weird Al'd. Not that I super WANT that but I think he'd do great with em.

One song I think he could do is like, how have we not heard him parody Take On Me? Or something like Livin' On A Prayer (Squidward On A Chair fills the void tho)

This is a personal one bc the song happens to be very important to me but I'd love to see Weird Al do a parody of All Star by Smash Mouth. It's iconic meme status these days combined with Weird Al's style would be amazing. Heck even other Smash Mouth songs too like Walkin' On The Sun.

Or maybe parody something like Don't Fear The Reaper, but that's one I mention because my dad & I bonded over that song a lot.

Oh man & y'know what? I'd LOVE if Weird Al did a style parody of Ben Folds! That'd be a sight to behold.... (shoutouts to over the hedge btw)

I also would LOVE to see him do an AC/DC Parody one day. As a fan of both I wish he'd have done a parody of like Highway to Hell or Thunderstruck. I mean come on he'd nail it. 💅

If anyone else has any ideas of what you think he should parody please reply or put your ideas in the tags. I'd love to hear it!!!!! Because my musical taste cannot do this question enough justice singlehandedly.

#mod toasty #weird al tournament #weird al #weird al yankovic #al yankovic

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artzychic27 · 9 months

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Based on your last DC post, Cosette as Static Shock with quotes from the show.

Akuma: What the heck is up with that?!

Cosette: You mean, 'What's up with that'. Either use slang properly or don't use it at all!

—

Cosette: No more asking my dad to borrow his car, dude.

Simon: You don't even drive yet, C.

Cosette: Oh, whatever.

—

Cosette: Mutant? Now that's degrading.

Aurore: You have a better word for it?

Cosette: I kind of like... meta-human.

—

Cosette: I wish I could just go out and rent a decent headquarters, but that takes money.

Zoé: Nobody ever said the superhero gig would be a profit center.

Cosette: Yeah, but it's costing me; I keep tearing my costume, melting my shoes.

—

Cosette: Let me tell you something about electricity; a big enough charge can overload any insulator.

—

Yvette: *banging her hand on the locked bathroom door* Cosette Olivia Bellamy, get your ashky butt out here right this minute...

Cosette: *unlocks the door and sticks their head out* Yvette! My middle name is never to be spoken aloud, you know that! *sticks their head back into the bathroom and slams the door closed*

—

Cosette: I don't believe we've been introduced.

Akuma: Omnifarious.

Cosette: You're Nefarious?

Akuma: Omnifarious. It's my name. It means many forms.

Cosette: Bro, I go to public school. Latin's an elective.

—

Reflekta: I'm gonna make so many of me, you won't have a prayer.

Cosette: Ooh a room full of has beens, now I am scared!

—

Cosette: This looks like a job for...

Ismael: Don't finish that sentence, Cosette. Superman already owns the rights.

—

Evillustrator: What? Afraid I'm gonna show you up again, shock jockey? Well, you can relax.

Cosette: I am relaxed. You're the one jumpin' around like a demented cheerleader.

—

Cosette: Ahh, well I guess you're wondering, 'what's with the costume,' well, I... umm...

Kagami: Don't sweat it, I knew you were Static when I first met you

Cosette: What... You did?!

—

Green Lantern: For a rookie you did well, but I can tell you'll be a handful when you finally join the League.

Cosette: I'm sorry; did you say when I join the League?

Batman: Anything is possible... when you're a little older.

Flash: But remember, I get first dibs on the pizza.

—

Cosett : Batman's not gonna be happy when he hears how you've been treating his guest and you really don't want to see Batman unhappy.

Batman: First, we don't have guests here. And, second, I'm Batman.

Cosette: And I'm Beyonce.

—

Yvette: Cosette!

Cosette: You shrieked?

Yvette: You didn't take the garbage out last night.

Cosette: Is that what smells? I figured you were trying a new recipe.

Cosette belongs to @nerd-chocolate in case anyone forgets

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #static shock #incorrect quotes #ask me stuff #answered ask #dc comics #dc kids #mlb au

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averagejoesolomon · 1 year

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lol you guys want a *checks watch* Tuesday update?? I am trying my darndest to wrap this one up, so please enjoy and thank you for being patient with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle from the beginning on Ao3. CW: Lots of religious themes in this one. Definitely only read if you're in the right headspace for that sort of thing.

Chapter Eleven

Folks can say what they like about organized religion, and say plenty more about Catholicism in particular, but there’s a universal truth that most anyone can agree on, regardless of their broader opinions on the matter—the Catholics know how to build a church.

The undisputed masters of the craft, in Matt’s opinion, are of course the Italians. It’s hard to top all of that Renaissance art and harder still to top the ancient and ornate architecture that surrounds it. With centuries to practice, they’ve perfected the sacred artistry of it all—made saints out of marble, carved psalms into stone, and painstakingly plated their ceilings in gold. There’s beauty to a culture that erects an entire city in the name of worship and every time Matt visits, a strand of spirituality knits to dense cloth in his stomach. Italy grounds him to God in a way Nebraska never could.

There are echoes of Italy in the churches along America’s east coast. Rich, European roots have reached across the Atlantic and sprouted up in all of the major settlements, growing straight into the cities of today. There have been adaptations and modernizations, to be sure, but it only takes one glance to recognize the influence. Generations upon generations of architects have had their way with stone, marble, gold, and glass, all in an effort to build a place of worship worthy of one almighty God.

This church is no exception, an exquisite stone citadel tucked into a far-off corner of the John Hopkins campus. Matt stares up at it from the edge of the sidewalk as an entirely new feeling burrows into the base of his stomach. It’s a behemoth of limestone, capped by a patinated emerald copper. The doors wait for him at the top of an insurmountable staircase, hidden behind the jaws of awesome, towering pillars. It’s beautiful, and structural, and dignified, but suffers ever so slightly from an uncanny sense of Americana that likens it more to DC’s Capitol District than to the grand Italian cathedrals. It ought to be a library. It ought to be a bank.

If he keeps listing all the things it should be, maybe he won’t have to face the truth, and maybe he’ll finally convince himself to walk inside.

Two small, iron sconces act as the only guiding light through an otherwise dark evening, offering a candlelit glow that feels too faint for the task at hand. The shine barely reaches Matt’s breath, clouding up against the chill. One step. It’ll only take one step. He knows he ought to pray for strength, but praying is part of the problem these days, so he keeps his thoughts down here on Earth where no one can hear them. Instead of the Heavens, his prayers find their way into stiff shoulders, into icy lungs, into the stinging red-white swirl of his bare and bruised knuckles.

You’re too good for that.

He ain’t too proud of where he left things with Rachel, all twisted up in tears, and cold, and words that feel harsh in hindsight. Screaming and hollering never suited him, and it definitely don’t suit her. Rachel’s the type to let silence do most of her speaking. She’s the type to set a guy straight with a single glance. This evening is proof of a sharper side to her personality, defined by an anger that lingers even in her absence. It mixes with his own to form a stiff, shameful weight atop his shoulders, pressing into skin, muscle, and bone until he’s got no choice but to slump beneath it all.

Matt beholds the grand staircase before him and takes his first step toward the Heavens.

It ought to be a courthouse. It ought to be a museum.

Come to think of it, he’s not too happy with how he left Abby, either—midway through a dance, without so much as a thank you or a goodbye. Maybe he’s grateful this business with the Circle distracted him long enough to soften the immediacy of her rejection, but it all catches up to him now. He’s got the instant replay rolling through his head, slipping into slow motion, every movement analyzed under an intense, frame-by-frame scrutiny. He’s spent years planning his confession, practicing it over and over in his head, but now he’s gone and pitched wide and high. Blew his shot at the major leagues before he could even take it, just so he could chase down a phony lead with an alibi that Abby already swore by.

He climbs up one step, then another. The banister is ice beneath his palm. The air is frozen to the sides of his throat. He shivers against the absence of a coat he left hanging on Rachel’s shoulders.

It ought to be a theater. It ought to be a police station.

There’s some solace in the fact that he’s still got Joe, off somewhere in a North Baltimore motel making a pot of coffee that will keep them both up all night. They’ll need the extra hours, now that they’ve run head-first into another dead end. This ain’t the first time they’ll start from scratch on their search for the center of the Circle, but it is the first time Matt wonders if they’re going about it the right way. If they should be going about it at all.

Each step comes right after the last until he’s falling, falling, falling heavenward. The staircase finally plateaus at its top and Matt has to pause. Catch his breath.

It’s just a church. Same as all the others. He’s walked into dozens just like it.

Even so, apprehension slithers up and around his ankles, binding him in place, pulling him deep into the stone. Standing before a building this mighty, he can’t help but feel tiny in comparison. With every step, the church grows taller and Matt only shrinks in its wake, the shadow of the night deepened by the presence of such an imposing beast. A wind whistles through the columns, flags and banners snapping in the breeze, and Matt swears he feels a breath.

Maybe it’s high time he came in from the cold.

Strands of panic cuff his wrists. It takes all he has to snap free of them, reaching for black handles that are worn to gold at the crest of each curve. The double doors open under his tender touch, easy and welcoming, as though he was always meant to walk right in. Matt’s not one to ignore a sign from above when he sees it, which is probably how he musters up the courage to take the first step inside.

They just don’t make them like this back home—pew, after pew, after pew lined in perfect rows across a solid stone floor. Grand, arching ceilings made of interlocking brick, stretching from window to window. The stained glass has gone dark with the night, their colors now dense and thick compared to the airiness of daylight, but the hanging pendants catch faint, muted streaks of red and blue and gold. There are twelve windows, weaving between twelve Stations of the Cross, all leading up to the twelve disciples mosaicked above one massive, marble altar.

Matt is greeted first by the low trickle of a stone baptismal font. As he basks in the Lord’s surrounding beauty, his fingertips float toward the sound and it’s not until he strikes the warmth of the holy water that he realizes what’s happened. Muscle memory sends his fingers flicking before he brings his own touch to his head, his chest, shoulder to shoulder, just like his mama taught him all those years ago.

Ain’t no going back now.

The lights are lit, but dimmed. All of the candles are extinguished, save the few burning in memoriam at the Mother Mary’s feet. Matt is alone as he marches down an empty aisle, but even so, he can’t escape the feeling of a watchful eye. A tail he can’t quite shake.

But he doesn’t search over his shoulder or examine the shadows, because he’ll find no one there. He knows that. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the sky and does the one thing no agent is ever supposed to do—blow his own cover. “I reckon a few Hail Marys ain’t gonna cut it this time, huh?”

Prayers in real life don’t look like prayers in the stories. Not in Matt’s experience, anyway. In the stories, a prayer always makes its way to God and it’s always answered in a timely manner, be that through a serendipitous act of grace, a convenient streak of luck, or a miraculous one-on-one conversation with the Big Guy himself. But it’s never been that simple for Matt. He’s had prayers answered, sure, but never with such clarity. Never with any amount of certainty.

For Matt, prayers feel more like a faithful cast into an inky night. He was raised to believe that there’s strength and beauty in the unknown, in the unsure, in the repeated hope that someone, somewhere is listening to his deepest thoughts, and desires, and pleas. The power of God comes from the willingness to believe He is present, even when evidence suggests otherwise. The power is in the gutting, hollow hope that he is not alone, even when it most feels like he is. “The best I can offer instead, is an apology,” says Matt. “So I’m sorry. I ain’t been around too much. And I’m sorry someone else had to realize it before I could.”

Only here, standing at the heart of His church does Matt begin to run the numbers. The number of days without a service. The number of deeds without goodwill. The number of prayers locked tight in his chest, for fear that their bitter cadence would expose the rest of his unholy insides. Matt shivers at the thought of how much longer he would have gone, had he not been redirected to Baltimore. Had Rachel not found this place for him. Had they not screamed, and hollered, and tore one another to pieces.

“And for what it’s worth, she’s wrong, y’know.” The words come out quick, and sharp, and unexpected. He has to settle the unbound eagerness, lest it sound too much like guilt. “She always thinks she’s right, but she’s wrong this time. We both know she’s wrong, don’t we? Because I ain’t been too good lately.”

His hand falls to the squared edge of a single pew, lacquered wood smooth beneath his touch. He takes comfort in the ritual—in the soundlessness of the church, in the familiar smells of stale incense and melted wax. Matt slides into the pew and folds the kneeler to the floor, falling to his knees, because that’s just what a fella is supposed to do when he walks into church. Holy water, sign of the cross, prayer. It’s been that way since he was a boy, so he lets his wrists fall against the edge of the wood and laces his fingers together.

Blotches of red, and purple, and black stain his worship.

He shuts his eyes, aiming for focus, but waves of memory wash over him with every throb of his interlocked knuckles. Years of double-booked days. Weeks spent in hiding in Rome, and Budapest, and Warsaw. So many lies that he’s forgotten the truth. Without permission, his mind begins to count the commandments he’s broken and they add up quicker than he cares to admit. One, two, three, four—his rising thoughts turn a remorseful, bloody red.

He has stolen files from Hungarian embassies and robbed Russian dignitaries blind. He has fought his way through the Circle’s lowest ranks and manipulated the wants, wills, and desires of every informant he could find. In the past year, Matt’s assets have been drowned, poisoned, or imprisoned for the simple crime of answering his questions, and it’s hard not to take credit for those deaths. Matt has yet to kill a man with his own two hands, but there’s plenty of blame to be shared for those that die by the Circle’s hand at his prompting. “And I’m sorry for that, too,” he says. “I am. I am, truly—when we got into this mission, we were trying to save lives. But it seems like I’ve done more harm than good, since we started. I know Pops always said you can’t fight fire with fire, but I dunno. I dunno. Kinda feels like there’s no amount of good that’s gonna fight off this kind of bad. Kinda feels like more bad is the only thing left.”

His knuckles throb against the strain in his grip, but he doesn’t remember how to loosen it. Can’t make himself feel at ease. After years of lying to everyone he knows, he’s forced to finally face the raw, gnarly truth. Matt can’t lie to an all-knowing God and, in turn, Matt can’t lie to himself, either. Not anymore. “No one ever tells you if it’s okay to do bad things for a good reason,” he says. “And while we’re on the subject—no one really tells you what a good reason is, either.”

Everything you do is about Joe. And I don’t know how you haven’t figured that out yet.

Because if Matt is finally honest with himself, he knows he was never truly in this to save lives, plural. He was only ever in this for one life—for Joe’s life. Rachel had seen that much and told him so, even before Matt knew it himself. Maintaining the world order and preventing nuclear apocalypse are both handy side effects, but in the end, all of this is for his friend, his partner, his brother. For perfectly synced fights with someone who can anticipate his every move. For glass shattered across the kitchen floor and Joe’s head in his lap. For a sleepless night in basic training, then another beside a bathtub in Italy.

Because meeting Joe the first time, hidden behind Army camo and a fake name pulled straight from the pages of a bible, had been a stroke of luck. But meeting Joe a second time, at the edge of Italy and in the middle of a city’s prayer, at the exact moment they most needed one another—that had been an act of divine intervention. Matt had known better than to turn away from something like that. He’s spent all his life wondering if prayers get answered, and he knew better than to look away when it finally happened.

Friends are a noble cause. Joe is a noble cause. Matt doesn’t know what he’s supposed to fight for, if not for the people he loves. “Except maybe I’m not sorry for that, after all,” he confesses. “I mean, what’s Joe supposed to be anyway, huh? Is he supposed to be some kinda test? Because I’ll fail that one every time, swear to—”

He stops himself. That’s probably in poor taste.

“Well, anyway,” he says, shifting on his knees. “You sent me a brother—someone who sees straight into me like no one ever has before. Someone who keeps me alive when I should be dead ten times over by now. It’s not my fault you’ve gone and torn him into pieces. I’m just doing what I can to put him back together again. Send me a guy who’s hurting and I’ll find a way to make him hurt less. That’s what you told me to do. I’m acting in your image.”

And even though prayers aren’t usually answered in words, sometimes God still finds a way to reply, in the form of a twinged gut or a hot flash of red that runs down the spine. It’s the same feeling he used to get when his mama delivered her sharpest looks. “No, you’re right,” Matt admits, adding another broken commandment to his growing list. “I guess I’m not. But I don’t know if there’s a good way to do this—I don’t know. Can I serve you and serve Joe? Can I serve you and serve my country? Can I serve you and serve myself?”

These are the same questions that have been asked in the same churches, decade after decade and century after century. Just as He has done with every man before Matt, God leaves this particular question without an answer.

So Matt provides one of his own. “I don’t know if I can become a good man.” These words come out quieter than the rest, I’s dotted with apprehension and T’s crossed with hesitance. Even so, God hears them. God hears all. “But, sure as the sunrise, I ain’t proud of who I am now.”

Knuckles crack as his fingers fold and fidget between one another, desperately trying to break free of their prayer. He’s never felt this way before—filled with the urge to run. To forget. His brain is specially trained to remember every detail of every moment, and while that particular practice serves him well in the field, it has never done him many favors among the silences. Perfect recall is a lot like Fort Jackson’s gas chambers, in that it expands to fill all available space, sneaking into every crevice and snarling into every crack. One wrong move could steal a fella’s breath and claw at his throat.

He remembers the sounds of the crickets below Rachel’s raised voice. The smell of broken bourbon and Micheal’s ribs beneath Matt’s foot. The feeling of Abby’s hand on his shoulder, and the feeling of it falling away. The buzz of a fresh haircut. The thrum of a throbbing jaw. The smoothness of luxury leather.

“So I can promise you this,” he says, trying to fill the air with words before the memories engulf him entirely. “I can promise you I’ll try. I’ll try, and I’ll try, and I’ll try, however many times you’ll let me.”

The reek of a cigar. The chime of crystal. An impenetrable office, torn apart at the seams. Crooked curtains, and scattered paper, and stolen disks. Accusation after accusation from the man with all of the questions.

“I will try to be a good man.” A father who would do anything for his daughters. “Even if I can’t always do good things.”

And Matt figures that even if a string of Hail Marys ain’t gonna help, they at least won’t hurt. It’s out of habit that he mutters the prayer three times over, thoughts getting lost in the familiar cadence. Better than suffocating among his own memories. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. His mind is permitted to wander ever so slightly and just as Matt begins to ponder the existence of good people who do bad things for good reasons, epiphany strikes.

So maybe God does answer the occasional prayer, after all.

Matt’s eyes flash open, and he snaps his gaze toward the ornate ceiling overhead, and to the heavens beyond. With a sharp, satisfied sigh, he stands to his feet and draws the Sign of the Cross along his features. “Loud and clear, Big Guy,” he says. “Guess I’ll see you next week.”

He can’t can’t seem to stumble out of the pew quick enough, mind racing with answers to questions he didn’t even know he was asking. His exit is brisker than his entrance, neglecting the beauty of the church in favor of the stark and urgent need to leave. To get a cab. To find Joe.

But of course, when Matt opens the doors back into the cool spring night, Joe is already there.

The embers of his cigarette glow orange against the darkness. It’s the only thing that keeps him from being a complete shadow, all wrapped up in black, on black, on black. His silhouette stands resolute at the base of the staircase, turning to spot Matt high above. “What are you…?” Matt starts.

Joe flicks his cigarette between his fingers, sending sparks toward the cement of the sidewalk. “You couldn’t flag down a cab if your life depended on it,” he says, taking another huff and igniting the flame even further. “And to be clear, I know that because your life has depended on it. On more than one occasion.”

This is Joe’s way of saying that he stayed for Matt. This is also Joe’s way of avoiding the unspoken truth they both know—the Circle is everywhere, and Matt can’t afford to be alone.

Walking down the staircase feels so much shorter than the grueling trudge upward, but maybe that’s because Matt’s eager to get a move on. He bounds down the steps until he’s right at Joe’s side. “Then you ought to make quick work out of calling one.”

Curls of smoke tumble out of Joe’s sigh. “What’s the rush?” he says. “Excited for a thrilling night of retracing our steps? Can’t wait to spend hours combing through old case notes to scrape up another lead? After all, what are the odds that we hit another dead end?”

Matt shakes his head, and it's enough to draw Joe's eyebrows together. “We haven’t hit a dead end,” he says. “At least, not yet.”

And there’s something godly, between Matt and Joe. Something that doesn’t need words—an understanding that comes from some sixth sense that only exists between the two of them. All Matt has to do is cast his thoughts into the inky night, and Joe hears him. Loud and clear. In all of the places God usually leaves Matt wondering, Joe always makes sure to answer every last one of Matt’s silent prayers.

At the foot of the church steps, Joe drops his cigarette to the sidewalk, grinds it under the sole of his shoe, and raises two fingers toward a pair of oncoming headlights.

#Full Circle

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bloustorm · 1 year

Text

Please DC fandom hear my prayers

I just really like the idea of one of these usual Character A got turned into an animal and B takes care of them

And it's Tim and Damian, and Damian is of course hissy about having to take care of him (or perhaps he actually doesn't have to and is hissy about Tim being so stupid) and he knows this animal (in my mind it's a cat) is Tim and yet he still can't resist it and cuddles with him

Even worse if like either Tim is actually fully aware, aware with some urges, or a normal animal but they are pretty sure he will remember.

And just like the bonding of that, and the fallout if after

Damian having gotten used to his presence and Tim as well, patting his hair without a thought, going to take a nap with him perhaps while he draws etc.

Just them bonding over this and slowly starting to see each other in a different light.

(snippet under cut)

Damian frowned down at the cat.

The cat who was Drake merely blinked up at him with his huge blue eyes.

Drake had of course gotten himself foolishly turned into an animal by being once again carelessly incompetent and was now stealing all the attention and time from Father and Alfred, who were busy enough already, as they fussed over him, trying to figure out how to turn him back and figure out how much he understood.

Even Grayson had found time to drop by and coo over him.

Grayson who had told him just a few hours ago that he wouldn't be able to make it back and hang out with him. No Damian wasn't hurt by that, that would be foolish, of course he knew that the older man had responsibilities besides his own.

(But it hurt that he could drop them so fast to just come check up on Drake when he already knew the fool was fine.)

Damian had patted him without thinking, Drake had been taking a nap in the sun and Damian had patted the cat (his brother) before even really thinking about it.

Now these eyes stared up at him, still fogged up with sleep and Drake let out a little merp at him, something the older boy would never have done if he was awake he was sure of that.

Stepping a little closer hesitantly he let his fingers run softly over the head and ears, only starting to relax when the boy closed his eyes and relaxed back into the beam and into his hands.

It became quite common to find Tim cuddled close to Damian, out of all of his siblings Damian was one of the nicer ones to be around as a cat, he respected any and all boundaries of him (and wow had tim known he just needed to turn into a cat to gain some privacy he would have perhaps done that before) and spent a lot of time silently drawing in various spots. It didn’t hurt that the kid usually ran pretty warm as well, perfect to take a nap too.

Damian knew that even now with Drake turned back things wouldn’t and couldn’t return to normal like they were before, they had spent far to much time together with each other for that.

So it didn’t come really as a surprise when he pet a sun napping Drakes hair (and the boy had started to take many more naps in the sun, likely influenced by his time spent as a cat).

What did come as a surprise was that Drake had dragged him to cuddle before Damian even realised what happened.

Or the time when Damian had been drawing and Drake had dared to plop his head into Damians lap like he was allowed to do that, like it was perfectly normal for the older boy to use him as a pillow.

And yet, Damian could not bring himself to complain too much, or kick the other away.

#blou writes #blou has ideas #damian wayne #tim drake #dc prompt

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phillippadgettwrites · 2 years

Text

Rebound 2

Rated X / 3138 words / Posted on AO3

This is a sequel to Rebound

Georgetown, Washington DC, 1992

She sits ramrod straight at her kitchen table, an empty glass of water before her. The alcohol has faded from her bloodstream and she now has the mental faculties to recognize that what she just did was incredibly stupid.

The phone rings, and she looks first to the clock on her oven, and then to the phone’s home in the hallway with furrowed eyebrows. Who the hell is calling at nearly 3:00 am? She grabs the cordless and heads back to the table.

“Hello?”

“Dana, it’s me—”

“It’s 3:00 am,” she interrupts curtly, her voice dripping with irritation.

“I know,” he says contritely, “I just needed to hear your voice.”

She sighs and moves the phone to the other ear.

“We talked about this,” she says, her tone just a bit softer. “We shouldn’t be in contact right now.”

“What about the other day?” he challenges. “You seemed pretty happy to see me.”

“That was a mistake,” she replies firmly, blushing at the memory. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

“Why?” he asks, petulant and wounded.

She sighs again, propping her elbow on the table and resting her forehead in her hand. A low throb has begun in her occiput and she feels the wet rush of her period starting. Fucking great.

“Because we need some space,” she reasons. “ I need some space. I hope we can be friends someday, but it’s just too soon. Please don’t call me again.” There is a long silence on the other end of the line. “Jack?” she asks, and she hears him shuffle around a little.

“Okay,” he finally says tightly, and her chest clutches with empathy. She doesn’t want to hurt him, but they agreed that this was for the best.

“Take care, Jack, okay? Try to cut back on the cigarettes,” she says fondly.

“Yeah, I will. Bye, Dana.”

She waits until she hears his end of the line go dead, and then stands and heads to the bathroom. She wasn’t expecting her period for a couple days, but it seems likely that the recent blunt-force trauma to her cervix got things moving a touch early. She pulls her pants down, already reaching into the cabinet beside the toilet as she sits, but when she looks down there is no blood on her underwear. There is fluid, but it’s mostly clear and slightly milky in appearance.

Her heart leaps and then begins to pound in her ears.

It’s probably vaginal discharge. She’d certainly been quite aroused less than an hour prior, and it’s entirely possible that the fluid in her panties originated from her own body. Saying a quick prayer, she reaches down and swipes some of it on to her finger, then lifts it to her face.

Bleachy, bright, a little sour. Semen.

Still seated, she turns to the trash can and begins to pick through its contents. Used tissues, floss, fingernail clippings. He’d had the decency to wrap it in toilet paper and tuck it down the side of the can. She cradles the slippery latex in one hand, inspecting it. There is fluid in the reservoir at the tip, but as she carefully turns it over, some leaks out into her palm.

There’s a hole, or more like a tear, just a couple inches from the tip.

Fuck.

Five Hours Earlier

“Let’s turn that frown upside down, Dana,” Tom says jovially, setting a shot glass full of amber liquid on the table in front of her. “Why so glum?”

Dana smiles thinly and lifts the glass to her nose, giving it a sniff.

“Tequila, Tom? It’s Thursday,” she says dryly, peering at him from beneath her eyelashes.

“And, what?” Tom counters. “You’re sad, and it’s my duty as your friend to get you drunk and help you forget your problems. Did you part ways with that mystery man of yours? Is that it?” he asks, leaning in.

She avoids answering by bringing the glass to her lips and pouring it down her throat in one smooth swallow. No salt, no lime. Tom watches her with a grimace.

“Not so much as a flinch,” he says, impressed. “Teach me your ways, Agent Scully.”

She suppresses a triumphant smile and looks over Tom’s shoulder to see a familiar face approaching.

“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” she says good-naturedly, and Marty Neil flops down in the empty seat beside her.

“How kind of you to join us, Marty,” Tom says with feigned friendliness. “Dana and I were just about to get shitfaced and talk about her horribly messy breakup with….who was it again, Dana?”

Tom stops and looks at her, pulling off a pretty decent impression of someone who definitely knows the name of her secret beau, but simply forgot. She blinks at him, offering no response.

“Did you guys see who’s here?” Marty asks, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. Tom scans the room, squinting through the haze of cigarette smoke. When he locates the person Marty is referring to, his eyes go wide.

“No shit, Spooky Mulder?” he says with frat boy enthusiasm unbefitting of a government employee.

Dana has heard stories about “Spooky Mulder,” and it seems fairly obvious to her that they’re born out of jealousy. Sometimes he’s a genius, sometimes a ladies man, sometimes a crackpot. When she’d first heard mention of the name at the academy it struck her as familiar, and it took her an entire day to realize that “Mulder” was the name given to her by a man she had a one-night stand with shortly after breaking up with Daniel and relocating to DC. An interesting coincidence.

She turns in her seat and follows Tom’s gaze to a table near the door where four men are leaning in, deep in conversation. The man with his back to her has long blond hair, the one to his left neatly dressed in a suit and tie. She can just barely make out the bald head of a third man across from the blond one, and the final man is…very familiar.

“Oh my god,” she says aloud, and Tom and Marty both look at her expectantly.

She can’t take her eyes off him. That square jaw, his nose, that mouth…it’s definitely the same guy.

“Which—who—where is Spooky Mulder?” she asks, hoping against all hope that she’s looking at the wrong table.

“Those four guys there,” Marty says gesturing to the men she’s already looking at. “The tall one with brown hair. Not the one with a goatee, the other one. That’s old Spooky himself.”

As though hearing his name, the man looks up and across the bar, catching her eye. His eyes narrow momentarily, trying to place her, but then a smile blooms on his mouth and he says something to his comrades before standing up.

“Is he coming over here?” Tom asks, but Dana just sits there, gape mouthed, as he approaches in jeans and a fitted black T-shirt, his hair shaggy and un-coiffed.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he coos, ignoring the men at her table.

“Hi,” Dana says lamely, gobsmacked.

“You two know each other?” Tom asks, looking back and forth between them.

Mulder says “yes” at the same time Dana says “no.”

“This place is a shithole,” Mulder says, looking around. “Let me buy you a drink somewhere with coasters”

The front door to her apartment crashes open so violently it knocks a vase of her side table.

“Shit, sorry,” Mulder says, detaching his mouth from hers and moving to clean up the mess.

“Leave it,” she insists, tugging him back by the collar of his shirt.

He’d heard of her too, she’d learned back at that slightly nicer bar. Dana Scully, star of her graduating class at the academy. Like her, he’d made no connection to the mysterious woman he picked up over a year prior.

They stumble toward her couch, his posture slumped over to accommodate her short stature as she pushes up on to her tip toes. Unfamiliar with the layout of her apartment, the backs of his legs collide with the arm of the couch and he falls over its side, taking her with him as they laugh drunkenly.

She’d had absolutely no intention of bringing him here. Tom and Marty had looked on incredulously as she slung her purse over her shoulder and explained that Mulder was an acquaintance of hers and that she was just going to catch up with him for a bit. He bought her three vodka tonics, drinking just as many whiskey sours, before he worked up the nerve to ask her if she’d like to come back to his apartment for a nightcap.

“Are you familiar with the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat,’ Mulder?” she’d asked coyly, trying to ignore the muscle-memory throb between her legs.

He’d smiled at her devilishly, then reasoned that working for the same organization doesn’t make them coworkers, technically speaking.

“And I have to confess,” he’d said, leaning in close enough for his whiskey-soaked breath to warm her cheek. “That was probably the best sex I’ve ever had. I think of it often.”

In response to that, she let him know that her apartment was only four blocks away.

She paws at his belt buckle, her knuckles brushing over the ridge of his erection as she works to set it free. Her mouth waters and her cunt swells in anticipation, and she hopes that her memory has not artificially inflated over time. When she finally pushes her hand beneath the stiff denim of his jeans, she lets out a little groan.

“You’re even bigger than I remember,” she says reverently, and his cock jumps against her palm. “Take me to the bedroom,” she orders, and he scoops her up as he stands from the couch, walking across her living room with his erection bobbing in the air.

He sets her down beside the bed, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her away from him before his hands go to work divesting her of her blouse and slacks. When she’s down to her panties, he pushes her forward and runs the head of his cock over her satin-covered ass crack with an appreciative groan.

“Condom, bedside drawer,” she says, her words muffled by the comforter pressing into her cheek.

She listens as he digs around in her night stand, too drunk to care that he’s certainly getting a good look at her vibrator. The condom wrapper crinkles, a brief pause, and then his hands dip under the waist of her panties and tug them down to her knees.

She expects the press of his cock, but instead feels the slip of his fingers running up and down over her lips.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” murmurs, dipping one finger inside and then swirling it around her clit. She bites her lip and waits.

“Oh god,” she says with a hiss as he pushes into her.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, pausing.

“No,” she says. Then after a beat “Yes, a little, but it’s okay.”

“You’re so tight,” he says, running his palms over her ass cheeks.

“Do it,” she says, needy.

“Do what?” he asks, and she lifts her head, craning her neck to look back at him.

He’s smiling, that smug bastard.

“Fuck me,” she says confidently. “Now.”

Only later will she realize that she’s never truly been fucked until this moment. He drives into her, making her gasp on each punch of the head of his cock against her cervix. She fists the sheets, lifting her ass slightly off the bed as though he could possibly get deeper. He grabs her by the hips, pulling her to him so they meet halfway. The neighbor pounds on the wall. Mulder chuckles and withdraws from her.

“Are they the type to call the cops?” he asks as she rolls to her back.

“I don’t know,” she replies, smiling as he looks at her breasts hungrily. “I’ve never given them cause to find out.”

He lifts his eyes to meet hers, and his smile broadens in realization. He climbs onto the bed, draping her ankles over his shoulders as he moves over her, practically folding her in half.

“A couple of FBI badges should send them on their way, you think?” he asks, and her throaty laugh is cut short as he plunges back into her.

He kisses her as his thick cock slides forward and back over the front wall of her cunt, brushing against her clit perfectly. She feels blissed-out and hazy, thinking about nothing but the firm, smooth body above her.

Mulder breaks their kiss, lowering his mouth to her ear. He sucks the lobe between his teeth and tugs, then whispers “You’ve got a magical pussy, Scully.”

The odd compliment goes straight to her clit, and she feels herself gathering, cresting, falling falling falling.

“Oh, fuck” he groans, feeling her tighten around him.

He increases his pace as whimpers and wails resound in the room. The neighbor bangs on the wall again, and he just keeps fucking her. Finally, they collapse in a pile of sweaty limbs.

She meets him in the kitchen with a glass of water and he gulps it down gratefully.

“Thanks,” he says, moving to the door. He opens his mouth to speak but she interrupts, wanting to save him the effort.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to…” she starts, but the look on his face is enough for her to know he understands.

“I get it,” he says, a little bit defeated. “It was good to see you again, Dana. Or can I call you Scully?”

She smiles bashfully. “Either is fine. It was good to see you too, Mulder.”

She’s four days late.

One or two days would be normal. Three would be uncommon, but not yet cause for concern. But four? She’s officially worried.

She can’t bring herself to buy a test, not yet ready to face that truth, to have to make that choice. Too ashamed to tell Ellen and without any other available audience, she finds herself outside apartment forty-two.

“Scully,” he says brightly, clearly pleasantly surprised.

“Are you alone?” she asks, glancing behind him into the apartment.

“Yeah,” he says, his face falling. “Come on in.”

She walks under his arm, standing in the foyer with her hands in her coat pockets.

“I’m late,” she says, giving him a pointed look.

“For what?” he asks, confused.

“My period, Mulder. It’s four days late.”

“Oh,” he says, his mouth moving incrementally as though searching for words. “I wore a condom,” he adds.

“It broke, or ripped, or…something,” she explains, dropping her head.

“I guess I was pretty…vigorous,” he says, and she looks at him sharply.

“Don’t make jokes, Mulder. This isn’t funny,” she says bitingly.

“Sorry,” he says.

They stand there awkwardly for entirely too long, and she realizes he’s not going to ask any questions.

“If I am…pregnant,” she starts, pushing her shoulders back in mock confidence, though she can’t meet his eye. “I’m going to have an abortion.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Whatever you want to do. I can pay for it, if you want.”

She swallows, her belly rolling.

“I can’t be sure…it’s possible…” she tries, but can’t find the words that don’t make her feel like a tramp.

“It might not be mine,” he finishes for her, and she nods once.

“Okay,” he says again. “Just let me know what you need from me.”

He’s being entirely too chivalrous and she doesn’t know how to feel about it. Why can’t he just be an asshole like every other guy she sleeps with?

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Or…maybe you shouldn’t,” he corrects himself. “But, I guess if you’re not keeping it…” he starts again, and she can’t help but laugh. “That wasn’t a joke,” he preemptively defends himself, though they are both smiling.

“It’s okay,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s a little bit funny.”

“Ow!” he says with a gasp as his head knocks up against the coffee table.

“Sorry,” she breathes, running her hand over the tender spot on his scalp.

“I forgive you,” he says, shifting a bit to give more space between his head and the table.

She’s naked astride his lap on the living room floor, her palms planted on either side of his head and her breasts bouncing as she grinds against him. He’d asked her if he needed to wear a condom, considering, and she rolled her eyes and reminded him about sexually transmitted infections.

He curls his torso up off the floor, swiping at her nipples with his tongue as she rocks forward and back. His hands are on her ass cheeks, pulling her down firmly against him. He catches a nipple between his lips, sucking hard, and her climax rushes in like a runaway train.

“Oh god, I’m coming,” she whimpers, and he moans around her breast, arching his pelvis up into her.

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” he says desperately, dropping his head back to the floor as he empties inside her.

After a time she sits up, panting, and looks around for her shirt.

“You’re insanely wet,” he comments, lust-glazed eyes on the ceiling.

“Take it as a compliment, I guess,” she replies.

He lifts his head, looking down to where she still sits impaled on his slowly fading erection.

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Uh, Scully.”

“Hm?” she asks, following his pointed finger down to her vulva. Her inner thighs, as well as his pubic hair and belly, are smeared with bright cherry red.

“Oh,” she mirrors, equally surprised. “Thank god,” she says with a relieved sigh, collapsing against his chest.

He chuckles, brushing his hands over her bare back.

He offers her his shower, and even finds a stray tampon left behind by an ex. He’s sweet and considerate, and she wishes the timing were different.

“I won’t make you turn down my offer of a real date again,” he says in his doorway, “but for the record, it still stands.”

“I know,” she says quietly, head bowed. “It’s just not really a good time. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, touching her arm lightly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

She lifts her head to look at him, his hair damp and his eyes soft and kind.

“Are you always this sweet?” she asks, second guessing her steadfast refusal to go out with him.

“No,” he says with a devastatingly charming smirk. “I’m the worst, actually.”

“Goodnight, Mulder,” she says, turning away from the door.

“Night, Scully. See you next time,” he quips, and she turns back to shoot him a dirty look, but the smile beneath it breaks through.

tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #xf fanfic #xf fic #x files fanfic

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fanishjuli · 7 months

Text

20 questions for fic writers

Thank you babe for the tag <3

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I have 62 works posted on ao3 (although some are anonymous and some are not fics but original stuff).

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

131,372 words.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Many, lol. The fandom I have the most fics posted is Sherlock (BBC). The second is Good Omens (and also the fandom I have the most WIPs for). I have also posted fics for the MCU, Star Trek (TOS, AOS, TNG, DSC), the TAZ podcast, DC/Batman, OFMD and, most recently, X-Men.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

#1 in all statistics, by a wide margin of difference, is Gotham Online, my DC/Batman social media AU fic, with 3,033 kudos. Second, with 479 kudos is Epiphanies at dawn, my OFMD Izzy/Stede Steddyhands fic; I'm relaly proud of this one actually. Then there's Surprising and unexpected (Star Trek), then There's No Truth Like Home (Sherlock) and fifth is Seeking Knowledge (Good Omens).

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! I like replying to comments.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Um, none? I don't write much angst, and when I do it always has a happy ending. Probably the angstiest fic I wrote is In your precense I trust, my last Good Omens fic where Crowley has a shit day and seeks out Aziraphale for some comfort. But it doesn't have an angsty ending at all.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Literally all of them? Most of them have very soft endings because that's what I love.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nope. I think I got some weird comments a couple of times? But no. And if I did I deleted them and forgot about them lol.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I haven't posted any smut, yet. I have two (...three? Can't recall) smut WIPs, one OFMD that's almost finished and needs editing (although I haven't touched it in months lol) and one Good Omens one as well that is significantly more incomplete.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I don't? I have had a few ideas for crossovers, and I even started writing a couple, but none I've worked on in a while. The craziest one is a Good Omens/Los Simuladores (Argentina) crossover; I had the idead with @two-hands-toward-the-sun and they actually wrote a fic about it, every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire. It's very good and you should read it.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope. Not to my knowledge at least, I hope not.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yeah! I translated a few of my own fics (from english to spanish and spanish to english) and I had several of my Sherlock fics translated to russian.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yup, Obsession is a Sherlock fic I co-wrote with @0therainbowmind0 during late 2019/early 2020.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Something you need to know about me: I am terribly indecisive. I don't have favourite anythings because I can never choose and my asnwers change constantly. So, at the moment and for the past couple years my favourite ship, or at elast the one I keep returning to, has been Good Omens' Aziraphale/Crowley. Although, at this very moment, as in, the day I'm writing this and for the past week or so, I have also been very much into X-Men's Charles/Erik.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Hard question! I don't like posting WIPs, so I almost always wait until I have completed a story before posting it. The only exception is Gotham Online. I would like to finish that fic sometime, although there's not much plotline, I would simply like to continue it because I have many ideas. One other fic I would like to finish but I am not certain I will is my "Heaven's Prayers Department" Good Omens WIP, where some angels in heaven hear Crowley's prayers through the millenia.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think probably writing dialogue is what I'm best at. I'm good at it, even though sometimes I may struggle to properly get a character's voice.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Descriptions, I really struggle with them in general. I'm bad at describing places, clothes, everything. Ambientation is not my thing.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

It's fine? I don't know; I don't do it. The only time I did was in my Good Omens' spanish pet names fic, which to be fair, I wrote originally in spanish (Los nombres del amor) and later translated to english (The names of love). In the translation I kept the pet names untranslated, as they were the entire point of the fic.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

I don't remember if I ever actually wrote or just daydreamed and maybe, at most, wrote down a handful of ideas as a bulletpoint list, but if we count that then it was, embarrassingly enough, for the Spanish gamer youtubers fandom circa ~2016. But the first fandom I actually wrote for was Sherlock. Or maybe MCU? I don't remember which one I wrote for first but the first fic I ever posted was a Sherlock one.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Oh fuck. This is literally so hard to choose. I think my favourite Good Omens fic is the previously named In your precense I trust or Lavender Suits You, which I wrote for the Ineffable Butch Wives Week last year. Other favourites I really loved writing and also enjoy rereading are: Crush, a TAZ fic written for the Blupjeans Week 2021; Joanna McCoy's Week In Space, written for the Spones Reverse Big Bang 2020-21; my previously mentioned OFMD fic, Epiphanies at dawn; and my most recent fic, age with all its ailing brings blessings, I believe, which is an X-Men fic and the first part of the old men cherik series. The second part of the series is finish and already half edited, and I started writing the third (and probably final) part.

Honestly if anyone wants to do this, consider yourself tagged. It was very fun XD

#fic rec #my fic #my fics #my fic rec #tag game

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protectbatson · 2 years

Text

Teen Justice #4 just came out and I have... THOUGHTS (Part II)

Now things get... Weird(?), i'm pretty contemplative and I need to PROCESS this information

after showing how Troy was captured, the story goes back to how it ended in issue #3, with the team (and Raven finally taking part) trying to find Troy, only to run into Aquagirl on the way, who was trapped in the Lantern world. Raven's self-soul had also been captured and bottled so that explained why they couldn't find him. There is a little tension between Klarienne and Jacqui that I really wanted them to explore in the future (GIRLFRIENDS!!!!)

They end up not having a chance to argue for a long time, as they are attacked by the cult participants, forcing the whole team to have to fight (look at this little gay man going to fight hand in hand? I love him)

When it seems difficult, Raven takes the fight to himself and uses the classic mantra "Azarath metrion zhintos".

I'll be honest here, I, as a Raven fan since 2003, HATE this mantra. Yes, it's classic and yes, most people have met Raven using that mantra because the cartoon and the movies, but it become a kind of key for Raven to access her powers and well, that's not how her powers work. Raven is not and has never been a magician, she is not like Zatanna who uses spells to her powers. And yes, i have a tattoo written "azarath metrion zinthos", it happens... I did it for the nostalgia 😭.

But, I... didn't hate the use here. I understand they probably used it because it's exactly a classic thing that most people identify as being "A Raven thing", but I found it... powerful? I can accept that mantra if it's used for something bigger or as a kind of prayer, not something Raven uses for literally anything, I don't know.

So... I loved it??? I don't know if love is the right word. BUT I FELT RAVEN'S POWER EVEN THOUGH HE IS WITHOUT HIS SELF SOUL AND LOVED THAT THEY MADE IT CLEAR: "HE IS ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL PEOPLE IN THE WORLD EVEN WITHOUT HIS SELF SOUL" (Do you hear that, 2018's Titans run?)

Raven using his power to the full gives Jesse and Talia some time to search for Troy (which, come on, is hilarious... Especially with Jesse going door to door and saying 'sock on the latch next time' at one of the doors.) They manage to find Troy tied to the Green Lanterns' battery, but they also find the Green Lanterns there and even though Jesse manages to carry Troy and Talia some distance, they find themselves in danger again. And then Kyle Rayner shows up and I have QUESTIONS!!!

EARTH-11 KYLIE RAYNER IS TRANS? NB? EARTH-11 THE LGBTQIAEST EARTH ON DC UNIVERSE? Oh dear.

On the flip side, Klari is helping Raven get back to his normal self and control his demonic side and... WHY DID KLARIENNE SAY THAT?

I'm holding a theory that HERE, on this Earth, Raven's greatest villains are the Azarathians and not actually Trigon. Issues #2 and #3 made me more and more sure about this, because Raven here was apparently raised by his mother (Trigon), he wanted to end the Church of Blood because of something they did to his mother and he doesn't feel like angry or disgusted when talking about his mother. But he never, ever talked about his father and Azarath.

So, this phrase from Klarienne? It made me even more suspicious that Azarath is not the peaceful place here.

I think we'll have that answer soon.

They manage to meet up with Troy, Talia and Jesse again, there is a small battle when Jesse destroys the bottle that was holding Raven's self-soul and then.... THIS SEQUENCE HAPPENS:

1) I had a good laugh with Laurel here.

2) Why did Raven say he couldn't free them like that when his self-soul approached him?

3) Raven keeps saying "not in front of them", why?

4) HIS DEMONIC FORM HAS 4 ARMS? TROY YOUR BOYFRIEND HAS 4 ARMS, DEAL WITH IT

5) WHAT DO THESE LAST PICTURES MEAN?

Seriously guys.... That last panel rented free a triplex in my head...

So, we learned that they managed to get out of the Church of Blood but.... Raven and Jesse disappeared and I need to say something...

CAN THEY LEAVE RAVEN AND TROY ON THE SAME PAGE ALONE AND IN PEACE FOR FIVE MINUTES?

There are 5 issues of Teen Justice (including the DC Pride special) and Raven and Troy had a peaceful moment in only CERTAIN panels.

Can they stop disappearing or almost die? Can they have a decent date? I swear to god, I'm already turning gray because of these two.

I said I would send the therapist bill to the writers and they replied this, I swear to god, I don't have the strength anymore.

anyway, next issue is the penultimate issue and it will come out exactly the week of my birthday and they are making a mystery that SOMEONE is going to die, if they kill Troy or Raven, know that I will hate god and the world here. 😭🥹

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dragon-of-timeless-blue · 1 year

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Holii !! Ahora si jeje >:Dc !! Uno reverse card !!

( material girl, i wanna dance with somebody, thriller and walk like egypcian )

Pero también !! living on a prayer y sweet dreams :D !!!

Wenasssss (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

material girl: are you sentimental?

Y E S literally sometimes I feel like emotions are hitting me way too hard and i need to tone them down a bit, im a sentimental ball

i wanna dance with somebody (who loves me): who was the last person u danced with?

I LOVE TO DANCE!! but i don't really like doing it in couple mode, because you have to coordinate with your partner and i move where I want lol, but if we talk about parallel dance, the last person i danced with is my sister, a few days ago it was a relative's birthday and that is practically synonymous with dancing

thriller: favourite film genre and why

Mmmh, I think i'll opt for Fantasy, i love everything that has to do with creating magical worlds, odysseys, missions and finding magical friends along the way (and also a large part of animated movies are of this genre hehe)

walk like an egyptian: favourite song currently in the charts

I had to go check the billboard and I think it's "Until I Found You" i like it because it reminds me of rin and haru (romantic song that i hear song that associated with my ships sksjfksn)

living on a prayer: which was the song of your childhood?

There are many songs that give me so much nostalgia, but I think that two of the songs that gives me that feeling of childhood the most, are "Trenchtown Rock" (it was the first song on the Bob Marley album that my dad always put on to put my sister and I to sleep) and "Quién Fuera" (I spent my entire childhood listening to Silvio Rodriguez, and this song reminds me of many things from when I was little)

sweet dreams (are made of this): whats the best dream you've had?

I dream a lot and I've had some very emotional dreams but recently I dreamed that the school project I'm working on was already finished and it looked exactly the way I wanted it to, it was kinda bittersweet when i woke up and it took me a solid 5 minutes to realize it wasn't true but the feeling of relief and happiness that dream gave me is undeniable, ah, cosas de estudihambres

Sorry if I ended up writing too long answers, I just had a lot of fun doing introspection with all this!! (⁠◡⁠ ⁠ω⁠ ⁠◡⁠)

Hope u have a great day!! (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠)

#ask game #thanks for the asks ram!! (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

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thetwokings · 24 days

Text

The Wild Rose King Part 3

By Atticiam, AC/DC feat. R.E.M.

I can't come reconcile this

All that I come to know

All that I come to believe

All of my prayers have come to this

This faith has come to be

A juxtaposition of belief and rejection

May I interject

Faith is a knight

In the dark night

Where a gleam of light is due

Will you make do

Even GOD has turned his face upon you

Every prayer

Every night I pray for your light

I pray your grace is within my sight

Every song

Every song that I sing

I sing on my knees

As these tears fall to the ground

I come to believe faith is the embellishment of reason

The flowers in your hair

This epiphany

This epiphany I come to be

This epiphany I come to see

From the frey of the crossroad

I come to the cross

Crossing my heart, hope to die

If this truth is a lie

Then these eyes are blind

And these lips are bound

But I see

I see you with my own two eyes

I hear you with my own two ears

And these lips speak the truth

You are my GOD

My GOD, this I can't reconcile

May I interject

Faith is a knight

In the dark night

Where a gleam of light is due

Will you make do

Even GOD has turned his face upon you

Every prayer

Every night

I pray for your light

I pray for your grace is within my sight

Every song

Every song that I sing

I sing on my knees

As these tears fall to the ground

I come to believe faith is the embellishment of reason

The flowers in your hair

This epiphany

This epiphany I come to be

This epiphany I come to see

This life lived

I always believed

That this life is a sacrament to you

Your truths I lived by

On my knees I wait for your sigh

Your eyes are nigh

But your ears deny

What are these prayers to you

Every word you say I live by

So how can you say this life lived is a lie

Why why why

Written by Atticiam, Taylor & Mason

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flowerquicklyfading · 3 months

Text

Valentine’s Day

This morning on Valentine’s Day, God sent Walter to drive me to work to remind me that my problems are small, that He hears our prayers, and that His is the love that lasts through the seasons of life. After a night of mediocre sleep, I rolled out of bed later than I’d hoped. Instead of the early morning of calm, I hustled out of here to Uber to work in time for coffee with coworkers. Walter, my driver, greeted me with warmth and asked how my day was going. He seemed to be seeking conversation, and having nothing urgent to attend to at the moment, I put my phone down and indulged in conversation.

He was an African American man with a cap on and a thick DC accent. He spoke about growing up in DC and hanging out in Meridian Hill park as a kid. He had a friend in particular he grew up with, and this friend joined the Army. The conversation took a serious turn when he spoke of how after his service, this friend got into drugs, overdosed, and died in that exact park.

We discussed the drug epidemic now overtaking the country. Little did I know that Walter’s son passed away a few years ago of an opioid overdose—fentanyl. Living with Walter at the time, his adult son, who had a daughter of his own, one night never came home. As I shared my condolences, he talked about the saddest part being that his son was in the process of cleaning up his life. He was trying to quit; he got a new job at Shell, which he was so proud of; he was going to church and Bible study. But his failed relationship with his ex took a toll on him, and as he was trying to reconcile, every negative encounter would drive him back to comfort in drugs.

Walter, reflective, shared that he in retrospect saw signs leading up to that day. A week before the overdose, his son was sent to the hospital during a day at work. He had taken something before the work day and passed out while on the job. When Walter went to the hospital, his son told him, “I f***** up, but I don’t want to do the drugs anymore. I told God, if I do it again, take me.” Walter told me that he scolded him for saying something like that, that words have power, and you can’t manifest something like that. One week later, his son passed. He’s a man of faith, Walter told me. He believes God takes us in His timing, but we should not compel Him to do so until that time comes, to which I agreed.

On the topic of tragedy, he was a wearied soldier, I found out. Never did he lose the will to live, except for when his wife of 30+ years passed away of cancer. Part of him died when she did, and he shared how she was a believer as well. He was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and at the time, he didn’t plan to get treatment. Upon convincing from the physicians, he went through chemo. Eventually, he recovered. For a while, he lost the desire to continue on, and he said it was a dark time, but he doesn’t feel that way anymore. He thought he’d never want to be with anyone else, but he doesn’t feel that way.

Over time, he told me he got lonely. He asked God to bring him someone. One day, he was in the hospital receiving dialysis, and there was a woman walking down the hall with her shoes untied. He asked if he could tie her shoes. He had no ulterior motives, he told me. Eventually, he got her number, they went on a date, and the rest is history. He proposed last year, and they’re getting married. After he drops me off, he’ll be taking her to get her nails done, go eat a nice meal, and buy something nice for herself, he shared.

Meanwhile, we were sitting in front of the office, and I’d asked him to park while he finishes his story. I told him, “you never know what God will do.” Nodding his head, he said, “or how He’ll do it.” In sync, we said at the same time, “but He will.” As we both laughed, I got out and prayed a little prayer of thanks in my head.

In a matter of 20 minutes, I learned this man’s testimony, and he doesn’t know his story was exactly the Valentine’s Day gift that I needed. God works through every season of life. He doesn’t promise a life free of suffering, but He promises His faithfulness, His closeness, His love, always.

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