#ii. study : aurora

[feysversion]

tag drop pt. 1

ii. study : deucalion

ii. study : jayne

ii. study : desmond

ii. study : judas

ii. study : aurora

ii. study : johnathan

ii. study : narrator

ii. study : betelgeuse

ii. study : max

ii. study : tom

[apteryxparvus]

where the dragon sleeps

Pairing — Neuvillette / Female Reader

Word count — 2,973

Content warning — none

Summary — In a crumbling Fontaine, a former Treasure Hoarder stumbles upon a hidden lake and awakens a sleeping dragon.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII

Part I

The thin branches claw at your skin as you sprint through the uneven forest terrain, ripping at your clothes and leaving shallow scratches that join the deeper, bloodier wounds already marring your body. The forest is unnervingly silent; the only sounds accompanying you are the crunch of the brittle twigs and the frantic rhythm of your breath.

You’re more than certain you’ve lost them—your pursuers, the ones you once called friends, companions-in-arms even. But fear keeps a vice grip on you, driving your legs forward. Every shadow feels like it’s reaching for you; every rustle feels like their imminent return.

The trees loom overhead, their crowns intertwining, forming a dense canopy that blocks most of the pale moonlight, save for a few slender beams of light that streak through the gaps.

Each breath burns your lungs. Every step feels heavier than the last, your muscles screaming in protest.

You lose track of time—perhaps, you’ve been running for mere minutes, or maybe hours have bled into days. You don’t know, at this point; your legs move on instinct. When you finally break through the dense foliage, you stumble upon a vast expanse of water.

A lake stretches out before you—an enormous void of blackness. Its surface is eerily silent, broken only by the faint ripples of short waves lapping at the shore. It’s like an abyss, reflecting the scattered constellations of the night sky. The stars, themselves, seem impossibly close, as though you can reach out to them and grasp them in your hands.

Your legs give out, and you collapse on your knees by the water’s edge. You tilt your head, letting your gaze wander to the sky above. Above you, ribbons of color ripple—soft greens and vivid pinks, weaving and shimmering like they’re alive. The aurora’s reflection dances on the lake, twisting and swirling with every faint ripple of the water.

Your breath shifts as you notice a constellation—one brighter and more vivid than any you’ve ever seen before. As your group’s navigator and ancient language translator, you’ve studied the stars for years, honing your craft to perfection. 

But this constellation is unfamiliar —its pattern forms an elegant shape of something coiled and resting, as if lost in a peaceful slumber.

This unknown constellation shouldn’t exist. It couldn’t exist. But there it is, twinkling faintly, almost like it’s in sync with the rhythm of the waves.

Bewildered, your hands fumble for the hidden pocket in your tattered rucksack. You pull out a crumpled map. With trembling fingers, you unfold it, the paper crackling softly as you smooth out the edges.

The star chart, once pristine and vibrant, is now faded—the ink has dulled, the corners are frayed, curling inwards. The map depicts the sky crowded with familiar constellations, each represented by faded illustrations. You trace your fingers over the well-known patterns, clusters of stars that have guided you through countless perilous terrains.

There’s Nereides, drawn in soft blue shades—a nymph-like creature with delicate wings that seem to flutter even on the page. Next to it is Cerberus, a lone wolf’s head with piercing dark eyes and a spiked collar etched tightly around its neck.

But now, at the very heart of the celestial map, something new has appeared—something that wasn’t there before. 

You’re sure of it—you had spent days pouring over every little detail of the chart after your group leader had won it in a barter. You had tried to decipher the text scrawled along the edges, but the symbols seemed to belong to a long-forgotten, dead language. Despite your inability, your leader has persistently urged you to decipher the text, fervently convinced the map would lead to you an otherworldly treasure.

And now, in the center lies an image of a slumbering dragon, its body curled inwards in a protective coil. Its tail loops around its lower limbs, and its head is tucked low, framed by elegantly curved horns.

You glance up at the sky, then back down at the chart, heart racing. The stars are unmistakably the same ones you see above you, glowing softly against the abyssal canvas of the night sky.

Fighting to stay awake, you carefully fold the map. You tuck it back into the hidden pocket of your backpack, careful not to crumple it further.

A flicker of unease sparks within your chest. Perhaps this is why so many bandit groups had been desperate to claim the celestial map.

You’re too drained to dwell anymore on the thought of the map’s origins. Shaking your head, you push yourself off the cold ground and move towards a nearby tree. The bark is rough against your back as you curl into yourself.

The rhythmic sound of the waves fills the silence—it’s soothing, like a lullaby from a distant memory. Your eyelids grow heavier with each passing second, and before you know it, exhaustion has taken over you. You fall into a deep slumber.

When you open your eyes, the lake and your makeshift camp are gone. You’re standing in the center of an opulent ballroom, its grandeur almost suffocating. The air is heavy with an eerie stillness, and the golden chandelier above glistens with an unnatural brilliance, its countless crystals refracting the faint light into a kaleidoscope of fractured rainbows across the polished floor. Towering golden organs line the wall, pipes gleaming with an otherworldly glow.

Your gaze shifts to the massive paper-like screen behind them.

The mural sprawled across the screen is mesmerizing and foreboding. In the center of the mural, a single droplet falls into a dark, endless rising tide. Above it, a gleaming circular symbol watches, as though it could see into the depths of your soul. Below it all, a single flower struggles to bloom beneath the weight of the waves, its fragile stem bending. Surrounding it are scattered petals and withered blossoms, their lifeless forms drifting aimlessly in the current.

You take a step closer to the mural, unable to tear your gaze away from the haunting image before you. Standing next to it, you feel suffocated, its presence pressing down on you like an invisible tide. Your fingers trail over the painted flower, brushing against the parchment. As if responding to the touch, the flower begins to pulse faintly, as if breathing.

Your look upwards, gaze drawn to the looming, watchful eye above. Its gaze is piercing, heavy with hate and remorse, and an unfamiliar sorrow wells up in your chest—the emotion feels foreign, yet intimate, a betrayal so deep it knots your stomach. Yet, you cannot place its source.

You stumble back, heart pounding. You take in the room around you—seaweed and coral have taken root, sprouting from the stone floor and the cracks of the gilded walls.

At first, you’re baffled—how can ocean life thrive in a space like this? But the answer creeps up on you slowly, as you start to notice how blurred your vision is, how light your body feels.

You are submerged.

And yet, despite it all, you can breathe—you have been doing so for the past minutes without any difficulty. Fear bubbles beneath your skin. You are trapped in this submerged, decaying ballroom; the weight of the water should be crushing you, but it isn’t.

You try to remember who you are and how you got here, but the answers slip away. You search for something—anything—that can ground you, but your thoughts come up blank, an empty void where your memories should be. It’s as if the act of realizing you’re submerged deep within has erased your own ego, leaving a faint outline of a name, one that feels like it might also dissolve any moment.

“Who am I,” you whisper, walking back to the mural, staring into the intimidating, all-seeing eye. Your voice trembles. The question stays unanswered, and your shoulders sag.

Hesitantly, you press your hand to the mural again. As if in response, a torrent of visions floods your mind.

You see water nymphs—Oceanids, creatures of long-forgotten myths—glide effortlessly across vast expanses of crystalline waters. Their forms shimmer under the moonlight, while their laughter rings lightly.

Then the vision shifts. A pristine lake stretches before you, glowing under a sky of bioluminescent fireflies. People dance around its edges, faces filled with joy. In the center of the lake stands a majestic willow tree, its gilded branches reaching upwards as though touching the sky. The scene radiates an almost too perfect harmony.

But that peace shatters. Another vision overtakes you—dark purple tendrils erupt from the ground, creeping and crawling around. They latch onto every lifeform they can reach, draining their lifeforce until what remains is withered and lifeless, crumbling into ash. Deafening beastly roars split the sky, shaking the ground. Rain begins to fall, and soon, the once-pristine waters turn murky. The golden willow collapses, swallowed by the depths, the violent tendrils wrapping around its withering form.

You choke back a scream as the vision abruptly vanishes, leaving you feeling disoriented and clutching your head in pain.

The sunlight filters through the trees, bright enough to hit your closed eyelids and rouse you from your slumber. Groaning, you shift on the uneven ground, limbs stiff, making you wince. You stretch your aching body, and your hand moves to check your injuries, fingers pressing against the makeshift bandages you had hastily tied while being pursued. To your relief, they’re still in place, though stained with dried blood and frayed at the edges.

You don’t remember what you dreamed of—if anything at all. Perhaps it was a fitful, dreamless sleep. Yet there’s evidence of a nightmare you cannot recall—the streaks of dried tears on your cheeks and the deep pang of sorrow lodged in your chest.

Blinking against the light, you sit up, feeling groggy and sore. Your gaze shifts towards the lake—and you freeze. For a moment you wonder if you’re not actually awake, but dreaming in this moment.

The lake glistens under the morning rays, its surface smooth and crystalline-clear. You stumble to your feet and take a small, hesitant step towards the water.

As you approach the edge, you start to see details that make the scene even more surreal. The water is so clear that you can make out the colored pebbles and seashells scattered along the edges. The soft waves continue to lap gently at the shore.

Your hand hovers over the surface, trembling.

Clean bodies of water shouldn’t exist. Not here; not in Fontaine, where pollution has claimed every lake, river and spring.

Cautiously, you dip your hand in the water. The cool sensation spreads across your fingers, and for several moments, you feel nothing. But then, you notice something strange.

Your scrapes—the faint lines marring your knuckles—begin to mend themselves. The skin knits back together, smooth as ever, as if the injuries never existed to begin with. You pull your hand back, staring in disbelief at the unblemished skin.

You reach into the water again, dipping your other hand, this time watching closely. The bruises along your wrist start to fade. Taking out your hand, you flex your fingers, running a thumb over the now-perfect skin.

Glancing at the lake again, you feel your heart racing. Something compels you to do more than touch the surface. You hesitate briefly before pulling off your boots and stepping into the shallow water. It embraces you, and a shiver runs down your spine—not from the cold, but from an odd sense of being… welcomed.

You take another step, and then another, until the water rises to your knees. It’s almost as if the lake itself is calling out to you, urging you to continue deeper.

As you wade deeper into the lake, you feel the soreness in your muscles fade and dissolve with each step. The waves lap gently against your body, pulling you further in with every step.

Soon, the water reaches past your shoulders. You don’t hesitate, almost as if in a trance, and duck your head beneath the surface. When you open your eyes underwater, there’s no sting, no blurriness.

Intrigued, you decide to explore what lies ahead. You swim towards the center of the lake, and watch as the underwater world begins to bloom with color—schools of fish flit past you in a synchronized dance, their scales shimmering like jewels; some hide behind the wavy tendrils of the underwater flora. You spot large shells nestled deep in the sand, their curved pink surfaces bubbling softly; they open and close lazily, revealing pearly insides that glisten like treasure.

The further you swim, the more alive the lake begins to feel, almost like it’s something ancient and aware, not a mere body of water.

In the distance, something catches your eye—a large, imposing tree rooted at the heart of the lake. Its golden leaves sway gently in the underwater current. There’s something unnatural about it, different from the rest of the lake. No fish swim around it, and no flora grows near its roots. The life teeming in the lake seems to avoid it entirely.

Curiosity pushes you forward, and the shape grows clearer as you near it. The tree is enormous, its trunk and branches rivaling the towering trees you’ve read about in tales of Sumeru’s Mawtiyima Forest. You can’t help but feel small in its presence.

As you approach, you slow your movements, careful not to disturb the tree's golden branches. Swimming around its base, you tilt your head upward, following the trail of its branches to the very crown of the tree.

And then you see it.

Nestled behind the branches, hidden in the shadows of the tree’s golden canopy, is the silhouette of a slumbering creature. Its body is curled in on itself, and long, spiraling horns crown its head. Its chest rises and falls in a slow, rhythmic pattern. A thick tail swishes lazily in the water.

You freeze, heart pounding. The creature’s presence is overwhelming, and an ancient power radiates from it even in its dormant state. Something about it feels familiar—achingly so. Yet, you can’t recall why.

So you move, gliding closer to the shimmering figure. Despite the sadness etched deep in your chest—or perhaps because of it—you extend a trembling hand. Your fingers brush against the creature’s scales, cool and smooth beneath your touch.

It turns out to be a mistake.

The moment your hand connects, flashes of the forgotten dream surge through your mind, disjointed and overwhelming. Water nymphs and Oceanids. People dancing by the lake. The golden willow. And then—the darkness, the tendrils, the roaring storm.

The beast stirs.

The massive creature opens its eyes, revealing an otherworldly gaze that pierces straight through you.

You gasp, the sharp inhale sending bubbles rushing from your mouth. The creature shifts. Its massive wings unfurl, glowing with an ethereal light that blinds you.

Panic sets in. You kick your legs, arms straining as you desperately try to proper yourself upward, hoping to break to the surface as soon as possible. But the water churns violently. You feel a pull—a whirlpool forming beneath you, where the creature stands. It drags you closer, and no matter how hard you struggle, you cannot fight it, cannot escape its clutches.

Your lungs burn. Your movements grow sluggish. Your vision darkens, spots appearing at the edges.

But through the haze of your final moments, one image sears itself in your mind—the dragon’s unblinking eye, staring at you.

A fire crackles nearby when you open your eyes, its gentle warmth in stark contrast with the wet chill clinging to your skin. Your chest burns with every breath, and your entire body feels drenched, clothes sticking uncomfortably to your skin. You sit up closely, shaking your head and letting a few stray droplets from your hair.

Confusion grips you. The last thing you remember is swimming in the lake, the golden willow, and the slumbering beast. Then—nothing. And yet, here you are, back at your makeshift camp, a fire flickering gently a couple of meters away.

Your eyes dart around, scanning the area. Your belongings are scattered just as you had left them.

You shiver, not just from the cold, but also from the gnawing sense that something is off. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you glance towards the lake. It looks the same as before—clear, its surface glistening under the fading sunlight.

But then you hear it—a soft rustling, the faint sound of movement. Your body tenses, and your hand instinctively reaches for the nearest weapon. Rising to your feet, you clutch the half-dulled dagger that was lying within arm’s reach.

Near the edge of the lake, someone—or something—stands. Their silhouette is illuminated by the soft glow of the setting sun. They’re tall, their figure lithe but imposing, with long, pale hair cascading down their back and a tail that sways faintly with each shift of the figure’s weight.

Your grip on the dagger tightens. In that exact moment, the figure turns and you inevitably meet their gaze—piercing, light-purple eyes with slit pupils that seem to glow faintly. They almost look like they hold entire galaxies within them, the colors giving the impression as if you’re staring into a distant nebula.

It’s him. You’re certain of it, even if you cannot explain why.

This man—if you can even call him that—bears the same presence as the beast you’d seen beneath the lake. A strange mix of awe and terror washes over you as the realization sinks in.

He steps closer, his movements deliberate but nonthreatening, and you can’t help but stumble back a step, your voice trembling as you find yourself blurting, “Who—who are you?”

Author's note: suffering from insomnia just means my wips folder starts looking like a buffet 💔

I plan to update this every Sunday evening.

Also, I'm trying to write more descriptive and immersive text, so I hope it doesn't get too prose-y... but oh well... 🤧

[kassies-take]

Idea for Adoption II

Idea for adoption, ON THE CONDITION YOU TAG AND CREDIT ME. Please tag me.

Fandom: Station 19/Grey’s Anatomy

Timeline: starting season 6 of station 19 & season 19 of Grey’s

Context: Aurora “Rora” DeLuca is a firefighter at Station 19 of the Seattle Fire Department and the younger sister to Carina and Andrew DeLuca.

Previously On: Aurora has been discharged from the hospital after a brutal building collapse. 19 had gotten civilians out and accounted for when the building collapses on the youngest DeLuca. The most notable and severe injury was to her leg.

Summary: As Aurora goes through physical therapy she meets Dr. Jules Millin. The two work around growing feelings and challenging career paths.

~~~~~

My Opening: (feel free to use or change)

“Angioletta? I thought physical therapy starts at 3.” Carina says spotting Aurora in the hallway.

“It does but I heard there were newbies and I wanted to see the new probies.”

“Interns.” Carina corrects.

“Probies. Interns. Same thing.” Aurora mocks. “It beats waiting at home.”

“Meredith is taking them to the new OR. I have to go one of my mommies is in labor.” Carina pulls Aurora into a quick hug and kisses her temple.

Aurora wanders the hallway. She meets a force of another body slamming into hers, knocking her onto the ground.

“Ooof, and they say firefighters come in hot.”

“I’m so sorry.” The brunette helps Aurora up.

Aurora stumbles up, her leg not fully cooperating as she holds onto the woman for stability. The pain shows on her face.

“Are you okay?” Concern laced in her voice.

“Just give me a second.” Aurora takes a deep breath and slowly puts pressure onto her injured leg.

“Again, I’m very sorry.”

“Well judging by the color of your scrubs and your need for speed, you must be one of the new interns.”

“Yes,” the intern replies excitedly. “Jules Millin.” She sticks out her hand eagerly.

“DeLuca?” Link questions. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just a little stumble is all.”

Link nods, gives the two a look pausing at Jules a little too long. He continues down the path he was taking. “I’ll see you in PT.”

“You know you’re not my doctor anymore!” Aurora shouts after him. “And he’s not listening, great.”

“Carina DeLuca? Jules her lips upturn at the realization. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, it’s an honor. I read about your study in orgasm’s utility as pain relief.“

“I’m going to stop you right there. Aurora DeLuca. Carina’s better looking, stronger and sexier little sister.” Aurora shakes Jules’ hand with a smirk. “Firefighter.”

“Oh god I’m sorry.”

Jules flushes. Her neck and ears more red than her face.

“I’m sure you’ve got surgeries you’re dying to learn. I on the other hand will try to rip Link’s head off for my PT plan. Good luck, bellissima (beautiful)”

[flyintheworldofbooks]

Sims 4 CC recs

This is my master list with my current cc's

Outfits:

By Aretha - pretty (&) savage collection 💗✨🦋

By aharris00britney - AxA 2020 | 90+ CAS Items | Public Release

By BlueCraving - Sporty Collection

By BlueCraving - Wedding Collection

By Oydis - Smart & Casual 💄 / Also has other packs with hair colors

By Oydis - The Little Black Dress 👠

By RIMINGS - Lazy Sunday / PJs / Also has a lot of good outfits

By Sunberry - Ribbon top long dress & Pearl Heart

By VIKAI X GREENLLAMAS - SOGUE

By Black Lily - Evenings With You Dress

By Caiocc - Lily: A 10 items set

By Caiocc - CxS Love Myself. - The Collection (9 items)

By clumsyalien - «mixtape» cc pack

By clumsyalien - «ambience» cc pack

By Daisy Pixels - 🔔 Antonia & Diana 🔔

By Miiko - Corset crop-top

By Rusty - Autumn City II

By Rusty - Basic VI

By Rusty - Princess of XIII

By Serenity - Hazelnut Set (12 items)

By Serenity - SxC Love Myself. - The Collection (7 items)

By Serenity - Aurora Set (13 items)

By Serenity - Bloom Set (10 items)

By Serenity - Nuage Set (13 items)

By Serenity - Sour Candy, a 6 item set.

By Serenity - Amethyst Set (6 items)

By Trillyke - Skyline Sweater and Jumper

By Trillyke - Silver Light Jeans

By Trillyke - Bad Chemical Jacket

Swimsuits:

By Caiocc - Ipanema: A 9 items set

By Trillyke - 🌞Hello Summer! Collection 🌞

Men:

By Black Lily - Miles Top

By Rusty - Mellow IV

Shoes:

By Jius-Sims - Shoe Collections

By Madlen - Shoe Collection

Accessories:

By clumsyalien - «euphoria» cc pack

By Miiko - High knit socks

By Pralinesims - PARADOX Glasses

By Pralinesims - DUNE Glasses

By Pralinesims - DOMINO Glasses

By Pralinesims - AGONY Ear Piercing Collection

By Pralinesims - THUNDERSTRUCK Ear Piercing Collection

Hair:

By Sheabuttyr - hannah hair

By Simcelebrity00 - Lexi Hairstyle

By sweetaday - Sasa Hair

By clumsyalien - «sweet & sour» hairs

By Marso - lock and lease

By Marso - kauban cc dump

By Miiko - Emma hair version 2

By Miiko - Anya hair (two lengths)

Skin/Makeup:

By Miiko - Rhea skin set

By Miiko - Body-kit No.2

By Pralinesims - BELLINI Makeup Collection

By Pralinesims - WATERDROP Maxis-Match Eyes

By Pralinesims - ESCAPISM Eye Trio

By Serenity - Anise Lipgloss (11 colors)

Kids:

By Sunberry - Cottagecore Collection👗👗

By Daisy Pixels - 💐☀️ Sunny Skies ☀️💐

By Miiko - 3D eyelashes + Makoto hair (children)

Toddlers:

By Daisy Pixels - Tilly and Pua 🌞💐 🌻 🌼 🌹 🌸

By Miiko - 3D eyelashes for toddlers & infants

Stuff:

By Aira - .˚₊┈୨ The Artist in Me🪞୧┈₊˚.

By RusticSims - CAREYES LIV& DIN - AUGUST SET- TIER PRO (15 TEXTURE)

By Felixandre - THE LIVIN' RUM

By Sixam CC - Boho-Bath Botanical Retreat

By Aira - Study in Style Set…………🐻

By Push Pixels - Urban outdoor

By Syboubou - Clarisse office set

By Miiko - Harmony furniture set

Edit: erased one of the kid's CCs as I don't like the textures and how it fits the sims in general - will probably add more CCs to this in the future!

[wintersovereign]

#𝓌𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒾𝑔𝓃​​ ( a full time forest cryptid ) ⸻private & mutuals only portrayal of Elsa the Snow Queen of Disney's Frozen & Frozen II, with heavy influences from both novel & film canon. beloved by jess ( she / her, 42, pst ). est. Nov 2013. Crossovers are highly encouraged!

 ⸻ a study of the myth archetype, those who must bear the weight of the world on their shoulders, the enduring strength of love, the unbreakable bond between sisters, thrusting yourself towards destiny, making peace with your grief, learning to love yourself, the sacrifices made in persuit of truth, and righting the wrongs of the past.

disney canons ⸻ @lovethawed (Anna) @tcthinecwnself (Hans/Kristoff) @bornofthedawn (Aurora) @metonceuponadream (Philip) @liistenwellallofyou (Maleficent) @adversitybloomed (Mulan) @boombambaby (Kuzco) @seafoamseashell (Ariel) @revegrande (Tiana) @verreprincesse (Ella)

kingdom hearts ⸻ @darkheartedprince (Riku) @strikelikethehammerofdawn (Terra) @lghtbloom (Aqua)

the frost family ⸻ @roidefroid (Jack) @glacierheart (Caspian) @purelysnow (Snow)

the pitchiners (ROTG) ⸻ @animaterrena (Seraphina) @fatherxfear (Kozmotis) @cliippedwiings (Fly) @brightchill (Jack)

beloved connections ⸻ @lastprinceofthxemishi (Ashitaka) @thesilentheroxfhyrule (Link) @sixthousandyearsandcounting (Kurama) @tidalhaired (Elrond) @menelvagor (Ar-Pharazon) @epihlogue (so many!) @soughtserenity (so many!) @disgraceofthenation (Zuko) @mischieftomake(Loki) @tretramonti (Eric)

Rules ❇ About ❇ Verses ❇ Starters & Ice Breakers ❇ Character Studies

Blogroll: Anna ❇ Link ❇ Zuko ❇

(Personal or fandom blogs, please do not reblog things from this page.)

[goldenraeofsun]

A Tale of Two Memoirs, Part II

Read Part I here

NONFICTION Bruce Wayne Produces Entertaining Puff with Unexpected Moments of Pathos

In his new memoir, “The Prince of Gotham: The Bruce Wayne Story,” the celebrity provides a lighthearted romp through his younger years in the public eye before dipping into the joys and troubles of early fatherhood, including the sudden death of his second son.

By Aurora Kant

BUY BOOK ⬇️: When you purchase an independently reviewed book through our site, The Daily Planet earns an affiliate commission.

THE PRINCE OF GOTHAM: The Bruce Wayne Story | By Bruce Wayne | Monarch Press | 256 pp. | $29.99

By the time Jason slips into the Strand, the event is halfway over. A skeleton crew mans the registers. Most of the staff has already meandered to the reading room. 

At the first sound of Bruce’s voice – his real one, or at least as real as he gets when outside the Manor – Jason can’t help the instinctive way his shoulders jump to ears. With his spine hunched and head ducked, he approaches the half-empty table scattered with piles of The Prince of Gotham: The Bruce Wayne Story . He waits until the crowd erupts in laughter at some stupid Brucie anecdote and bumps his hip against one corner. Two of the taller piles wobble before toppling over completely.

A sales assistant behind the table turns, her expression annoyed at the interruption.

“Sorry,” Jason says in a hushed voice, his expression contrite. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

“No, I get it,” she says as her hands deftly align the covers into neat columns once more. “I thought he’d be another airhead billionaire, but he’s something else, isn’t he?”

Jason snorts. “He is something,” he says, and he can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice, judging by how her face slips into a well-practiced customer service smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

She asks politely, “Did you get your copy yet?”

“Uh, no,” Jason says as he searches his jacket for the ticket he lifted on his way in. “Here.”

She trades it for a copy from the table. “Enjoy,” she says blandly.

In the other room, Bruce is reading, “No matter what the Swiss paramedics say, that incident at the ski lodge was not my –”

Jason hurries out of there.

Back out on New York City sidewalk, he inhales a deep lungful of air. It smells like piss and garbage, a typical New York summer afternoon, but it’s miles ahead of the Strand because he can’t hear Bruce’s voice anymore.

With determined steps, he heads south, down 12th Street to the post office on 4th Avenue. In the back, near the packaging options, he slips the book in a sturdy brown envelope. He doesn’t bother adding a note before sealing it shut and he scribbling the address of Talia’s safehouse in Paris – the one she always visited in mid-Spring – on the front. Last he heard, she was planning on finally bringing Damian with her, and who knows, the kid could use some bedtime stories that didn’t come from Sun Tzu or Niccolo Machiavelli. 

As he gets in line to mail it, Jason pulls out the copy he stole when he knocked into the display table. He studies the cover, a glossy shot of the man of the hour, leaning against a mantle piece. The heavy burnished gold frame behind Bruce’s head niggles at Jason’s patchy memory: this photo was taken by the fireplace in the parlor in Manor, beneath the portrait of his parents.

It’s so… Bruce. Standing in the legacy of his parents, out of sight but never out of mind.

Jason cracks open the book and flips through the copyright and title page. He stops dead at the dedication:

For my boys, I would not be the man I am today without you.

Jason stares down at the words, an ugly frown twisting his lips. Of course Bruce would thank the golden boy and the new kid. Gotta keep up appearances for his adoring public.

Tim Drake might not live at the Manor or be adopted by Bruce, but Jason knows a Robin when he sees one. In fact, with this setup, Bruce doesn’t even have to do any of the messy father bits that always got in the way of his cases and training. Tim can go home to his townhouse, get all “ I love you ”s and “ I’m proud of you ”s from a man who doesn’t see them as necessary evils for Robin’s maintenance.

“NEXT!”

Jason jumps. Judging from the tone of the postal worker's voice, it isn’t the first time they tried to get his attention. He marches up to the register and mails Talia’s stupid book and gets the hell out of New York City. At least the Teen Titans moved their base out to San Francisco; Jason has no idea what he would do if he saw one of Dick’s groupies hanging off the nearest scaffolding.

On NJ Transit, Jason gets through two and a half chapters before he gives up. With hands shaking from too many emotions to name, he throws the book down on the seat next to him, hunches down, and broods the rest of the way down the North Jersey Coast Line to Gotham.

* * *

With binoculars trained on the warehouse floor, Jason listens to the opening jingle to “Book Talk”. Nothing like a quality podcast episode to liven up a boring stakeout. 

Black Mask’s men don’t even have the grace to be inept, so Jason can’t laugh at them from his perch up in the rafters. No, like good worker bees, they’re all following the foreman’s orders to a T. Not a peep of complaint, not when they unload over a hundred pounds of kryptonite (not that Maskie would tell any lowly grunt about the contents of that lead box).

“I’m Q, and this week we’re talking about The Prince of Gotham by Br–”

Jason silently groans. Fucking Bruce. He’d been on every late night show and magazine cover promoting his stupid book. 

Jason reaches to mute the podcast, but a flood of new goons file in, and Jason has to use his hand to zoom in with his binoculars, so Q happily keeps chattering on, “To be honest, I had low expectations for this one.”

Jason snorts. Trust Brucie to write something worth less than the paper it’s printed on.

“But in Chapter 6 things took a sharp fucking turn. Zach, I don’t know if you caught any of my live tweets. I tweeted maybe two thou –”

“Oh my god,” Zach interrupts, “of course I did.”

Q laughs. “Listener, I cried.”

Jason makes a face. And here he thought he finally found a serious book club podcast with hosts with two brain cells to rub together. 

Q continues, “When he talks about his son’s bedroom –”

Jason rolls his eyes. He’d sometimes catch Bruce in there after bad fights with Dick, brooding over Dick’s track and field trophies and novelty T-shirt collection. It was so stupid. Pathetic even. If Bruce just apologized for the first time in his life – but then again, he wouldn’t be Batman if he did something like that. 

“But the fact that he hasn’t changed anything since Jason left that day?”

Up in the rafters, Jason nearly drops his binoculars. 

Q adds, “I lost it when Bruce talks about the fight with his butler about cleaning up. On one hand, it’s ridiculous to have a billion dollars and a butler. On the other, of course he would resist anything that erases a part of Jason after losing him. How human, how relatable, is that?”

Zach could be agreeing. Zach could be disagreeing. Zach could be belting Dancing Queen for all Jason is paying attention. 

Jason stares out through his binoculars, not seeing a damn thing.

Bruce kept his bedroom the same? He fought Alfred about cleaning it? Why would he do that? To save face, play the grieving father in public? 

But Jason scoured the newspapers as soon as he regained enough of his mind to put two sentences together. No media mentioned Bruce Wayne, nothing in the metro section, business articles, or society pages. Jason would’ve thought Bruce vanished off the face of the planet, but mentions of Batman held steady throughout Bruce’s bizarre hermit phase.

After Jason got dunked in the Lazarus Pit like the world’s most toxic candy apple, his past came back in bits and pieces. Flashes of Bruce’s forbidding face and even more forbidding words. Flickers of Bruce’s ruthless training and harsh punishments. They all made his blood boil and the remnants of the Pit sing in his veins. He felt like he was going insane, keeping everything cooped up in his head, so he started writing them down, and thus The World’s Greatest Detective was born. 

Jason got most of his memories back by the time he left for Nantes, and Talia filled in the rest.

So, none of this stuff about his bedroom makes any sense.

Jason could sort of see Bruce leaving his room alone out of sheer apathy. It wasn’t like the man was hurting for bedrooms. The family wing alone held six, and the whole servants’ quarters – still nicer than any apartment Jason had ever seen in his life – were empty except for Alfred’s room.

But then if Bruce didn’t care enough to change it after Jason died, why would he get into an argument with Alfred about it? Why would he take on a new Robin after only a year and a half? Why would he not put the Joker down for good? Why –

Oh.

Of course. 

It’s a classic case of Occam’s Razor: Bruce lied. It is a good story, a heart wrenching anecdote, if you ask his poor, deluded podcast hosts about it.

Well, there’s only one way to know for sure. After Jason steals this kryptonite from under Black Mask’s ugly, nonexistent nose, he’s gonna head to Bristol and see his old bedroom for himself.

He freezes. Hold on, what’s that?  

Black Mask’s men lug a final, enormous unmarked crate inside the warehouse. It’s ten feet long, easily, and clearly very heavy, judging by the sheen of sweat on the men’s foreheads and their muttered swears.

Change of plans. Jason finally mutes the podcast, so he can think.

He will head to Bristol right after he figures out what the hell needs a dozen guards when fifty million dollars worth of kryptonite only merits four.

Fifteen minutes later, surrounded by scores of cooling bodies, Jason cracks open the crate. His face lights up as he takes in the body resting in a bed of packing straw. He was looking for a distraction that would keep Batman out of Bristol for a few hours. Bingo. 

Now, how the fuck he turn on Amazo?

* * *

On his bike, Jason roars down the backroads of Bristol, as if the noise of the engine could drown out his thoughts that buzz around his head like an unswattable swarm of gnats. As he reaches the secret fork in the road that leads to Cave, Jason presses his foot on the gas. It flies past, a dark, indivisible blur, indistinguishable from the rest of the dark trees rising from the side of the road.

Before he died, he drove up over that road countless times in the Batmobile –

Scowling, hunched in on himself in the passenger seat after he let the bad guy get away. 

Exhausted, the barely-there hum of the engine lulling him to sleep after a long patrol. 

Bleeding and concussed, one hand pressed tight against the stab wound in his side, the pain pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat.

Grinning broadly after a clean rescue, chattering a mile a minute, recounting every thrilling moment to Batman in the driver’s –

Jason nearly steers his bike straight into a ditch as his pulse kicks into double-time and breathing sharpens to shallow, staccato bursts.

Where the hell had that come from? 

He’d never remembered something like that before, something so indisputably happy. 

The helmet seems to be shrinking on his head, the HUD almost blinding against his watering eyeballs. He pulls over to the side of the road and yanks it off with a gasp. He twists in his seat, eyes wide, as if he could see that road , even though it’s now a hundred feet behind him and blocked by dense foliage.

Jason didn’t have any truly happy memories with Bruce. 

Didn’t he?

With narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, he starts his bike up again, and slowly tools back the way he came. In the distance, the waterfall roars, strangely muted by all the leaf litter and natural detritus. 

Undoubtedly, Bruce’s bevy of hidden cameras have already taken a billion frames of his face. Not that Jason was ever going to chicken out , but now he has to break in, if just to delete the mountains of evidence.

He leaves his bike, tucks his helmet under his arm, slips past the barrier, and walks on foot towards the waterfall. As gets closer, the noise makes his head hurt and knocks even more memories loose.

God, how could he have forgotten the first time Bruce ever took him out in the Batmobile? His first ever patrol in his uniform, that warm summer night where all the Diamond District streetlights seemed to glow with potential?

He can’t believe he forgot Dick’s face as he twirled the keys to the Batmobile around his finger, asking, “Have you ever been out without the big bad Bat, Jay?” even though Bruce had benched Jason for underperforming at his last patrol.

In the near pitch black darkness, Jason finds the path around the waterfall like he last walked it yesterday instead of over three years ago. He breathes evenly in and out to calm his nervous system, like his poisons expert taught him. The idea was that if Jason could significantly slow his heartbeat during high-stress situations, he could gain a few precious seconds before the toxin reached his brain or heart. That man knew every poison, toxin, and variety of kiddie porn under the sun. 

Three days later, Jason slit his throat, sent all his porn files to Nantes’ Chief of Police, and left for Cologne.

Jason steps lightly over the wet dirt, careful to hide his footsteps and not leave any prints, like Egon, the assassin, showed him. Once Jason learned all he could, he poisoned Egon for selling two dozen underage boys.

As Jason descends deeper into the cave system beneath the Wayne estate, the smell of the bats gets stronger. The memories keep hitting him like a crowbar to the temple, and Jason staggers the last few steps to the entrance of the Batcave, breathing heavily, his head pounding.

Hacking into the Batcomputer and changing all his access codes to 6969 because he was fourteen, and it was fucking hilarious.

Hacking into the Batcomputer and changing all of Bruce’s access codes to 8008 on April Fool’s.

The access panel to the Batcave swims before his eyes. Christ, he is in no fucking state to break into Bruce’s tech now. He braces one arm against the wall, trying and mostly failing to get his fucking shit together.

What the hell. In for a pound. 

6… 9… 6… 9

Jason punches in the last digit, grimacing at everything he’s gonna have to do for Plan B. He’ll have to go the long way around to the Manor, avoid Alfred’s all-seeing eyes and bat-like hearing, and sneak back down into the Cave to delete all evidence of his presence. And who fucking knows what he’ll remember once he steps foot in the Manor –

The Batcave entrance soundlessly slides open.

Jason’s jaw drops. His old code still worked? That is a… huge security risk. Bruce must know it’s a security risk. 

But it worked anyway. 

Jason steps into the Cave, and it’s like stepping into a dream world. Everything carries an indescribable haze of deja vu and nostalgia. More and more comes back to him as he passes the giant penny, the T-Rex, the garage of increasingly specific Batmobiles.

A bright reflection of glass catches his eye, and, like a moth to a flame, he is drawn to the display cases that he’s never seen before in his life. He passes three iterations of the Batman suit, two versions of Nightwing’s, and comes to a stop in front of the last glass panel – the only one with a plaque at the bottom.

His blood freezes as he reads “Jason Todd, A Good Soldier”.

The almighty CRACK of his fist against the bulletproof glass violently forces him back to himself. Knuckles aching, Jason stands before the case, panting. Scorching rage sears through his veins like he hasn’t felt since he read about the new Robin. After everything – 

The memories prove nothing. 

Before he died, Jason was just a naive kid who didn’t know any better. A street rat who saw the one guy who gave a shit as his savior. But all Bruce ever was was a drill sergeant in bat’s clothing. In the end, Jason was just Bruce’s latest casualty in his pointless crusade for a city that will never get better through rehabilitation. 

No, what Gotham needs is extra judicial homicide. 

Jason storms over to the Batcomputer keyboard and deletes the entire day’s security footage with prejudice and sets the cameras to start recording again in twenty minutes. That should be enough time for him to get the hell out of here. 

He stalks back to the Batcave entrance. Face to face with the closed door, he pauses. He came here for a reason. The final nail in his not-so-proverbial coffin. 

Jason spins on his heel and heads for the stairs that lead back up to the Manor.

* * *

Jason stands before his old bedroom door, a strange, buzzing energy thrumming under his skin. He half expects his hand to tremble as he reaches for the brass knob, but his extensive training wins out, and he twists it open with steady fingers. 

Or, he tries to. 

It’s locked because no annoyance is too small for Bruce to inflict on his second child soldier. Grumbling under his breath, Jason falls to one knee and pulls out his wire tools. 

As the last tumbler falls into place, the door smoothly opens on well-oiled hinges.

It’s … his bedroom.

Jason steps inside, and it’s like stepping into a time capsule – or a sealed tomb. 

Nothing looks disturbed from the last time he was here. He turns to his bookshelf, organized by genre and then by author. His special self, of his favorites and the first editions Bruce gifted to him on his birthday, Christmas, and adoption day – shit, how had he forgotten Bruce did that? – sits untouched.

His desk has neat piles of textbooks, separated into school academics and his Robin studies. 

Jason presses his lips tightly together, his gaze stuttering over the Wonder Woman poster and his water bottle covered Wonder Woman stickers. God, he had idolized her, and Bruce couldn’t even be mad she was his favorite because he agreed she was so awesome.

Jason peeks into the ensuite bathroom. His fingers clench on the door as he catches sight of the half-squeezed tube of toothpaste, the smears of his post-shower handprint on the mirror. For fuck’s sake, his towel isn’t even on the rack – it’s still lying on the floor where he dropped it to get dressed in a hurry to make his flight to Ethiopia. 

He closes the door and sinks down on the bed. 

Swallowing past the lump in the back of his throat, Jason reaches for the book on his nightstand. A deep crack runs down the spine of the paperback, so deep that the novel lies flat against the tabletop surface. 

He would never treat A Tale of Two Cities like that. It’s the only difference Jason can see in this entire cursed bedroom from the last time he was here.

He fans the pages with the pad of his thumb, slightly calmed by the familiar sound of rustling of worn paper. The book fall open at the break in the spine, and he traces a finger down the entire left-hand page covered in his annotations like, secret identity who? and EAT THE RICH . One corner of his mouth lifts into a reluctant smile.

The notes abruptly cut off halfway down the next page, and Jason narrows his eyes at the odd warped circles on the paper that decorate the margins instead. Hold on. 

Those aren’t – 

They can’t be –

Bruce could’ve picked it up with wet hands after a shower or taking a piss. He could’ve left it open by an open window when it was raining. He could’ve done a hundred other things that left the pages with weird, damp patches. He didn’t – not over Jason –

In all his years with Bruce, Jason never, ever saw Bruce cry. Not when he got a faceful of a hyper-concentrated version of Scarecrow’s toxin, or when Killer Croc rent his shoulder to shreds of flesh and sinew. Bruce was raised by Alfred and his stiff upper lip and went through puberty surrounded by sociopathic little shits in private school, so Jason always figured Bruce got the tears repressed and/or beat out of him by the time he turned sixteen.

But if Bruce cried over this book, if he kept Jason everything the same…

Talia would tell him to keep his mind on the mission. His mom would tell him to let his heart guide him. Batman would tell him to follow his orders. Bruce would tell him –

Footsteps echo outside the door.

Jason whirls around. The alarm clock reads 3:10 which can’t be right; he glances down at his watch that reads 4:10. Fucking daylight savings time.

He stayed in the Manor way longer than twenty minutes. With a muttered swear, he jams his helmet back on his head just as he hears, “No, I promise I’m going to sleep. You don’t have to check on –”

Jason is out the window and sprinting across the lawn before he consciously registers moving. His legs instinctively guide him in a zig-zag pattern that sticks to the shadows and out of the lines of sight from the first floor.

It’s only as he skids to a stop by his bike that he looks down and sees he’s still holding his old copy of A Tale of Two Cities .

* * *

Jason throws the book on his bedside table and collapses, fully clothed on his bed, completely exhausted like he went through five rounds with Ra’s inner circle. 

He wakes up with a pounding headache, dry mouth, and more new memories stuffed in his head than he knows what to do with. Blearily, he stumbles his way to the bathroom. He pisses, brushes his teeth, and splashes cold water on his face. He emerges, feeling vaguely more human but not nearly enough to face any of his responsibilities for the day.

He grabs a protein bar, a glass of water, and heads back to bed. He buries himself under the covers and, when he finds himself infuriatingly still awake, he grabs one of his author copies of The World’s Greatest Detective and a red pen. Time to do some editing because maybe, just maybe, superimposing his new memories over the old ones will finally show him what really happened between him and Bruce.

By the time he resurfaces, it’s nearly eight o’clock in the evening and he has even more questions than answers. His stomach grumbles angrily, and Jason throws the book to the foot of his bed as he stands up.

He doesn’t bother turning on the light as he enters the kitchen. In the dark, he refills his water glass and opens his refrigerator, frowning at the bare shelves. He’ll have to go shopping soon. He grabs an aging carton of lo mein that he should either eat now or toss out. 

As the door falls shut, refrigerator the light catches on the book jacket sitting innocently on the kitchen counter: The Prince of Gotham. Jason had thrown it there when he got back from New York and hadn’t touched it since.

Resentfully, he sweeps up the book and heads back to his bedroom.

He skips all the bullshit early years – dead parents, boarding school, travel abroad, blah, blah, blah – and goes straight to Chapter 6.

He lasts exactly two pages before passive reading becomes intolerable. With an outraged snort, he uncaps his pen and scrawls, When did THIS happen?, quickly followed by, I was not that fucking small . He keeps going, his handwriting getting more and cramped to fit all his thoughts in.

Dick snuck me out. How did you not know this?

LIES.

Get fucked B – I won that bet fair and square.

Need to verify with Talia.

You remembered my favorite gargoyle?

By the time Jason finishes the chapter, the lo mein sits forgotten on his nightstand. His head is buzzing with yet more new memories, and instead of helping him decide what to do next, all they do is complicate everything.

Bruce’s way doesn’t work. Nothing he says or does will convince Jason otherwise. He played by Bruce’s rules for the best years of his life, and what did that get him? A crowbar to his face, neck, and ribs, and a bomb to finish off the rest.

But, by Bruce’s own account and Jason’s crapton of new, inconvenient revelations, he undeniably cared for Jason. Loved him, even.

He throws The Prince of Gotham across the room and flops back in bed. Overhead, the ceiling fan gently rotates, too slow to really make a difference.

* * *

Jason finishes The Prince of Gotham the next evening and has to send a whole meth lab sky high and blow up Black Mask’s arms shipment from Bludhaven before he feels remotely stable. The next day, he takes care of a group of pimps and a protection racket extorting a handful of legit businesses on Market Avenue. All in all, this meant a neat one million dollar deficit for Black Mask. Not bad for two days of work on about six hours of sleep.

Before Jason heads back to pass the fuck out, he takes to the roofs for a quick patrol. Black Mask’s smarter associates are heading underground, which makes the stupid ones easy pickings. He deals with a few low-level dealers and armed purse snatchers. He scares the ever loving shit out of the last one, a kid, and actually leaves that one alive.

He’s just climbing the fire escape up out of the alley where he left the kid when he sees a flash of yellow reflected in a broken window pane. Not sickly Gotham streetlamp yellow – Robin’s cape yellow.

In one movement, he twists around, pulls out his gun, and fires. 

Tim, to his credit, dodges the shot without so much as a yelp of surprise. He disappears soundlessly. 

But Jason knows better than to think he scared Tim off for good. He scans above his sightlines, searching for any flash of the traffic light colors.

Great, just fucking great. Two days ago he breaks into Wayne Manor, and now Robin’s tailing him? That can’t be a coincidence. 

Glowering, he holsters his gun and stalks off in the complete opposite direction. No returning to his safehouse until he shakes his tail.

Jason knows embarrassingly little about Tim Drake, age fifteen, heir to Drake Industries, a producer and distributor of medical equipment. It’s not quite a billion-dollar business, but Tim’s set to inherit a tidy sum when his comatose father kicks it.

Tim Drake, the Robin that broke the mold. Not penniless. Not parent-less. 

Still looks the part, though, with his black hair and blue eyes.

Come to think of it, Jason really does know less about Timothy Drake than he expected to at this stage. After all, he read The Prince of Gotham from cover to cover. Dick got his own chapter. Jason got his own chapter. But Tim didn’t even get a footnote.

Huh.

No time to dwell on that now. Jason really needs to lose Robin so he can go the fuck home and sleep. He could track down the little birdie and clip his wings, but he’s really not ready for Bruce yet, and an outright attack on one of his own would definitely mean retaliation.

Luckily, they’re in Crime Alley, and Jason’s old stomping ground lives up to its name every .5 seconds.

Sure enough, after twelve minutes of hitting up all the dimmest alleys that branch off Park Row, he gets lucky: “I don’t want any trouble!”

Beneath his helmet, Jason grins as he stands on the roof overlooking the mugging-in-progress below. He still can’t see Robin, but he only has to count silently to ten before a head of black hair and the white domino lenses peek out from behind a rusty heat vent.

Bingo.

“All yours,” he calls as he gives Robin a jaunty salute. He turns and sprints in the opposite direction. 

Hero complexes – every Robin’s true weakness. There’s no chance any of them would ever choose recon over a rescue.

Two blocks away from his safehouse, Jason double checks he’s alone, using both the night vision and infrared vision. Next, he takes off his helmet and scans the surrounding rooftops and streets below because, as Bruce taught him so many years ago, computers are no replacement for the pair of eyes in your own goddamn head.

Confident he’s ditched Robin, Jason jumps down his fire escape and, after disabling his window traps, slides his bedroom window open.

Before his brain catches up with his mouth, Jason blurts, “B?”

Bruce’s still-cowled head snaps up, and all of Jason’s internal alarm bells go off at once. Batman never lets himself show surprise. He’d rather saw off his own foot with a batarang than display that kind of weakness.

What the hell is going on? Maybe this isn’t Bruce at all. Maybe he’s being mind controlled. Maybe he was replaced with a pod person. 

It takes Bruce a full second to make a sound – another outrageous show of emotion – and when he does, his voice is uncharacteristically unsteady. “Jason?”

For a wild, desperate second, Jason debates just hitting the fucking bailing, but Bruce would just chase after him, and Jason’s good, but not evade-the-Bat forever good. Not if Bruce wants to find him. So Jason climbs the rest of the way through to his bedroom, every muscle tense for the upcoming fight.

Bruce gets to his feet too, a book clutched in each hand: The Prince of Gotham and The World’s Greatest Detective.

Jason silently groans. The handwriting samples and all the DNA evidence in his place mean there’s no way he’s getting out of this one. He sets his helmet down on the windowsill behind him and turns to face his adoptive father. “Bruce,” he says evenly. “I don’t remember letting you in.”

Bruce takes a step forward, and Jason resists the urge to take a large step back. Quietly, he asks, “Is it really you?”

Jason scowls and stands his ground. “What do you want?”

“What do I –?” Bruce breaks off, and if Jason didn’t know better, he’d say Bruce looked hopelessly lost. “You’re alive?”

“No thanks to you.”

Bruce barely hides his wince. “Jason – how?”

“How what?” Jason snaps as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“How are –” Bruce stops, the corners of his mouth tightening. He taps his ear. “Yes?” he says impatiently. Still, he keeps his gaze trained on Jason’s face. Smart of him, finally recognizing Jason as a real threat. Into his comm, Bruce adds, his voice as dry as his favorite pinot noir, “I gathered as much myself.”

Jason brutally suppresses a burgeoning smile. He recognizes that face; it’s Bruce’s patented You-Fucked-Up-and-Now-I’m-Disappointed-in-You-Robin face.

“Go back to the Cave,” Bruce continues, “Don’t worry. I have eyes on Red Hood.”

Jason snorts. Yeah, he sure does.

Bruce taps his comm to mute it and shifts his attention back to Jason. He stays silent, studying Jason with those inscrutable white lenses.

Well, Jason might’ve had to put up with this when he was Bruce’s partner, when he was his Robin, when he was his son, but that kid is as dead as a fucking doornail, so Jason doesn’t have to keep putting up with Bruce’s shit. 

“Get out.”

“Excuse me?”

Jason unfolds his arms and lets his hand drift towards his thigh holster. “I said, get out. You’re not welcome here.” He whips out his gun. “I’m not going to repeat myself, Bruce.”

Bruce holds his hands up. “I’m not asking you to,” he says in that patient tone of voice that makes Jason’s trigger finger itch . Slowly, he reaches up and pushes the cowl off.

Jason shoots millimeters above Bruce’s head. 

Infuriatingly, Bruce doesn’t flinch as plaster dust sprays everywhere. “What do you want?”

“For you to get the fuck out,” Jason says coldly. “I’ve made that more than clear.”

Bruce’s expression hardens. “After that.”

What the hell is Bruce getting at? Jason frowns as he repeats, “After?”

“I’ve been tracking your exploits,” Bruce says, “your involvement in the drug trade, racketeering, prostitution. You’re chipping away at Black Mask’s territory.” He stares, hard, at Jason. “But I couldn’t identify your endgame.”

Jason scowls. “You’re the great detective. You figure it out.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “Which makes me think you have no endgame.”

Jason says nothing as his blood boils in his veins. How dare Bruce imply he’s not smart enough to have some grand master plan. He might not be the World’s Greatest Detective or had as much investigative training as Dick, but Jason was no slouch after all of Bruce’s lessons and his time with the League of Assassins. Jason had a plan that he has since reevaluated, but Bruce had to fucking spring this on him when he wasn’t ready, when he didn’t have all the facts –

“So, I repeat,” Bruce says over Jason’s not-so-gently simmering silence, “what do you want ?”

“None of your fucking business,” he hisses.

Bruce holds up his hands in a gesture of no-harm that Jason doesn’t believe for a second. “Son –”

“I am not your son!” Jason explodes. 

Bruce doesn’t – can’t? – hide the way he recoils at Jason’s words, and Jason takes a savage satisfaction in watching the way Bruce’s hands twitch, almost but not quite balling into fists, like it’s taking him conscious effort not to do so. The jacket of The Prince of Gotham crinkles beneath his gauntlets, ripping clean through the bright red dick Jason drew on Bruce’s glamor shot face.

Jason’s mouth works furiously. “I just want the truth!”

“The truth?” Bruce repeats with the faintest note of surprise. “About what?”

“Everything!” Jason gestures forcefully between them. “Why you never – why I came back to find – how you could just let him –”

Bang, bang, bang!

Both of them turn to stare at the far wall. Through the drywall, a voice comes, muffled but still audible, “Everything okay in there? I heard a shot!”

A beat.

Jason blinks. “That’s… that’s my neighbor.”

Bruce clears his throat. “They’re checking in? That’s very considerate of him.”

Jason purses his lips. “It’s only in Bristol where neighbors don’t give a shit about each other and call the cops for every blip on their security system.” He calls, “All good, Marcus!”

Silence reigns.

Awkwardly, Bruce shuffles in place. Jason shoots him a wary look, and Bruce clears his throat again. He glances down at the defaced copy of The Prince of Gotham still in his left hand . “If you want the truth, it’s all in here.”

“As if I’d fall for that,” Jason scoffs. “You couldn’t tell the public what was really going on. It’s all lies.”

“Some,” Bruce admits. “Not as much as I wanted. Far more than Clark wanted. But you know his ridiculous dedication to truth, justice, and the American way.”

“Clark?” Jason echoes. 

“This book,” Bruce says as he attempts to smooth down the wrinkled jacket, “truly took a village. I wrote most of it, of course, but Alfred –”

“Alfred?”

“Wrote a few sections here and there,” Bruce continues. “Clark and Dick did some of the editing. Lois did more. Tim even did the final proofreading.”

Jason’s eyebrows fly to his hairline. “The kid read it?”

“Of course,” Bruce says, bemused at the question.

“Then why isn’t he in it?” Jason asks, a totally and completely reasonable question.

Bruce balks, “Excuse me?”

“He’s Robin,” Jason says through gritted teeth. “Your new kid. But he might as well not exist at all, judging from that book.”

“He’s not mine,” Bruce says to Jason’s utter confusion. “He has a father –”

“Bullshit,” Jason interrupts. “His dad’s in a coma. He lives in the Manor for fuck’s sake.”

Bruce sighs. “Jason –”

“Don’t Jason me –”

“Jason,” Bruce repeats calmly to Jason’s rising fury, “officially, Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake have no public ties. I haven’t broadcasted that Tim sleeps over some nights of the week, and Tim maintains a separate apartment in the city.”

“But –”

“I am not Tim’s father,” Bruce says, his voice cold as steel. “I am his partner, his mentor. He is not my child. I only had – have –” he breaks off.

After a beat, Jason breathes, “You’re so fucking impossible. None of this makes any goddamn sense.” He throws up his hands. “What do you want, Bruce? Why the hell are you still here, anyway?”

“I had to see you,” Bruce says in a quiet voice.

“Well, mission accomplished, so now we’re in the after that part of the conversation,” Jason says waspishly as he shoulders past Bruce. He’s fucking tired and, really, if Bruce truly wanted to take him in to Blackgate or the Cave, Bruce would’ve done it. He sits on the bed and starts unlacing his boots.

Bruce stares down at him, his expression unreadable. “Is this really how you saw our time together?” he asks. The World’s Greatest Detective drops onto the bed next to Jason.

Jason purses his lips. “Maybe.” He glances up in time just to see Bruce wipe a stricken look from across his face. “I’ve – my memory isn’t great,” he admits reluctantly. “Things have come back since I wrote it.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “But not everything.”

“Not everything, if your stupid book is anything to go by,” Jason says, nodding at The Prince of Gotham, still in Bruce’s hand.

Bruce hums acknowledgement. “Do you remember what I told you about the truth? When you were still in training?”

“Training never ends with you,” Jason sighs. “And no, of course I don’t fucking remember.” He yanks one boot off and throws it across the room.

“There are always three versions of the truth,” Bruce says as he sits down next to Jason. The bed frame creaks ominously under the weight of the Batsuit, but Bruce pretends he doesn’t hear it. “First, your version,” he says, gesturing to the cover of The World’s Greatest Detective. “Second, my version,” he says, holding up The Prince of Gotham. “And, finally, what really happened, which most likely lies somewhere in the middle.”

Jason glances sidelong at Bruce, but he can’t find any of the usual tells of deception, manipulation, or subterfuge. Out loud, he says, “That’s the lamest rule of three I’ve ever heard.” His other boot thumps down beside the first. “Who the hell let you write anything?”

“The same exact people as you,” Bruce says wryly as he taps the little Monarch Press logo on the spine. He gets to his feet. “We can debrief in the Cave.”

“What?” Jason sits bolt upright. “I just took my shoes off.”

“So, presumably, you still retain the capacity to put them back on,” Bruce continues without missing a beat. He crosses the room and picks up Jason’s boots. With surprising care, he kneels, sets them down in front of Jason, pulls back the tongues, and nudges them closer to Jason’s socked feet.

Jason stares at Bruce’s uncovered face, and he knows deep in his soul that this is a ritual young Bruce had done with Alfred countless times. He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I’m wiped, B. I just want to sleep.”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth dip in displeasure. “Jason –”

Before Bruce can follow up with some sort of threat or guilt trip, he snaps, “You don’t get to order me around any more, old man. I’m not your kid.”

“You’re barely nineteen –”

“No dice. I’ve lived enough for two lifetimes. I died, ” Jason retorts, grinning broadly in satisfaction as Bruce’s face drains of all color. “So I’m going the fuck to sleep, and you’re getting the fuck out of my apartment.”

Bruce doesn’t move a muscle, but his eyes dart to The World’s Greatest Detective , laying innocently on top of Jason’s covers. “It – I would feel much better if you came back home.”

Jason’s jaw doesn’t drop open at the mention of Bruce’s feelings, but it’s a close fucking call.

“I missed you, Jay,” Bruce says, his voice barely above a whisper. “So much. And it would give me a… immeasurable peace of mind to have you nearby. Just for a little while – a day or two.” He swallows and squarely meets Jason’s stunned gaze. “Please. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Jason studies him, waiting for Bruce’s patience to blow and for him to demand Jason come back or just bodily haul him there himself. But the seconds drag on, and none of that happens. He clears his throat. “Not the Cave. We’re doing this in the Manor or not at all, got it?”

“Whatever you want,” Bruce says quickly.

Jason shoves his feet in his boots. “Ugh, I’m gonna regret this so bad,” he groans as he gets to his feet. “And I’m gonna need so much coffee.”

“Alfred will probably have a three course dinner waiting,” Bruce says, the relief clear in his voice as he straightens from his kneeling position. 

“At,” Jason pulls his phone out of his pocket, “three in the morning?”

Instead of answering, Bruce just stands there staring at him. He looks vaguely constipated. 

“Look, I’m more than happy to stay here – oh.”

Bruce’s hug lasts about 0.2 seconds. No time for Jason to return the hug, even if he wanted to, which he certainly didn’t. He hasn’t forgiven Bruce. This is just a… temporary truce while he figures his shit out. 

Bruce pulls the cowl down and shoves the window open. “You know Alfred doesn’t do well with downtime when there’s a big event happening,” he says conversationally like the hug never happened. 

Jason is totally fine with that.  “A big event?” he repeats, bemused, as he climbs through. Surreptitiously, he checks himself for trackers Bruce could have placed during his 0.2 second distraction. 

On the fire escape, Bruce throws him an odd look. “Your homecoming, Jay. You’re coming home.”

“For two days max,” Jason says through narrowed eyes as they descend to street level.

“Right, of course,” Bruce says in a casual tone of voice that Jason doesn’t believe for a second.

“I’m not moving back in,” Jason warns as he drops to the sidewalk.

Bruce soundlessly lands next to him. “Of course not,” he says in that same tone of voice. He takes a sharp left, and Jason follows, scowling.

“B –”

“But you have to stay to at least see Dick.”

“What?” Jason wrinkles his nose. “Fine.”

“He’s in the middle of a busy case in Bludhaven,” Bruce says, his tone apologetic, “but he can get away by Sunday –”

“It’s Wednesday .”

“It’s technically Thursday.”

“Really? I expected this kind of pedantry from Dickface –” he says as the Batmobile door swings open. He climbs in, startling as something hard and rectangular lands in his lap. 

“Start reading,” Bruce orders, “out loud.”

Jason snorts as he holds up The World’s Greatest Detective. “Seriously?”

Bruce pulls out into the street. “It’s been a while since I read it.”

“You have a photographic memory,” Jason says flatly. 

“I want to listen to the audiobook, but there’s no audiobook available because the author refused to read it,” Bruce says.

“I’m not a fucking audiobook."

“Not if you don’t start reading, you’re not.”

“You’re so goddamn impossible,” Jason grumbles as he cracks open the cover. “Chapter One: The Bat is a Metaphor…”

NONFICTION

Bruce Wayne Produces Entertaining Puff with Unexpected Moments of Pathos

In his new memoir, “The Prince of Gotham: The Bruce Wayne Story,” the celebrity provides a lighthearted romp through his younger years in the public eye before dipping into the joys and troubles of early fatherhood, including the sudden death of his second son.

By Aurora Kant

BUY BOOK ⬇️: When you purchase an independently reviewed book through our site, The Daily Planet earns an affiliate commission.

THE PRINCE OF GOTHAM: The Bruce Wayne Story | By Bruce Wayne | Monarch Press | 256 pp. | $29.99

By the time Jason slips into the Strand, the event is halfway over. A skeleton crew mans the registers. Most of the staff has already meandered to the reading room. 

At the first sound of Bruce’s voice – his real one, or at least as real as he gets when outside the Manor – Jason can’t help the instinctive way his shoulders jump to ears. With his spine hunched and head ducked, he approaches the half-empty table scattered with piles of The Prince of Gotham: The Bruce Wayne Story . He waits until the crowd erupts in laughter at some stupid Brucie anecdote and bumps his hip against one corner. Two of the taller piles wobble before toppling over completely.

A sales assistant behind the table turns, her expression annoyed at the interruption.

“Sorry,” Jason says in a hushed voice, his expression contrite. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

“No, I get it,” she says as her hands deftly align the covers into neat columns once more. “I thought he’d be another airhead billionaire, but he’s something else, isn’t he?”

Jason snorts. “He is something,” he says, and he can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice, judging by how her face slips into a well-practiced customer service smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

She asks politely, “Did you get your copy yet?”

“Uh, no,” Jason says as he searches his jacket for the ticket he lifted on his way in. “Here.”

She trades it for a copy from the table. “Enjoy,” she says blandly.

In the other room, Bruce is reading, “No matter what the Swiss paramedics say, that incident at the ski lodge was not my –”

Jason hurries out of there.

Back out on New York City sidewalk, he inhales a deep lungful of air. It smells like piss and garbage, a typical New York summer afternoon, but it’s miles ahead of the Strand because he can’t hear Bruce’s voice anymore.

With determined steps, he heads south, down 12th Street to the post office on 4th Avenue. In the back, near the packaging options, he slips the book in a sturdy brown envelope. He doesn’t bother adding a note before sealing it shut and he scribbling the address of Talia’s safehouse in Paris – the one she always visited in mid-Spring – on the front. Last he heard, she was planning on finally bringing Damian with her, and who knows, the kid could use some bedtime stories that didn’t come from Sun Tzu or Niccolo Machiavelli. 

As he gets in line to mail it, Jason pulls out the copy he stole when he knocked into the display table. He studies the cover, a glossy shot of the man of the hour, leaning against a mantle piece. The heavy burnished gold frame behind Bruce’s head niggles at Jason’s patchy memory: this photo was taken by the fireplace in the parlor in Manor, beneath the portrait of his parents.

It’s so… Bruce. Standing in the legacy of his parents, out of sight but never out of mind.

Jason cracks open the book and flips through the copyright and title page. He stops dead at the dedication:

For my boys, I would not be the man I am today without you.

Jason stares down at the words, an ugly frown twisting his lips. Of course Bruce would thank the golden boy and the new kid. Gotta keep up appearances for his adoring public.

Tim Drake might not live at the Manor or be adopted by Bruce, but Jason knows a Robin when he sees one. In fact, with this setup, Bruce doesn’t even have to do any of the messy father bits that always got in the way of his cases and training. Tim can go home to his townhouse, get all “ I love you ”s and “ I’m proud of you ”s from a man who doesn’t see them as necessary evils for Robin’s maintenance.

“NEXT!”

Jason jumps. Judging from the tone of the postal worker's voice, it isn’t the first time they tried to get his attention. He marches up to the register and mails Talia’s stupid book and gets the hell out of New York City. At least the Teen Titans moved their base out to San Francisco; Jason has no idea what he would do if he saw one of Dick’s groupies hanging off the nearest scaffolding.

On NJ Transit, Jason gets through two and a half chapters before he gives up. With hands shaking from too many emotions to name, he throws the book down on the seat next to him, hunches down, and broods the rest of the way down the North Jersey Coast Line to Gotham.

* * *

With binoculars trained on the warehouse floor, Jason listens to the opening jingle to “Book Talk”. Nothing like a quality podcast episode to liven up a boring stakeout. 

Black Mask’s men don’t even have the grace to be inept, so Jason can’t laugh at them from his perch up in the rafters. No, like good worker bees, they’re all following the foreman’s orders to a T. Not a peep of complaint, not when they unload over a hundred pounds of kryptonite (not that Maskie would tell any lowly grunt about the contents of that lead box).

“I’m Q, and this week we’re talking about The Prince of Gotham by Br–”

Jason silently groans. Fucking Bruce. He’d been on every late night show and magazine cover promoting his stupid book. 

Jason reaches to mute the podcast, but a flood of new goons file in, and Jason has to use his hand to zoom in with his binoculars, so Q happily keeps chattering on, “To be honest, I had low expectations for this one.”

Jason snorts. Trust Brucie to write something worth less than the paper it’s printed on.

“But in Chapter 6 things took a sharp fucking turn. Zach, I don’t know if you caught any of my live tweets. I tweeted maybe two thou –”

“Oh my god,” Zach interrupts, “of course I did.”

Q laughs. “Listener, I cried.”

Jason makes a face. And here he thought he finally found a serious book club podcast with hosts with two brain cells to rub together. 

Q continues, “When he talks about his son’s bedroom –”

Jason rolls his eyes. He’d sometimes catch Bruce in there after bad fights with Dick, brooding over Dick’s track and field trophies and novelty T-shirt collection. It was so stupid. Pathetic even. If Bruce just apologized for the first time in his life – but then again, he wouldn’t be Batman if he did something like that. 

“But the fact that he hasn’t changed anything since Jason left that day?”

Up in the rafters, Jason nearly drops his binoculars. 

Q adds, “I lost it when Bruce talks about the fight with his butler about cleaning up. On one hand, it’s ridiculous to have a billion dollars and a butler. On the other, of course he would resist anything that erases a part of Jason after losing him. How human, how relatable, is that?”

Zach could be agreeing. Zach could be disagreeing. Zach could be belting Dancing Queen for all Jason is paying attention. 

Jason stares out through his binoculars, not seeing a damn thing.

Bruce kept his bedroom the same? He fought Alfred about cleaning it? Why would he do that? To save face, play the grieving father in public? 

But Jason scoured the newspapers as soon as he regained enough of his mind to put two sentences together. No media mentioned Bruce Wayne, nothing in the metro section, business articles, or society pages. Jason would’ve thought Bruce vanished off the face of the planet, but mentions of Batman held steady throughout Bruce’s bizarre hermit phase.

After Jason got dunked in the Lazarus Pit like the world’s most toxic candy apple, his past came back in bits and pieces. Flashes of Bruce’s forbidding face and even more forbidding words. Flickers of Bruce’s ruthless training and harsh punishments. They all made his blood boil and the remnants of the Pit sing in his veins. He felt like he was going insane, keeping everything cooped up in his head, so he started writing them down, and thus The World’s Greatest Detective was born. 

Jason got most of his memories back by the time he left for Nantes, and Talia filled in the rest.

So, none of this stuff about his bedroom makes any sense.

Jason could sort of see Bruce leaving his room alone out of sheer apathy. It wasn’t like the man was hurting for bedrooms. The family wing alone held six, and the whole servants’ quarters – still nicer than any apartment Jason had ever seen in his life – were empty except for Alfred’s room.

But then if Bruce didn’t care enough to change it after Jason died, why would he get into an argument with Alfred about it? Why would he take on a new Robin after only a year and a half? Why would he not put the Joker down for good? Why –

Oh.

Of course. 

It’s a classic case of Occam’s Razor: Bruce lied. It is a good story, a heart wrenching anecdote, if you ask his poor, deluded podcast hosts about it.

Well, there’s only one way to know for sure. After Jason steals this kryptonite from under Black Mask’s ugly, nonexistent nose, he’s gonna head to Bristol and see his old bedroom for himself.

He freezes. Hold on, what’s that?  

Black Mask’s men lug a final, enormous unmarked crate inside the warehouse. It’s ten feet long, easily, and clearly very heavy, judging by the sheen of sweat on the men’s foreheads and their muttered swears.

Change of plans. Jason finally mutes the podcast, so he can think.

He will head to Bristol right after he figures out what the hell needs a dozen guards when fifty million dollars worth of kryptonite only merits four.

Fifteen minutes later, surrounded by scores of cooling bodies, Jason cracks open the crate. His face lights up as he takes in the body resting in a bed of packing straw. He was looking for a distraction that would keep Batman out of Bristol for a few hours. Bingo. 

Now, how the fuck he turn on Amazo?

* * *

On his bike, Jason roars down the backroads of Bristol, as if the noise of the engine could drown out his thoughts that buzz around his head like an unswattable swarm of gnats. As he reaches the secret fork in the road that leads to Cave, Jason presses his foot on the gas. It flies past, a dark, indivisible blur, indistinguishable from the rest of the dark trees rising from the side of the road.

Before he died, he drove up over that road countless times in the Batmobile –

Scowling, hunched in on himself in the passenger seat after he let the bad guy get away. 

Exhausted, the barely-there hum of the engine lulling him to sleep after a long patrol. 

Bleeding and concussed, one hand pressed tight against the stab wound in his side, the pain pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat.

Grinning broadly after a clean rescue, chattering a mile a minute, recounting every thrilling moment to Batman in the driver’s –

Jason nearly steers his bike straight into a ditch as his pulse kicks into double-time and breathing sharpens to shallow, staccato bursts.

Where the hell had that come from? 

He’d never remembered something like that before, something so indisputably happy. 

The helmet seems to be shrinking on his head, the HUD almost blinding against his watering eyeballs. He pulls over to the side of the road and yanks it off with a gasp. He twists in his seat, eyes wide, as if he could see that road , even though it’s now a hundred feet behind him and blocked by dense foliage.

Jason didn’t have any truly happy memories with Bruce. 

Didn’t he?

With narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, he starts his bike up again, and slowly tools back the way he came. In the distance, the waterfall roars, strangely muted by all the leaf litter and natural detritus. 

Undoubtedly, Bruce’s bevy of hidden cameras have already taken a billion frames of his face. Not that Jason was ever going to chicken out , but now he has to break in, if just to delete the mountains of evidence.

He leaves his bike, tucks his helmet under his arm, slips past the barrier, and walks on foot towards the waterfall. As gets closer, the noise makes his head hurt and knocks even more memories loose.

God, how could he have forgotten the first time Bruce ever took him out in the Batmobile? His first ever patrol in his uniform, that warm summer night where all the Diamond District streetlights seemed to glow with potential?

He can’t believe he forgot Dick’s face as he twirled the keys to the Batmobile around his finger, asking, “Have you ever been out without the big bad Bat, Jay?” even though Bruce had benched Jason for underperforming at his last patrol.

In the near pitch black darkness, Jason finds the path around the waterfall like he last walked it yesterday instead of over three years ago. He breathes evenly in and out to calm his nervous system, like his poisons expert taught him. The idea was that if Jason could significantly slow his heartbeat during high-stress situations, he could gain a few precious seconds before the toxin reached his brain or heart. That man knew every poison, toxin, and variety of kiddie porn under the sun. 

Three days later, Jason slit his throat, sent all his porn files to Nantes’ Chief of Police, and left for Cologne.

Jason steps lightly over the wet dirt, careful to hide his footsteps and not leave any prints, like Egon, the assassin, showed him. Once Jason learned all he could, he poisoned Egon for selling two dozen underage boys.

As Jason descends deeper into the cave system beneath the Wayne estate, the smell of the bats gets stronger. The memories keep hitting him like a crowbar to the temple, and Jason staggers the last few steps to the entrance of the Batcave, breathing heavily, his head pounding.

Hacking into the Batcomputer and changing all his access codes to 6969 because he was fourteen, and it was fucking hilarious.

Hacking into the Batcomputer and changing all of Bruce’s access codes to 8008 on April Fool’s.

The access panel to the Batcave swims before his eyes. Christ, he is in no fucking state to break into Bruce’s tech now. He braces one arm against the wall, trying and mostly failing to get his fucking shit together.

What the hell. In for a pound. 

6… 9… 6… 9

Jason punches in the last digit, grimacing at everything he’s gonna have to do for Plan B. He’ll have to go the long way around to the Manor, avoid Alfred’s all-seeing eyes and bat-like hearing, and sneak back down into the Cave to delete all evidence of his presence. And who fucking knows what he’ll remember once he steps foot in the Manor –

The Batcave entrance soundlessly slides open.

Jason’s jaw drops. His old code still worked? That is a… huge security risk. Bruce must know it’s a security risk. 

But it worked anyway. 

Jason steps into the Cave, and it’s like stepping into a dream world. Everything carries an indescribable haze of deja vu and nostalgia. More and more comes back to him as he passes the giant penny, the T-Rex, the garage of increasingly specific Batmobiles.

A bright reflection of glass catches his eye, and, like a moth to a flame, he is drawn to the display cases that he’s never seen before in his life. He passes three iterations of the Batman suit, two versions of Nightwing’s, and comes to a stop in front of the last glass panel – the only one with a plaque at the bottom.

His blood freezes as he reads “Jason Todd, A Good Soldier”.

The almighty CRACK of his fist against the bulletproof glass violently forces him back to himself. Knuckles aching, Jason stands before the case, panting. Scorching rage sears through his veins like he hasn’t felt since he read about the new Robin. After everything – 

The memories prove nothing. 

Before he died, Jason was just a naive kid who didn’t know any better. A street rat who saw the one guy who gave a shit as his savior. But all Bruce ever was was a drill sergeant in bat’s clothing. In the end, Jason was just Bruce’s latest casualty in his pointless crusade for a city that will never get better through rehabilitation. 

No, what Gotham needs is extra judicial homicide. 

Jason storms over to the Batcomputer keyboard and deletes the entire day’s security footage with prejudice and sets the cameras to start recording again in twenty minutes. That should be enough time for him to get the hell out of here. 

He stalks back to the Batcave entrance. Face to face with the closed door, he pauses. He came here for a reason. The final nail in his not-so-proverbial coffin. 

Jason spins on his heel and heads for the stairs that lead back up to the Manor.

* * *

Jason stands before his old bedroom door, a strange, buzzing energy thrumming under his skin. He half expects his hand to tremble as he reaches for the brass knob, but his extensive training wins out, and he twists it open with steady fingers. 

Or, he tries to. 

It’s locked because no annoyance is too small for Bruce to inflict on his second child soldier. Grumbling under his breath, Jason falls to one knee and pulls out his wire tools. 

As the last tumbler falls into place, the door smoothly opens on well-oiled hinges.

It’s … his bedroom.

Jason steps inside, and it’s like stepping into a time capsule – or a sealed tomb. 

Nothing looks disturbed from the last time he was here. He turns to his bookshelf, organized by genre and then by author. His special self, of his favorites and the first editions Bruce gifted to him on his birthday, Christmas, and adoption day – shit, how had he forgotten Bruce did that? – sits untouched.

His desk has neat piles of textbooks, separated into school academics and his Robin studies. 

Jason presses his lips tightly together, his gaze stuttering over the Wonder Woman poster and his water bottle covered Wonder Woman stickers. God, he had idolized her, and Bruce couldn’t even be mad she was his favorite because he agreed she was so awesome.

Jason peeks into the ensuite bathroom. His fingers clench on the door as he catches sight of the half-squeezed tube of toothpaste, the smears of his post-shower handprint on the mirror. For fuck’s sake, his towel isn’t even on the rack – it’s still lying on the floor where he dropped it to get dressed in a hurry to make his flight to Ethiopia. 

He closes the door and sinks down on the bed. 

Swallowing past the lump in the back of his throat, Jason reaches for the book on his nightstand. A deep crack runs down the spine of the paperback, so deep that the novel lies flat against the tabletop surface. 

He would never treat A Tale of Two Cities like that. It’s the only difference Jason can see in this entire cursed bedroom from the last time he was here.

He fans the pages with the pad of his thumb, slightly calmed by the familiar sound of rustling of worn paper. The book fall open at the break in the spine, and he traces a finger down the entire left-hand page covered in his annotations like, secret identity who? and EAT THE RICH . One corner of his mouth lifts into a reluctant smile.

The notes abruptly cut off halfway down the next page, and Jason narrows his eyes at the odd warped circles on the paper that decorate the margins instead. Hold on. 

Those aren’t – 

They can’t be –

Bruce could’ve picked it up with wet hands after a shower or taking a piss. He could’ve left it open by an open window when it was raining. He could’ve done a hundred other things that left the pages with weird, damp patches. He didn’t – not over Jason –

In all his years with Bruce, Jason never, ever saw Bruce cry. Not when he got a faceful of a hyper-concentrated version of Scarecrow’s toxin, or when Killer Croc rent his shoulder to shreds of flesh and sinew. Bruce was raised by Alfred and his stiff upper lip and went through puberty surrounded by sociopathic little shits in private school, so Jason always figured Bruce got the tears repressed and/or beat out of him by the time he turned sixteen.

But if Bruce cried over this book, if he kept Jason everything the same…

Talia would tell him to keep his mind on the mission. His mom would tell him to let his heart guide him. Batman would tell him to follow his orders. Bruce would tell him –

Footsteps echo outside the door.

Jason whirls around. The alarm clock reads 3:10 which can’t be right; he glances down at his watch that reads 4:10. Fucking daylight savings time.

He stayed in the Manor way longer than twenty minutes. With a muttered swear, he jams his helmet back on his head just as he hears, “No, I promise I’m going to sleep. You don’t have to check on –”

Jason is out the window and sprinting across the lawn before he consciously registers moving. His legs instinctively guide him in a zig-zag pattern that sticks to the shadows and out of the lines of sight from the first floor.

It’s only as he skids to a stop by his bike that he looks down and sees he’s still holding his old copy of A Tale of Two Cities .

* * *

Jason throws the book on his bedside table and collapses, fully clothed on his bed, completely exhausted like he went through five rounds with Ra’s inner circle. 

He wakes up with a pounding headache, dry mouth, and more new memories stuffed in his head than he knows what to do with. Blearily, he stumbles his way to the bathroom. He pisses, brushes his teeth, and splashes cold water on his face. He emerges, feeling vaguely more human but not nearly enough to face any of his responsibilities for the day.

He grabs a protein bar, a glass of water, and heads back to bed. He buries himself under the covers and, when he finds himself infuriatingly still awake, he grabs one of his author copies of The World’s Greatest Detective and a red pen. Time to do some editing because maybe, just maybe, superimposing his new memories over the old ones will finally show him what really happened between him and Bruce.

By the time he resurfaces, it’s nearly eight o’clock in the evening and he has even more questions than answers. His stomach grumbles angrily, and Jason throws the book to the foot of his bed as he stands up.

He doesn’t bother turning on the light as he enters the kitchen. In the dark, he refills his water glass and opens his refrigerator, frowning at the bare shelves. He’ll have to go shopping soon. He grabs an aging carton of lo mein that he should either eat now or toss out. 

As the door falls shut, refrigerator the light catches on the book jacket sitting innocently on the kitchen counter: The Prince of Gotham. Jason had thrown it there when he got back from New York and hadn’t touched it since.

Resentfully, he sweeps up the book and heads back to his bedroom.

He skips all the bullshit early years – dead parents, boarding school, travel abroad, blah, blah, blah – and goes straight to Chapter 6.

He lasts exactly two pages before passive reading becomes intolerable. With an outraged snort, he uncaps his pen and scrawls, When did THIS happen?, quickly followed by, I was not that fucking small . He keeps going, his handwriting getting more and cramped to fit all his thoughts in.

Dick snuck me out. How did you not know this?

LIES.

Get fucked B – I won that bet fair and square.

Need to verify with Talia.

You remembered my favorite gargoyle?

By the time Jason finishes the chapter, the lo mein sits forgotten on his nightstand. His head is buzzing with yet more new memories, and instead of helping him decide what to do next, all they do is complicate everything.

Bruce’s way doesn’t work. Nothing he says or does will convince Jason otherwise. He played by Bruce’s rules for the best years of his life, and what did that get him? A crowbar to his face, neck, and ribs, and a bomb to finish off the rest.

But, by Bruce’s own account and Jason’s crapton of new, inconvenient revelations, he undeniably cared for Jason. Loved him, even.

He throws The Prince of Gotham across the room and flops back in bed. Overhead, the ceiling fan gently rotates, too slow to really make a difference.

* * *

Jason finishes The Prince of Gotham the next evening and has to send a whole meth lab sky high and blow up Black Mask’s arms shipment from Bludhaven before he feels remotely stable. The next day, he takes care of a group of pimps and a protection racket extorting a handful of legit businesses on Market Avenue. All in all, this meant a neat one million dollar deficit for Black Mask. Not bad for two days of work on about six hours of sleep.

Before Jason heads back to pass the fuck out, he takes to the roofs for a quick patrol. Black Mask’s smarter associates are heading underground, which makes the stupid ones easy pickings. He deals with a few low-level dealers and armed purse snatchers. He scares the ever loving shit out of the last one, a kid, and actually leaves that one alive.

He’s just climbing the fire escape up out of the alley where he left the kid when he sees a flash of yellow reflected in a broken window pane. Not sickly Gotham streetlamp yellow – Robin’s cape yellow.

In one movement, he twists around, pulls out his gun, and fires. 

Tim, to his credit, dodges the shot without so much as a yelp of surprise. He disappears soundlessly. 

But Jason knows better than to think he scared Tim off for good. He scans above his sightlines, searching for any flash of the traffic light colors.

Great, just fucking great. Two days ago he breaks into Wayne Manor, and now Robin’s tailing him? That can’t be a coincidence. 

Glowering, he holsters his gun and stalks off in the complete opposite direction. No returning to his safehouse until he shakes his tail.

Jason knows embarrassingly little about Tim Drake, age fifteen, heir to Drake Industries, a producer and distributor of medical equipment. It’s not quite a billion-dollar business, but Tim’s set to inherit a tidy sum when his comatose father kicks it.

Tim Drake, the Robin that broke the mold. Not penniless. Not parent-less. 

Still looks the part, though, with his black hair and blue eyes.

Come to think of it, Jason really does know less about Timothy Drake than he expected to at this stage. After all, he read The Prince of Gotham from cover to cover. Dick got his own chapter. Jason got his own chapter. But Tim didn’t even get a footnote.

Huh.

No time to dwell on that now. Jason really needs to lose Robin so he can go the fuck home and sleep. He could track down the little birdie and clip his wings, but he’s really not ready for Bruce yet, and an outright attack on one of his own would definitely mean retaliation.

Luckily, they’re in Crime Alley, and Jason’s old stomping ground lives up to its name every .5 seconds.

Sure enough, after twelve minutes of hitting up all the dimmest alleys that branch off Park Row, he gets lucky: “I don’t want any trouble!”

Beneath his helmet, Jason grins as he stands on the roof overlooking the mugging-in-progress below. He still can’t see Robin, but he only has to count silently to ten before a head of black hair and the white domino lenses peek out from behind a rusty heat vent.

Bingo.

“All yours,” he calls as he gives Robin a jaunty salute. He turns and sprints in the opposite direction. 

Hero complexes – every Robin’s true weakness. There’s no chance any of them would ever choose recon over a rescue.

Two blocks away from his safehouse, Jason double checks he’s alone, using both the night vision and infrared vision. Next, he takes off his helmet and scans the surrounding rooftops and streets below because, as Bruce taught him so many years ago, computers are no replacement for the pair of eyes in your own goddamn head.

Confident he’s ditched Robin, Jason jumps down his fire escape and, after disabling his window traps, slides his bedroom window open.

Before his brain catches up with his mouth, Jason blurts, “B?”

Bruce’s still-cowled head snaps up, and all of Jason’s internal alarm bells go off at once. Batman never lets himself show surprise. He’d rather saw off his own foot with a batarang than display that kind of weakness.

What the hell is going on? Maybe this isn’t Bruce at all. Maybe he’s being mind controlled. Maybe he was replaced with a pod person. 

It takes Bruce a full second to make a sound – another outrageous show of emotion – and when he does, his voice is uncharacteristically unsteady. “Jason?”

For a wild, desperate second, Jason debates just hitting the fucking bailing, but Bruce would just chase after him, and Jason’s good, but not evade-the-Bat forever good. Not if Bruce wants to find him. So Jason climbs the rest of the way through to his bedroom, every muscle tense for the upcoming fight.

Bruce gets to his feet too, a book clutched in each hand: The Prince of Gotham and The World’s Greatest Detective.

Jason silently groans. The handwriting samples and all the DNA evidence in his place mean there’s no way he’s getting out of this one. He sets his helmet down on the windowsill behind him and turns to face his adoptive father. “Bruce,” he says evenly. “I don’t remember letting you in.”

Bruce takes a step forward, and Jason resists the urge to take a large step back. Quietly, he asks, “Is it really you?”

Jason scowls and stands his ground. “What do you want?”

“What do I –?” Bruce breaks off, and if Jason didn’t know better, he’d say Bruce looked hopelessly lost. “You’re alive?”

“No thanks to you.”

Bruce barely hides his wince. “Jason – how?”

“How what?” Jason snaps as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“How are –” Bruce stops, the corners of his mouth tightening. He taps his ear. “Yes?” he says impatiently. Still, he keeps his gaze trained on Jason’s face. Smart of him, finally recognizing Jason as a real threat. Into his comm, Bruce adds, his voice as dry as his favorite pinot noir, “I gathered as much myself.”

Jason brutally suppresses a burgeoning smile. He recognizes that face; it’s Bruce’s patented You-Fucked-Up-and-Now-I’m-Disappointed-in-You-Robin face.

“Go back to the Cave,” Bruce continues, “Don’t worry. I have eyes on Red Hood.”

Jason snorts. Yeah, he sure does.

Bruce taps his comm to mute it and shifts his attention back to Jason. He stays silent, studying Jason with those inscrutable white lenses.

Well, Jason might’ve had to put up with this when he was Bruce’s partner, when he was his Robin, when he was his son, but that kid is as dead as a fucking doornail, so Jason doesn’t have to keep putting up with Bruce’s shit. 

“Get out.”

“Excuse me?”

Jason unfolds his arms and lets his hand drift towards his thigh holster. “I said, get out. You’re not welcome here.” He whips out his gun. “I’m not going to repeat myself, Bruce.”

Bruce holds his hands up. “I’m not asking you to,” he says in that patient tone of voice that makes Jason’s trigger finger itch . Slowly, he reaches up and pushes the cowl off.

Jason shoots millimeters above Bruce’s head. 

Infuriatingly, Bruce doesn’t flinch as plaster dust sprays everywhere. “What do you want?”

“For you to get the fuck out,” Jason says coldly. “I’ve made that more than clear.”

Bruce’s expression hardens. “After that.”

What the hell is Bruce getting at? Jason frowns as he repeats, “After?”

“I’ve been tracking your exploits,” Bruce says, “your involvement in the drug trade, racketeering, prostitution. You’re chipping away at Black Mask’s territory.” He stares, hard, at Jason. “But I couldn’t identify your endgame.”

Jason scowls. “You’re the great detective. You figure it out.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “Which makes me think you have no endgame.”

Jason says nothing as his blood boils in his veins. How dare Bruce imply he’s not smart enough to have some grand master plan. He might not be the World’s Greatest Detective or had as much investigative training as Dick, but Jason was no slouch after all of Bruce’s lessons and his time with the League of Assassins. Jason had a plan that he has since reevaluated, but Bruce had to fucking spring this on him when he wasn’t ready, when he didn’t have all the facts –

“So, I repeat,” Bruce says over Jason’s not-so-gently simmering silence, “what do you want ?”

“None of your fucking business,” he hisses.

Bruce holds up his hands in a gesture of no-harm that Jason doesn’t believe for a second. “Son –”

“I am not your son!” Jason explodes. 

Bruce doesn’t – can’t? – hide the way he recoils at Jason’s words, and Jason takes a savage satisfaction in watching the way Bruce’s hands twitch, almost but not quite balling into fists, like it’s taking him conscious effort not to do so. The jacket of The Prince of Gotham crinkles beneath his gauntlets, ripping clean through the bright red dick Jason drew on Bruce’s glamor shot face.

Jason’s mouth works furiously. “I just want the truth!”

“The truth?” Bruce repeats with the faintest note of surprise. “About what?”

“Everything!” Jason gestures forcefully between them. “Why you never – why I came back to find – how you could just let him –”

Bang, bang, bang!

Both of them turn to stare at the far wall. Through the drywall, a voice comes, muffled but still audible, “Everything okay in there? I heard a shot!”

A beat.

Jason blinks. “That’s… that’s my neighbor.”

Bruce clears his throat. “They’re checking in? That’s very considerate of him.”

Jason purses his lips. “It’s only in Bristol where neighbors don’t give a shit about each other and call the cops for every blip on their security system.” He calls, “All good, Marcus!”

Silence reigns.

Awkwardly, Bruce shuffles in place. Jason shoots him a wary look, and Bruce clears his throat again. He glances down at the defaced copy of The Prince of Gotham still in his left hand . “If you want the truth, it’s all in here.”

“As if I’d fall for that,” Jason scoffs. “You couldn’t tell the public what was really going on. It’s all lies.”

“Some,” Bruce admits. “Not as much as I wanted. Far more than Clark wanted. But you know his ridiculous dedication to truth, justice, and the American way.”

“Clark?” Jason echoes. 

“This book,” Bruce says as he attempts to smooth down the wrinkled jacket, “truly took a village. I wrote most of it, of course, but Alfred –”

“Alfred?”

“Wrote a few sections here and there,” Bruce continues. “Clark and Dick did some of the editing. Lois did more. Tim even did the final proofreading.”

Jason’s eyebrows fly to his hairline. “The kid read it?”

“Of course,” Bruce says, bemused at the question.

“Then why isn’t he in it?” Jason asks, a totally and completely reasonable question.

Bruce balks, “Excuse me?”

“He’s Robin,” Jason says through gritted teeth. “Your new kid. But he might as well not exist at all, judging from that book.”

“He’s not mine,” Bruce says to Jason’s utter confusion. “He has a father –”

“Bullshit,” Jason interrupts. “His dad’s in a coma. He lives in the Manor for fuck’s sake.”

Bruce sighs. “Jason –”

“Don’t Jason me –”

“Jason,” Bruce repeats calmly to Jason’s rising fury, “officially, Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake have no public ties. I haven’t broadcasted that Tim sleeps over some nights of the week, and Tim maintains a separate apartment in the city.”

“But –”

“I am not Tim’s father,” Bruce says, his voice cold as steel. “I am his partner, his mentor. He is not my child. I only had – have –” he breaks off.

After a beat, Jason breathes, “You’re so fucking impossible. None of this makes any goddamn sense.” He throws up his hands. “What do you want, Bruce? Why the hell are you still here, anyway?”

“I had to see you,” Bruce says in a quiet voice.

“Well, mission accomplished, so now we’re in the after that part of the conversation,” Jason says waspishly as he shoulders past Bruce. He’s fucking tired and, really, if Bruce truly wanted to take him in to Blackgate or the Cave, Bruce would’ve done it. He sits on the bed and starts unlacing his boots.

Bruce stares down at him, his expression unreadable. “Is this really how you saw our time together?” he asks. The World’s Greatest Detective drops onto the bed next to Jason.

Jason purses his lips. “Maybe.” He glances up in time just to see Bruce wipe a stricken look from across his face. “I’ve – my memory isn’t great,” he admits reluctantly. “Things have come back since I wrote it.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “But not everything.”

“Not everything, if your stupid book is anything to go by,” Jason says, nodding at The Prince of Gotham, still in Bruce’s hand.

Bruce hums acknowledgement. “Do you remember what I told you about the truth? When you were still in training?”

“Training never ends with you,” Jason sighs. “And no, of course I don’t fucking remember.” He yanks one boot off and throws it across the room.

“There are always three versions of the truth,” Bruce says as he sits down next to Jason. The bed frame creaks ominously under the weight of the Batsuit, but Bruce pretends he doesn’t hear it. “First, your version,” he says, gesturing to the cover of The World’s Greatest Detective. “Second, my version,” he says, holding up The Prince of Gotham. “And, finally, what really happened, which most likely lies somewhere in the middle.”

Jason glances sidelong at Bruce, but he can’t find any of the usual tells of deception, manipulation, or subterfuge. Out loud, he says, “That’s the lamest rule of three I’ve ever heard.” His other boot thumps down beside the first. “Who the hell let you write anything?”

“The same exact people as you,” Bruce says wryly as he taps the little Monarch Press logo on the spine. He gets to his feet. “We can debrief in the Cave.”

“What?” Jason sits bolt upright. “I just took my shoes off.”

“So, presumably, you still retain the capacity to put them back on,” Bruce continues without missing a beat. He crosses the room and picks up Jason’s boots. With surprising care, he kneels, sets them down in front of Jason, pulls back the tongues, and nudges them closer to Jason’s socked feet.

Jason stares at Bruce’s uncovered face, and he knows deep in his soul that this is a ritual young Bruce had done with Alfred countless times. He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I’m wiped, B. I just want to sleep.”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth dip in displeasure. “Jason –”

Before Bruce can follow up with some sort of threat or guilt trip, he snaps, “You don’t get to order me around any more, old man. I’m not your kid.”

“You’re barely nineteen –”

“No dice. I’ve lived enough for two lifetimes. I died, ” Jason retorts, grinning broadly in satisfaction as Bruce’s face drains of all color. “So I’m going the fuck to sleep, and you’re getting the fuck out of my apartment.”

Bruce doesn’t move a muscle, but his eyes dart to The World’s Greatest Detective , laying innocently on top of Jason’s covers. “It – I would feel much better if you came back home.”

Jason’s jaw doesn’t drop open at the mention of Bruce’s feelings, but it’s a close fucking call.

“I missed you, Jay,” Bruce says, his voice barely above a whisper. “So much. And it would give me a… immeasurable peace of mind to have you nearby. Just for a little while – a day or two.” He swallows and squarely meets Jason’s stunned gaze. “Please. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Jason studies him, waiting for Bruce’s patience to blow and for him to demand Jason come back or just bodily haul him there himself. But the seconds drag on, and none of that happens. He clears his throat. “Not the Cave. We’re doing this in the Manor or not at all, got it?”

“Whatever you want,” Bruce says quickly.

Jason shoves his feet in his boots. “Ugh, I’m gonna regret this so bad,” he groans as he gets to his feet. “And I’m gonna need so much coffee.”

“Alfred will probably have a three course dinner waiting,” Bruce says, the relief clear in his voice as he straightens from his kneeling position. 

“At,” Jason pulls his phone out of his pocket, “three in the morning?”

Instead of answering, Bruce just stands there staring at him. He looks vaguely constipated. 

“Look, I’m more than happy to stay here – oh.”

Bruce’s hug lasts about 0.2 seconds. No time for Jason to return the hug, even if he wanted to, which he certainly didn’t. He hasn’t forgiven Bruce. This is just a… temporary truce while he figures his shit out. 

Bruce pulls the cowl down and shoves the window open. “You know Alfred doesn’t do well with downtime when there’s a big event happening,” he says conversationally like the hug never happened. 

Jason is totally fine with that.  “A big event?” he repeats, bemused, as he climbs through. Surreptitiously, he checks himself for trackers Bruce could have placed during his 0.2 second distraction. 

On the fire escape, Bruce throws him an odd look. “Your homecoming, Jay. You’re coming home.”

“For two days max,” Jason says through narrowed eyes as they descend to street level.

“Right, of course,” Bruce says in a casual tone of voice that Jason doesn’t believe for a second.

“I’m not moving back in,” Jason warns as he drops to the sidewalk.

Bruce soundlessly lands next to him. “Of course not,” he says in that same tone of voice. He takes a sharp left, and Jason follows, scowling.

“B –”

“But you have to stay to at least see Dick.”

“What?” Jason wrinkles his nose. “Fine.”

“He’s in the middle of a busy case in Bludhaven,” Bruce says, his tone apologetic, “but he can get away by Sunday –”

“It’s Wednesday .”

“It’s technically Thursday.”

“Really? I expected this kind of pedantry from Dickface –” he says as the Batmobile door swings open. He climbs in, startling as something hard and rectangular lands in his lap. 

“Start reading,” Bruce orders, “out loud.”

Jason snorts as he holds up The World’s Greatest Detective. “Seriously?”

Bruce pulls out into the street. “It’s been a while since I read it.”

“You have a photographic memory,” Jason says flatly. 

“I want to listen to the audiobook, but there’s no audiobook available because the author refused to read it,” Bruce says.

“I’m not a fucking audiobook."

“Not if you don’t start reading, you’re not.”

“You’re so goddamn impossible,” Jason grumbles as he cracks open the cover. “Chapter One: The Bat is a Metaphor…”

[stealeroflemons]

eah thingy #29 because my brain has been creatively dead for a while and I'm going to force myself to try before I go back in my study hole for graduation

This is mainly going to be what I think the eah characters sound like/who they sound like when they sing/voices I associate with them when I'm writing them (I know these won't perfectly match up with their VA's but let me have my fun)

Melody Piper - Phoebe Bridgers

Sparrow Hood - Tyler Joseph

Raven Queen - Chappell Roan

Meeshell Mermaid - AURORA

Briar Beauty - Julianna Joy

Faybelle Thorn - Halsey

Ashlynn Ella - Lizzy McAlpine

Hunter Huntsman - Michael Cera

Dexter Charming - Alec Benjamin

Darling Charming - Allie X

Daring Charming - Peter McPoland

Apple White - Melanie Martinez

Blondie Lockes - Britney Spears

Cerise Hood - Hayley Kiyoko

Ramona Badwolf - Bishop Briggs

Kitty Cheshire - Suki Waterhouse

Maddie Hatter - Paris Paloma

Lizzie Hearts - MARINA

Alistair Wonderland - Niall Horan

Bunny Blanc - Ethel Cain

Cedar Wood - Laufey

Chase Redford - Eric Nam

Courtly Jester - K.Flay

Holly O'Hair - Lily Kershaw

Poppy O'Hair - Orla Gartland

Ginger Breadhouse - Hailee Steinfeld

Duchess Swan - Tessa Violet

Farrah Goodfairy - Au/Ra

C.A. Cupid - Madds Buckley

Hopper Croakington II - Ricky Montgomery

Justine Dancer - Sabrina Claudio

Rosabella Beauty - Chloe Ament

[nihildenial]

Site Masterlist and Intro

Welcome to my tumblr! Hi everyone! I'm Tatoo (they/them), 25 years old. This will be continuously updated with both my art and fics!

My favorite Ghost things are analyzing lore and the actual satanic theology TF weaves into gherch and canon media. I'm a huge ao3 writer and a big supporter of all ships, even if i personally don't like them! I'm also a practicing Luciferian and study the occult in my free time.

My favorite bands are most definitely Fall Out Boy, Muse, Sleep Token, Chappell Roan, and Green Day. I'm a classically trained violinist so I also listen a lot of classical and romantic orchestral music.

My frostiron MCU side blog is @defenestrationinc

ART MASTERLIST:

FIC MASTERLIST

Smut:

Fifty Shades of Pink

bottom!Papa Emeritus III/top!Omega Topping from the bottom, jealousy, lingerie

Rainy Days Pool Service

switch!Aether/sub!Dewdrop/dom!Papa Emeritus IV Millionaire & Poolboy AU, cuckolding, semi-public sex

Beggin' On Your Knees

bottom!Phantom/top!Dewdrop/top!Aether MMM, boot fetish, coming in pants, praise kink

Fluffy & Hurt/Comfort:

The Ghoul Squeak

Papa Emeritus IV & Nameless Ghouls & Sister Imperator Copia has to solve the Ghouls' exercise issues when they don't use an expensive treadmill

Copia Emeritus and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Papa Emeritus IV & The Ministry Copia's day isn't going too well, but he doesn't know there's a good reason for it.

On the Nose

Special Ghoul Phil & Papa Emeritus IV's Rats Phil reluctantly babysits Copia's rats during the Re-Impera Tour

Per Aspera Ad Influenza

Dewdrop/Swiss/Papa Emeritus IV & Nameless Ghouls Dewdrop doesn't get sick...until he does.

Hall-O-Ghouls

Papa Emeritus IV & Aurora & Phantom The Ministry visits Busch Garden's Hall-O-Scream event

See The Light (of the Sun through the curtains)

Papas/GN!Readers Four one-shots of waking up with your loving Papa

Maiden Voyage

Cardinal Terzo & Era II/III Ghouls Cardinal Acolyte Terzo faces the consequences of his recent misbehaving and finds out the Nameless Ghouls may be useful to him.

MCD & Difficult Triggers

Stand By Him

Papa Emeritus IV/F!Original Character, Papa Emeritus III/GN!Original Character, Papa Emeritus II/M!Original Character Lilly Warren is the curator with the National Music Hall of Fame's newest exhibition that details the legacy of the Satanic Gospel Rock Band, Ghost. When they meet at the award gala, their interstellar paths are forever bound together, even through death.

If It All Burns Down

Special Ghoul Phil & Sister Imperator Phil has been Sister Imperator's lifelong loyal assistant Ghoul and Friend. An introspection on what happens when a Ghoul's bonded host dies. Post-RHRN.

Tender is the Bite

Dracopia/F!Reader You're a homesteading woman in 1600s New England. When you're falsely accused of being a witch, the land you care for sends a guardian 'angel.'

[mybeingthere]

Kim Lim (1936-1997, Singaporean/British)

In 1954, Kim Lim left Singapore for Britain with the aim of studying art and becoming an artist. In London, she enrolled at St. Martin’s School of Fine Art and later at the Slade School of Fine Art, studying printmaking and sculpture with equal enthusiasm—two approaches that formed the basis of her work in the four decades that followed. During those formative school years, Lim studied under Anthony Caro and befriended other artists like Tess Jaray and Julia Farrer. She was particularly fascinated by the work of Brancusi, a shared affinity with William Turnbull, who became her husband in 1960. Lim began exhibiting work relatively soon after finishing her studies, with her first solo exhibition at Axiom Gallery in 1966 where she displayed early, colourful works such as Borneo II and Candy (as seen in the studio shot below), acquired the year after it was made by the Arts Council Collection. She exhibited regularly through the 1970s and 1980s with Nicola Jacobs Gallery.

Much of Lim’s early work can be characterised by her engagement with materials such as wood and bronze. Her printmaking practice was equally pervasive and prominent from the beginning. Works such as Abacus I and II (1959), two sister relief sculptures, modelled after the ancient Chinese calculation tool, employ a poverty of material and reveal Lim’s ability to transform fundamental shapes and concepts with an elegant gesture. Made of plaster shapes hung on wire within a rectangular wooden frame, these works eschew “high art” material for simplicity of form. Both works are now in the collections of the Singapore National Gallery and M+ in Hong Kong, respectively. Lim extracted inspiration from her own personal journey from the East to West, with the vernacular of those artists she admired from the West such as Giacometti. Importantly, Lim looked outside the “canon” of art as well. A keen observer of nature and of natural forces, she would echo the sinuous curves of a vast desert plain, the waves of a silent sea breeze, and other experiential moments of life in her work. The strength of a Gingko tree’s trunk, for example, as seen in the 1989 sculpture titled after this living fossil, in which a monolith of rose aurora marble fluted and carved by hand rests on a Portland stone base.

Lim’s 1970s work is marked by a deeper experimentation into concepts of “form, space, rhythm and light”. Her series Intervals, which refers to both sculptural and paper works, employs negative space with equal detail as it does with ideas of density and volume. The year 1979 would prove be a watershed moment for the artist, culminating in a mid-career survey show at The Roundhouse where Lim would exhibit works from every period in a non-linear and non-chronological method, partly in response to the venue itself, a circular gallery space. This was also the year that Lim moved toward an embracing of stone and marble mediums, materials that would remain present in her practice until her untimely passing in 1997.

Continue reading https://www.turnbullstudiokimlim.com/kim-lim

[zzeraphilm]

his hidden notebook (II)

akaashi keiji x f!reader part one summary: akaashi and y/n work together for her best performance yet. words: 2,440 Lyrics used are from Aurora by Daisy Jones and the Six

“Because they’re about you. All of them. I write them, whenever I see you sing, when you walk down the halls or when you daze off into space during English class. I catch images of you in my mind from moments where you’re always out of reach, where you bless others with your shining aura. Y/N, you’ve been my muse for all of my work.” 

If Akashi could erase his memory he would, one thousand times over he would, he wanted to stab himself with a thousand daggers to forget what he said to Y/N. Never has he ever felt this deep feeling of regret and embarrassment. He was a fool, nothing changed between him and Y/N, the day after his confession, Y/N greeted him with the tiniest of smiles that only insects could see. Akashi felt defeated, he could only put pen to paper again, he resented this hobby of his for this very reason. If it wasn’t for this hobby of his, Y/N wouldn’t see him for the clown he was. 

It was unusual as well for the H/C haired student, since reading Akashi’s work and hearing his confession, Y/N started to see him more than the perceived image she thought of him. She began to notice his long eyelashes that flutter when he blinded, he often did so when he was nervous or trying to answer the teacher. She noticed the way his shirt would cling onto his flexed muscles when he would wipe the blackboard clean. She noticed the way his pupils would float towards her direction when they would wait in line for the cafeteria. Has he always been this beautiful?

Y/N was both enamoured and ashamed of how she felt. If the proclamation of a romantic act was all it took for her to fall in love, did this show how shallow she was deep down? That she only liked someone who was completely besotted of her, regardless of how she truly felt? Her mind spiralled out of control every time she saw him, she wanted to be near Akaashi, she wanted to recreate the mesmerising promises from his poems together with him, she wanted to feel the same emotions he felt for her. Y/N couldn’t help but question her own purpose for liking the vice-Captain. Maybe she was just attracted to his attraction of her, maybe she didn’t actually like him, she just liked the idea of him. 

So she made a plan, get to know him. Get closer to him, figure out if it's him or just a fantasy. 

“Hey Akaashi,” the boy looked up from his maths textbook, he had thrown himself into his studies and volleyball to forget his encounter with his muse. “Do you think you could help me with something?”

“What is it that you need L/N?” 

With a shaky laugh and a scratch on her neck she coughed out her reply, “I’ve been struggling with writing a new song for the school festival…and well, I wanted to know how you write your stuff. Of course you can say no! It’s just I wanted to write as well as you do.” 

Akaashi felt his heart skip a beat, he forgot how to breathe for a second and felt himself sinking further into his seat. 

“Oh it’s okay. Yeah I’ll help.” He only managed to spit out an indifferent response without a goofy smile slipping onto his face. 

“Perfect! Well do you have practice after school today?” He shook his head. “Alright, so come meet me in the music room after your last class. I don’t need to show you where it is do I?” She teased, she was well aware of his observant eye. 

Despite being the vice-Captain of the volleyball team, representing an entire school to the whole nation during tournaments. This was the most nervous he had felt. His hand gripped the door handle, he had dreamt of this moment countless times. Once the door opened he would see Y/N perched on a table, their legs carefully sat on a chair in front of them balancing a guitar, lightly strumming its strings and humming a tune so familiar to him. The sun would set upon her, a golden beam would cast its kisses onto her skin as she would play absentmindedly. He'd have this dream time and time again till he memorised it, maybe this time it could be a reality, he selfishly hoped. 

“You gonna open the door or what?” 

Akaashi jolted back, causing Y/N to burst in a string of giggles.

“Oh, who would’ve thought you’re so jumpy! Well you do play volleyball. Huh, get it?” Her shit eating grin was both cute and punchable. 

As the two settled their bags onto a spare table, Y/N brought out a few clipped pages, some scrunched up, one being a random tissue from the nearby family diner. The ink on the tissue had bled to be unrecognisable. 

“Yeah, don’t mind that one. This dad said something cool and I wanted to remember it, I only had tissues on me.” 

Akaashi didn’t think he would be sat with his muse, reading her work, using a spare red pen to edit her rhyming couplets and breaking a few lines that were too long for his liking. Y/N couldn’t keep still seeing Akaashi read her lyrics, she felt like she was sat in front of a teacher. 

“Here, I changed a few things but other than that it’s really good.” When he gave her the sweetest of smiles, she swore her breath was ripped straight out of her mouth. He was basking in the setting sun's haze, his eyelashes fluttered with the light breeze that the window let in.

Things continued from there, on days where there was no band or volleyball practice, Y/N and Akaashi would creep into the music room and get lost in the scribbles of their minds. They didn’t speak about themselves as much as they had wished for, their conversations ranged from poetry, music and on occasion homework. Y/N showed Akaashi some of the artists she took inspiration from; boygenius, Phoebe Bridges and Amy Winehouse. Names of which Akaashi was familiar with in passing. He wasn’t a large music fan to the point where he’d memorise the names of the artists. But he found himself nodding along to a few songs Y/N introduced him to on his walk home. In return, he gifted Y/N a pocket anthology of poems that reminded him of her. 

“The author's called Cerys Matthews, she’s a songwriter but also writes poems, you should read some.” 

She grasped the book tightly, as if it would shatter like glass if it fell to the floor. 

“Hah, it’s just like us then!” 

The more weeks passed, the closer the school festival would lurk over everyone’s heads. With exam period over, all students put their efforts into preparing for their events. As per Bokuto Koutarou's request, the volleyball team were teaming up with the soccer team to host their own maid cafe, where the boys would dress in French maid outfits and serve their fellow classmates drinks and desserts. Akaashi was too worried over his muse’s disappearance in the last few weeks to care about the maid outfit he had been placed in. His meetings with Y/N dwindled down as fast as a dying flame. Her band were doing daily practice for their performance at the festival. Y/N only spoke about it once to him. 

“I’m scared. We’ve only ever performed covers of songs. But this time we promised to perform a new song, an original song. It’s on me to make it perfect. Everyone’s going to be watching us,” her head was permanently screwed to face the floor. She couldn’t bare to see Akaashi’s pitiful eyes. Instead, he leaned forward, reached out his hand and rubbed her forearm lightly, barely grazing her skin. 

“It’ll be alright. We will write an incredible song for the festival. Together.” 

Their last meeting was eating him up inside, he had invited her round to his, since the rain was getting heavier that evening and the school had to be shut early for renovations. He felt like he was floating walking side by side with Y/N under his umbrella. She clutched her bag to protect the papers inside from getting soaked. The summer rain held a heavy heat along with the splashes of water. Each raindrop that beat the umbrella created a rhythm that Y/N couldn’t help but point out. She lightly hummed a new melody he hadn’t heard before in tune with the rain. 

He insisted on having them stay at the dining room table, he couldn’t cope with the thought of his muse, the light that guides his way to be sat in the same room that he sleeps in. Y/N’s curious eye didn’t help his predicament. Eventually she found herself in his room, peering at the open notebook on his desk. Another poem. 

Aurora. 

She was drawn in from the first stanza, she felt her heart cling to each echoing beat that reverbed throughout her body. She couldn’t help but sing. A soft melody, the same rhythm from the rain, the light tapping of her fingernails on the wooden desktop. 

“What are you doing in here?” 

Y/N flipped her head back, so fast she heard her neck click. She hadn’t felt embarrassed around him since his confession three months ago. 

“N-nothing! I just, I was just looking!” Akaashi walked up to her and held onto the back of the chair she was perched on. He leaned over her to read the page, he was so close to Y/N’s face, she could smell his cologne. A smooth, cedar wood tone with hints of a citrus musk. It was addicting. 

“Aurora. That’s my favourite one so far.”

“I think it's my favourite as well.” A comfortable, silent lull blanketed them for a few minutes, reading the poem line by line, Y/N lightly humming the new melody she created.

Neither them had to mention who Aurora was, both of them knew. He always referenced his Aurora in every poem he wrote. Neither of them said a world, they just allowed the feeling of something blooming to take its roots between them.

Her posters were stuck on every wall in the school, an amateur drawing of instruments and a mic, along with bubbled text that read:

Fukurodani Academy presents Double Helix’s summer stage!

Akaashi craved to see Y/N in her world, he had only seen her perform from afar in a tiny music room, in a deserted school. The thought of Y/N illuminating a stage fed his hunger to see her.

It was the middle of the first day of the festival, he was incredibly uncomfortable in the maid dress, despite his black shorts under the skirt, he regularly had to take a break to calm himself from the ridiculousness. It took awhile for the other boys to get used to the dresses but eventually they found the humour in the situation and their business was booming. Whilst jotting down a gaggle of girls’ orders, he was cut short with the sudden guitar strum and a heavy beating drum. It’s starting. He couldn’t abandon his shift, but he had to see Y/N. 

“Ah, ah. 1, 2. 1, 2." 

Akaashi slammed the notepad on the table causing the groupies to screech, within a second he was running out the door screaming to Bokuto that there was an emergency he had to attend. He didn’t care for the stares he received as he weaved through the crowds of people in the hallway. The windows were wide open and he could hear her from the courtyard. 

You found me in flames, it’s the daylight of change.  Baby all that stuff is done. You’re my morning sun.

He knew this piece. They were his words. It was his favourite. Their favourite. He jumped over a few stairs, ignoring the strain in his calves. Till finally he made it to the courtyard, zipping through the cluster of fans dancing along to Y/N’s siren voice. 

You called from a fever dream,  The crazy wasn’t done You’re my morning sun.  Oh Aurora, you’re my morning sun.

There he was, in his stupidly pristine French maid dress, basking in the light of a star. Her body moved like the ocean waves, flowing with the soft summer breeze under the blazing sunlight. Her voice drew him in like a drug. She was up there, singing his words. His feelings. The jumping feet of the crowd behind him and the electrifying instruments made his heart feel suffocated by the intense noise. He didn’t care for it all, because in front of him was Y/N. 

Kinda thought that night was gonna last forever, Kinda thought that night was gonna last forever, Kinda thought that night was gonna last forever, Kinda thought!

The set continued with three more cover songs and an encore requested by the audience. Akaashi felt like he witnessed an angel fly down and kiss him on his forehead. With the final cheers the band walked off stage for the next performers to come on, a few people dispersed from the crowd once Double Helix left whilst others joined. Akaashi felt his arm be dragged down.

“Akaashi what the hell are you wearing?!” She cackled, and he finally saw her wide smile that brought his heart to its knees, it had been weeks since he saw her this close. 

“Oh, I- Well- You were incredible L/N.”

“Thank you! I had to use your stuff it was too good to be hidden! But of course I added some of my own work in there. So really it's our song!” She winked. “Anyways, I gotta take a picture of this version of Akaashi! I don’t think I’ll ever see you in something like this ever again!” She pulled out her phone and dragged his shoulders to pose for a photo. Before he could even notice the shutter camera noise, Y/N had turned her head to leave a light peck on Akashi’s cheek. Click. 

It was a mere second, Akaashi was at a stand still, there was no one else around them. Just Y/N and him. Then, she laughed. Her infectious laugh that he would love to hear every waking hour. 

“You better come to tomorrow's performance, Keiji!” Y/N shouted as she ran back to her bandmates, far from Akaashi Keiji who was as still as a marble statue, his hand permanently stuck on his cheek. 

[thelostmetallurgist]

Visit(s) To The Forgotten Vale...

🌌 Scene I: “He Came Alone”

Forgotten Vale. 4E 212. One year after Mzulan’s return to Mundus.

The snow was falling sideways—thin, silver threads unspooling across the ruin’s high canopies. Mzulan stood ankle-deep in the silence, his footfalls the only betrayal of presence. The Vale didn’t react. It merely was.

He paused before the cracked arch that once framed the Chantry of Auri-El. His hand slid across ancient marble—not to study, but to listen.

“Stone shouldn’t sing when it’s this cold,” he muttered.

Then he heard it: not a song, not even a tone—just breath. The kind mortals made when stepping into dreams they shouldn’t disturb.

He knelt.

From the leather of his satchel, he drew a sphere. Brass. Aether-wrought. Polished until it held the Vale’s sky within it.

“It’s not a gift,” he said aloud to no one. “It’s... a placeholder. For all the things I never said to a woman I hadn’t met yet.”

He set the sphere in the snow. It unfolded gently, like petals of metal.

Inside, it hummed a lullaby—not Dwemeric. It was hers. The one she sang to sick children before her throat was slit.

Mzulan stood, eyes wet but unashamed.

“I don’t understand gods,” he whispered. “But if Syrabane’s watching… tell him she deserved better than this. I plan to give it to her.”

And he left. Slowly. Deliberately. Leaving the sphere spinning, untouched by the wind.

🕊️ Scene II: “Together in the Vale”

Forgotten Vale. Unknown Era. A moment outside time.

They walked in silence.

Not for lack of words. But because silence belonged here. And the Vale, that old quiet cathedral of ice and memory, welcomed her home.

Azhrina walked barefoot, her armor forgotten. She let the snow touch her skin—like it was asking forgiveness.

Mzulan walked beside her. Not leading. Not guarding. Just… there.

They reached the same place. The broken arch. The spot where her blood once fed the earth.

“It’s different,” she said softly. “It’s warm.”

He glanced at her. His eyes were glowing teal-blue, reflecting the auroras like twin hearths.

“I left something for you here,” he said.

“I know,” she smiled. “It sang to me. Even in the dark.”

She knelt, hands gently cupping the brass bloom. She didn’t cry. She just existed, and the Vale breathed with her.

“I thought this place was a tomb,” he whispered. “Turns out… it was just waiting.”

She looked up at him. The glow of her eyes matched his. Not magically. Not tonally.

Emotionally. Harmonically. Two resonances made whole.

“I forgive them,” she said.

“I don’t,” he replied. Then added, “...But I’m working on it.”

They held hands.

The auroras folded around them like wings. And somewhere deep beneath the snow, the stones began to hum—not with machines, but with memory.

[lcgacyofages]

actually, let me give a quick run down while I'm working on stuff to get set up

So the main heroes are Eliana Mahariel (rogue class), Atena Hawke (warrior class), Rajmahel Lavellan (mage class), Ogden Thorne (mage class)

but breaking it down for companion OCs under cut with their summaries. Some of these are the origins, some are meant to be relatives, but I'm flexible.

DAO Companion OCs

Arik Trabris

Companion non-HOF Tabris, who was recruited three months before the events of the game. He’s known as being severe and ruthless and not entirely diplomatic. He manages to escape the slaughter at Ostagar and meets up with Alistair and the Warden in the Wilds.

Dimetrea Brosca

Brosca Non-HOF Companion. Instead of getting into the end of the Brosca origin, Dimetrea decides to leave and go to the surface for a better life and becomes a mercenary. She employs herself to the warden when she meets the group after dealing with a band of darkspawn.

Lir Cousland

The middle child of the Couslands (typically). He went off with Fergus to the Battle of Ostagar. The youngest Cousland managed to barely escape and was able to tell him of the betrayal at home before succumbing to their wounds. Lir managed to survive Ostagar and vowed revenge on Howe.

Zoria Amell

Amell Non-HOF Companion, where she leaves with the warden during Broken Circle after being put in isolation and the chaos enabling her sister, Aurora, to free her in order to protect both of them. Her phylactery was destroyed, she finds out, so she flees instead of returning to the Circle.

Dragon Age II Companion OCs

Dazbo Amell

The older brother of Zoria and Aurora. Dazbo was at Kinloch Hold, helping his older brother, Sorin, with his plan of faking a study on magical families and how to curb it but actually plotting to get all of the Amell siblings out. When Uldred revolted, Dazbo managed to escape without his siblings after destroying his phylacter his templar handler had, and fled to Kirkwall. As far as any else is concerned, he was killed at Kinloch.

Katarina Anhalt

A templar transferred to Kirkwall who meets Hawke in Act 2. Transferred to Kirkwall to try to toughen her, she’s sympathetic and compassionate, having become a templar in an effort to protect people, mage and non-mage alike. She wants to follow her duties but she has questions about how things are run in Kirkwall.

Sasha Fitz

An elf blooded human raised by his elven mother in the alienage. His father is a Kirkwall nobleman and his mother’s former employer. Sasha has a strong contempt for the rich and well-to-do of Kirkwall, to the point he works as a thief known as The Hooded Figure (Hood for short). He steals from the elite and redistributes the wealth to the less fortunate.

Selena Porter

An Orlesian apostate mage who operates as a smuggler of a variety of finery to Kirkwall. She works independently and sometimes with other groups. She’s skilled at seeming to know when and where guards are going to be, in order to get her shipments in safely.

Dragon Age: Inquisition Companion OCs

Aurora Amell

Aurora is the youngest of the Amells, having been at Kinloch with her sister. A gifted healer, Aurora worked as an assistant to Wynne before the Mage Rebellion. She joined the cause and was at Haven but not the Conclave. She joined the Inquisition to get justice for the friends she lost at the Conclave and works as a main healer.

Hildegard Cadash

Hildegard is the aunt by marriage of the Cadash killed at the Conclave. Hearing of their death, the major figure of the Carta decided to offer her contacts and skills to the Inquisition. Because no one messes with her family and gets away with it.

Idrilla Lavellan

At the request of her brother, Rajmahel, Idrilla brought his daughter to Skyhold shortly after they found it. She works as Rajmahel’s most trusted agent, oftentimes handling the more brutal jobs. She’s also knowledgeable in the arcane and has abilities gained from finding an artifact as a youth, which she utilizes in helping her brother.

Inatar Adaar

Younger sister of the Adaar killed at the Conclave (base). She also works with the Valo-Kas but decided she would join the Inquisition to get revenge. She’s known to be brash and hot-headed, not the type to hold back. Twin to Shamut Adaar.

Seigfried Trevelyan

The older brother of Maxwell Trevelyan, a templar who died at the Conclave (base setting). Seigfried was also meant to be there, at his father’s orders, but he was held up in Haven due to a personal matter. Angered at the death of his brother, Seigfried joined the Inquisition to get justice for his brother. His past military experience is useful in training the new recruits.

Sergio di Vasco

A former Antivan crow who decided instead of fulfilling a contract on the Herald’s life, he would warn them instead. Tired of being a pawn and wanting to make something of himself, he joins the Inquisition. He knows the Crows won’t take lightly to this and is always looking over his shoulder.

Shamut Adaar

A qunari mage, younger brother of the Adaar killed at the Conclave. He learned his magic from a tal-vashoth apostate and works with the Valo-Kas like his siblings. He goes with his sister to find out who killed their sibling.

Miscellaneous OCs

Fenvir

The what if child of Idrilla Lavellan and Solas. Fenvir is a gifted dreamer and mage, but often finds himself feeling as if he doesn’t fit much of anywhere. Various verses to be figured out, with VG reveals…

Mathras Myriani

A former priest and soothsayer of Mythal’s temple. Mathras, in his youth, made the mistake of trying to advise Falon’Din during one of his visits and was blinded by the enraged Evanuris. After the fall of Elvhenan, Mathras did what he could for a time to help the elves left with their destroyed world. Yet he soon found himself falling into Utherena. He awoke in 9:30 due to the stirrings in the Fade.

Vincentius Titus

The former apprentice of Magister Aurelian Titus, he is now magister in after his death. He was born to a Soporati family but abandoned them in his ambitions. He is a blood mage and feels the Chantry holds back the Imperium and desires to return to the old ways, but with better social movement for mages, no matter the class they were born into while non-mages have little rights.

[antiquelic]

#ANTIQUELIC. GREAT ACHILLES. BRILLIANT ACHILLES, SHINING ACHILLES, GODLIKE ACHILLES [ ... ] HOW THE EPITHETS PILE UP. WE NEVER CALLED HIM ANY OF THOSE THINGS; WE CALLED HIM THE BUTCHER.

a private and selective multimuse featuring canon and original characters, primarily circulating around horror and historical themes, particularly aspects of death, monsters, myth vs real, murder, and more. i primarily write ocs and female presenting muses. some muses here are linked to other blogs. est. feb 2023. affiliates: ascensionism. audaciiae. muutos. p0pestar. starshinc. wornkindness.

graphics made by @gloomglimmer <3

A STUDY IN . . . gods and monsters, the occult, we can be heroes, cannibalism, what it means to be human, loss of innocence, man or monster, inheritance and legacy, ancient historical narratives and mythology.

i. CARRD. ii. PROMPTS.

TEMP MUSE LIST BELOW.

band lore.

angela. gargoyla character ocified for the ghost universe. secondary.

aurora ghoul. ocified ghoulette from the band ghost. tertiary.

bloodhound. original character for the band ghost. tertiary.

hazel ghoulette. original character for the band ghost. primary.

julia antonia emeritus. original character, daughter of morgan's copia. tertiary.

moss ghoul. original character for the band ghost. secondary.

opera ghoulette. original character for the band ghost. primary.

historic.

boudicca. celtic queen of britain. tertiary.

remus. divine king of rome, son of priscilla. primary.

horror.

jeff johansen. canon character from dead by daylight. secondary.

hela. human / xenomorph queen experiment, for the alien universe. request.

the nurse. from the dead by daylight universe. secondary.

the oni. from the dead by daylight universe. secondary.

van helsing. ocified from various vampire media. tertiary.

misc.

hana komori. original character for the bnha universe. request.

mitsuki bakugo. canon/ocified from the bnha fandom. request.

yui shizuka. original character for the bnha universe. request.

[divinelght]

tag dump.

OOC TAGS. i've got a lot on my mind. ⸻ ( ooc. ) do it all for love. ⸻ ( promo. ) keep the sun in your heart. ⸻ ( answered. ) the gold and the rust. ⸻ ( dash games. ) to live for the hope of it all. ⸻ ( memes & prompts. ) after this i'm never gonna be the same. ⸻ ( threads. ) AURORA TAGS. always an angel / never a god. ⸻ ( mirror. ) a light that never goes out. ⸻ ( study. ) sun: keeper of flame. ⸻ ( aesthetics. ) walk always in the light. ⸻ ( lathander. ) every good intention. ⸻ ( musings. ) let me put my lips to something. ⸻ ( desires. ) VERSE TAGS. a hero's journey. ⸻ ( act i. ) i have seen what the darkness does. ⸻ ( act ii. ) these roads are changing me. ⸻ ( act iii. ) now the darkness got a hold on me. ⸻ ( corrupt. ) DYNAMIC TAGS. where you go i'm going. ⸻ ( daemon. ) here is my hand. ⸻ ( astarion. ) your needs / my needs ⸻ ( sidxreus. )

[rapalixi]

GEOMAGNETIC STORMS ARE POSSIBLE TODAY: NOAA forecasters say that minor G1-class geomagnetic storms are possible today, May 2nd, as a fast-moving stream of solar wind buffets Earth's magnetic field. There is a slight chance the storm could escalate to category G2. If so, auroras would be visible after nightfall in northern-tier US states. Solar flare alerts: SMS Text

A GIANT RING OF ELLERMAN BOMBS: Astronomers are monitoring a very large sunspot now turning toward Earth. Sunspot 4079 stretches more than 140,000 km from end to end and has two dark cores each large enough to swallow Earth. Moreover, it is surrounded by a ring of Ellerman Bombs:9

Philippe Tosi took this picture from his backyard observatory in Nîmes, France, and inserted an image of Earth for scale. "It is an impressive sunspot," he says.

Note the pinpoints of light ringing the two dark cores. These are Ellerman bombs: Magnetic explosions about one-millionth as powerful as a true solar flare. A handful are circled for reference. Named after physicist Ferdinand Ellerman who studied them in the early 20th century, a single Ellerman bomb releases about 1026 ergs of energy--equal to about 100,000 World War II atomic bombs.

Ellerman bombs are a sign of magnetic complexity in a sunspot. Opposite polarities bump together, reconnect, and--boom! A full-fledged flare may not be far behind. 

[archived-warrenxmelrose]

[cisman and he/him] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [WARREN MELROSE]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [ANTHONY MACKIE]. You must be the [FORTY-SIX] year old [RECOVERY COACH]. Word is you’re [EMPATHETIC] but can also be a bit [WORKAHOLIC] and your favorite song is [THE UNFORGIVEN II BY METALLICA]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [CRYSTAL COVE CONDOS]. I’m sure you’ll love it! 

Family:

Father: Derek Melrose

Mother: Alana Melrose

Siblings: has an older brother and three younger brothers (potential wcs to come)

Son: potential wc to come

ex-wife: wc

Other connections:

Neighbors:

Friends:

Recovery participants: Arkin O'Connell ( @arkin-oconnell ), Nira Wu ( @nirawu )

Trigger warnings: drug use, divorce, financial instability, pregnancy

Born and raised in Aurora Bay by his father, Warren was given a good life despite some of the hardships he faced. His mother left him and his siblings when he was ten years old, which brought a lot of financial hardships to the family as well as heartache. As the second eldest of the Melrose children, Warren helped take care of his younger siblings while his father took on more shifts to make ends meet. 

As Warren got older, he and his siblings got their own jobs and all pitched in to keep the family afloat, and eventually things got better. His father got a new and better job that increased their income, Warren made the high school basketball team, he was the best man at his older brother’s wedding, and everything was looking up for the Melroses. 

Warren started going to college after high school for general studies, unsure of what he wanted to do with his life, but his father wanted to push him and his siblings to try to make something out of themselves and get a degree in anything. It was during his college years that he met a woman he quickly fell in love with. She was an aspiring teacher and he found her kindness and intelligence intriguing. It wasn’t long before they started dating and they became serious. Warren finished his two year degree and he found work elsewhere,usually working temporary positions. His girlfriend, however, finished her four year degree and got a job as a teacher. As Melrose luck would have it, she got pregnant not long after graduation. 

Warren and his girlfriend quickly got married and she began working at Aurora Bay high school while Warren was trying to find a better and permanent job. It was hard for him to find a job and he needed to find one fast. Warren’s stubbornness was keeping him from asking for financial help from his family but he couldn’t find a stable job that lasted more than a few months. The expenses of the baby were beginning to pile up and his wife wasn’t making much money as a teacher and Warren needed to do something. 

Thankfully, Warren’s luck had turned around and there was a position for a basketball coach at Aurora Bay’s high school and Warren was able to get the position. It wasn’t much money but it was something. The Melrose’s struggled financially for many years after and with their struggles, as well as having gotten married so young, they began having marital problems as well. There were fights over money, crying over their debts, and even talk about moving out of Aurora Bay just to cut costs. Just as they were reaching their breaking point, Warren was laid off and once again unemployed. 

Another huge argument over money and Warren and his wife agreed to separate. His wife took their son and moved in with her mother, and Warren was left needing to find a new job and a place to stay. His pride was hurt and he was in the process of losing everything. It was a moment of weakness and desperation that he ended up using, wanting to get away from the pain he felt. He and his wife did make up and they decided to try to make things work as Warren searched for a job, however, he was still using to get away from the stress of it all. He believed he could handle it but he couldn’t and soon enough he was losing another job due to failing a drug test. Once again he and his wife were fighting and he was taking odd jobs, even jobs that paid under the table, but it was all going to hell. After years of arguments and hurting, Warren was finally served divorce papers. 

It was losing his wife and learning his own son didn’t want anything to do with him that was finally a wake up call for him and he knew he needed help. He finally set his pride aside and went to his father for help and his father paid for him to go to rehab. Warren wanted to get clean and stay clean, if not for himself, then for his son. It was an uphill battle and it was devastating to learn that it would be one he’d be fighting the rest of his life. He managed to get clean though he’d relapsed once early on in his journey. 

Over the years, Warren has worked hard at staying clean and was able to get a steady job with the help of his father and his sponsor. As he continued his journey he ended up becoming a sponsor himself. Moved by the support of his own sponsors as well as helping others in their recovery over the years, he decided he wanted a career in helping people in the same positions as he was. He began the training program to become a recovery coach when he was thirty years old and he’s been helping others since he finished his program. He has been working on repairing his relationship with his son as he continues to help others in their recovery journeys.

@aurorabayaesthetic