#sheillagh-tries-life

[unavenged-robin]

Oooh congrats!! Can I ask for Dick and “We’re still the best” (Dami lol) or “You will always be my little Robin” (Bruce (:)

At first there’s a lot of swearing, terrible, unrepeatable, and very creative threats bounce back and forth between them as they endure endless minutes filled with an almost unbearable tension. Then comes the silence.

Dick’s hands are sweating by now, and his grip shakes in exhaustion. Damian’s elbows are pressing hard into Dick’s ribs as the boy tenses against him.

“You can do it, Richard”, he says under his breath, and his confidence in his brother’s ability is almost religious, a sacred thing that Dick feels the need to preserve, no matter the cost.

Beside them Jason grunts, and with a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, Dick can see Tim leaning heavily on his shoulder, lips pressed in a tight grimace. They are all trying so hard. Maybe too much.

Dick cashes in two more punches and Damian hisses, perhaps contemplating for the first time the concrete possibility of losing. But Dick holds his ground and waits, still confident enough.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon”, Jason starts chanting to himself, and that’s his tell, even if only Dick and maybe Roy know of it.

So Dick stands still until the very last second, then dodges the attack Jason was so carefully packing against him and lands three kicks in a row, which allows Damian to hit the final combo and take out Jason’s fighter almost as viciously as he had killed Tim's.

For the split of a moment they all just stare transfixed at the screen going black.

Damian’s delighted laugh breaks the silence first, and yet it’s such a soft thing it nearly gets drowned under Jason's heavy cursing and Tim’s disappointed moaning, as the both of them crash back into the couch, finally defeated after two hours of constant Street Fighter challenges.

Still sitting between Dick’s crossed legs, Damian turns around to reward him with a smile so big and bright that all the bitching that Dick knows will start in a few minutes because of this victory look like they’re almost worth the trouble.

“We are still the best, Richard”, Damian states proudly, as he throws both the controller and his middle finger in Jason’s and Tim’s direction.

“We still are, kiddo. We still are”, Dick laughs, and he hugs the boy closer to his chest out of an overwhelming rush of affection, but also to protect him from their brothers’ unavoidable retaliation - allegations of favoritism be damned.

[nekojitachan]

I have a different issue with onions (fine with the taste, Hate the texture) but I usually use a smaller amount than the recipe says, chop them super fine, and then put them in a good processor until they’re basically paste for good measure. Then you can basically add to taste because you don’t need to worry quite as much about cooking them out so much. Might help? <3

Thank you! I’ll have to try the food processor - I usually cut back on the amount of onions, chop them up really small and go with sweet onions. If it’s a dish with strong flavors, I don’t mind onions added in (and as long as they’re tiny and cooked down to nothing).

[rachelpedd]

I LOVE the way you use color in your builds! So many people seem to be afraid of using color and make a lot of neutral color palettes and I love that your builds are more colorful :) ❤️

Aw, thank you so much for this lovely message! I’m so glad you like my builds. ❤️

[whetstonefires]

Earth-3

Characters: Owlman, Talon, Superwoman, Orin of Atlantis, Donna Troy, Garth

Warnings: Dehumanization, vague sleazing at 13yo, brief mention of past eye trauma, villains

Words: ~4,500

For Sheillagh O., who has been very very patient about something that in theory was going to be done by the end of January.

--------

Talon ducked under his master’s elbow and slid the knife in where it belonged, at the base of Owlman’s spine.

It was one of three blades that slotted invisibly into the armor plates along his torso, to serve as additional rigid protection as long as they were in place and, when necessary, to offer an extra edge.

Not that the Owl ever even looked unarmed, nor would be harmless if he were. But there was a difference between the menace of jet claws, and the sharp point that could be made with five inches of steel.

Talon ducked back out again, lifted the left gauntlet from its stand and waited for the matching hand to be held out, that he might slide it on. This might take some space of seconds, as Owlman was flipping through the day’s reports on an obsidian clipboard, inset with faceted beads of smoky quartz forming the shape of the feather tattoo he gave his fully initiated followers, the footsoldiers of his Court.

(There had been a lecture last month, when the clipboard was delivered, about the choice of materials, and the balance between useful opulence and absurd ostentation. The latter, it seemed, would have been using actual gemstones in the decoration, rather than mere quartz.

Talon was glad it wasn’t set with diamonds. Inevitably one would have fallen out and gotten lost, and Owlman would have been in a temper.)

Without looking up from whatever document was making him frown so thunderously, the Owl extended his left hand. Gauntlet on. Flex, to make sure it had settled correctly. Pass the clipboard into that hand, obsidian impervious to the bite of claws, as Talon circled silently around his back.

It was important not to keep his master waiting, but neither could he distract him with haste and rush. There was a balance in this, as in all things. Perfection must brush the fingertips with every movement, though it might never alight within the palm. This was attainable. He had been well taught.

The old Talons had not been trained as squires. He’d been told that by one of the round white masks, old blood who had known Talons before him, in feathered armor, and trained them too. White circle inset with great dark eyes looking down, thinking little of him, in his ragged grey and scarlet. White mask and the voice that issued from behind it familiar, from times when he had been in error, and required punishment.

But the Court had changed, since the days when Talon wore the armor. And the King who ruled it now preferred the personal touch.

He didn’t need help arming up, of course. The entirety of the royal raiment was very particularly designed to be manageable by the wearer, without assistance, because Owlman felt that trust was a negotiable commodity but not one he preferred ever to have to rely upon.

A second pair of hands saved time and trouble, however, and the more height Talon put on, the more often it was his service that was called for, rather than that of the old man. He could almost reach the top of the Owl’s head now, if he stretched.

Clipboard transferred, the second powerful hand stretched out, and Talon slid the gauntlet onto it. Another flex of claws. Testing articulation. It was unthinkable that this armor could be neglected enough to rust, but something could always have gone wrong. Never assume.

The claws dove toward his neck, and Talon froze. What mistake had he made?

But his throat was not opened. One great knuckle hooked carefully under the edge of his jaw. The armored inner pad of the vast thumb pressed against his lower left bicuspid, through the thin flesh of his face. The very end of the thumb’s black claw pricked at the corner of his mouth.

Firmly, the heavy hand turned his face up, into Owlman’s where he knew better than to look unless instructed. Pale blue eyes punched into his own sharply enough it felt they should have punctured, and oozed down his face blindly. (He hated when that happened. The slime stayed even after he recovered, and blindness in the interim was awful.)

“Talon,” said his king, as softly as he ever said anything that was not a threat. Deep, smooth, and just a step shy of gloating. None of the cool sharp edges of his anger. Talon had done nothing wrong. The band around his heart loosened. “Focus.”

The hand withdrew from his chin, and Talon dipped his head in contrition. How could he always tell, somehow. What carelessness crept into his movements, when his mind began to spin away behind his eyes?

"Good." The Owl reached out and lifted the feathered mantle from its stand himself, swinging its weight around his shoulders to settle there, doubling his already great size and casting shadow over the gleaming-dark surface of his breastplate.

Reached up to draw the mask down over his face, and tipped his chin back as he did, throat bared, so that Talon knew to step close, reach up, and hook carefully along the the gorget the row of fastenings that kept the great cloak in place.

A twitch of broad armored shoulders brought the feathers into line, and they were ready to depart.

-

The meeting was on an island in international waters. Waters, however, that were within a convenient distance of Gotham by small watercraft, a thing ensured by the simple expedient of Owlman having donated the location to the cause.

Not that he didn't still own it, technically speaking, through a network of shells. (Talon knew vaguely that these were legal entities, but always pictured tiny curling conches and delicate oyster-carapaces strung on chains, swinging with every breeze.) But it was used for only this, and was treated for Society purposes as common ground.

The other members maintained just the narrowest thread of awareness that they were on his territory—enough to incline them to defer, but not enough to make them feel trapped.

It was a careful balance his lord maintained, over these titans of the world. Talon knew the delicate power of it because he was one of the most mobile weights on the scales, but also because he imagined anyone would, watching power flow back and forth amongst the mighty. The unstoppable force of alien or amazon curbed and redirected to a common purpose.

Or was that only anyone who had been watching Owlman all their life. Talon could not say.

The Court had been this restive, once. When Talon was new. Had still required delicacy, though never quite so much, because no one in it had had a fraction of the strength gathered here. Now all the Courtiers had learned to bow their round white faces and avert their staring Tyton eyes, and the King had turned his gaze beyond Gotham, into the greater world.

The waves broke black about them as they raced eastward, leaving the lights of Gotham far behind. It was low in the water, this small vessel, but fast and quiet as the wings of owls in the night air. Owlman steered, very upright in the only seat.

Talon crouched at his left hand, one bare knee steadying him against the inside of the hull. It was cold. Thin steel between him and the ocean’s depth.

He could drown for a very long time, before he stopped waking up again.

Sometimes when the boat was caught by a rise, he jostled against his lord’s knee. The Owl took no notice.

“Listen closely to the others,” he instructed, at length, as the shore of the little island and the tower’s height came into view. As though Talon might have forgotten. “I will be expecting a detailed report at the end of the evening.”

He didn’t glance toward Talon. Verbal confirmation was required. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. I intend to avoid conflict tonight, and in addition to the question of expanded membership, the political situation has expanded the agenda, so we may run late. You may speak to whatever hangers-on the rest have brought as necessary to extract information, but be subtle.”

“…yes, my lord.”

“You have doubts?”

“No, my lord.”

“Obviously they’ll be suspicious if you act out of character.” Yes, exactly. “Don’t.”

Well. That limited the options. A challenge, but the better kind. The more choices he was given, after all, the more likely it was he would make one that was wrong.

Talon tipped his head back a little to catch the flash of the stars. They said you could use them in place of a clock, if you knew them well enough. There would be a clock in the meeting-hall, to time his mission by. Owlman always made sure that business could be conducted according to schedule, so that if it was departed from it would be a conscious decision, and not the careless creep of accidental waste.

There were few worse things than error.

The ocean spoke, and the stars were silent, and he understood neither.

-

The prince of Atlantis was leaping lightly up onto the dock when they drew alongside it, casting the reins that bound his dolphin mounts aside into the cold March water. He had no need to hitch them in place; they would come when he called.

Careless, artless display of power. All the more effective for its lack of calculation.

"Orin," Owlman inclined his head minutely as he stepped across from vessel to pier. Talon knelt at his heel, lashing the boat in place against the dock—unliving things could not be counted upon to remain obediently where they were left, if something wished to carry them away, nor to come back when called upon, and the ocean did not bow to the Owl-king's will.

"Owl," the prince replied, return nod almost lost in the way he swept his pale hair back, scattering salt droplets against the rising moon, glittering even brighter than the golden scales of his armor. "Lovely night."

"Mm." Disinterested agreement. Claws loose. No offense taken. The embossed patterns of his armor caught the moon in them far more subtly, a spider's web over polished night. "Shall we go up?"

"You take the open sky too much for granted, my good bird," smiled His Highness, voice light as sun on water. "But surely. I sent my squire ahead to ensure the provisions would be suitable, today."

No staff was kept on the secret island, for security reasons, and thus catering was limited. The speedster Dash had been in charge of the food at the previous meeting a month ago, and his contribution had been dozens of cheeseburgers in paper sacks, whose scent had made Talon's idiot mouth water, even though last time he'd eaten anything of the kind (spoils from a target’s home) it had sat in his stomach like stone, until he lost it into a gutter.

Superwoman had been entirely amused by the cheeseburgers, and Ultraman had only gotten annoyed once he saw that Owlman was, and realized his own standards should be higher. Atom, who was the most recent addition to the cohort, had seemed indifferent, as much as the mood of a man six inches high could be read from any distance.

But Hydrolord had almost walked out in offense. Surface dweller food, he said, was suspicious to begin with, fast food was beneath his royal dignity, and cattle were disgusting.

The fact that he'd known what it was at a glance had not gone unnoticed, even by Talon. His Highness went ashore incognito; this was known. Whether he'd eaten Burger King before or only seen it, or watched the advertisements, had mattered less however than the general calumny cast by all upon Dash's entirely unconcerned head. It had been hypnotic, that unconcern. The fragile mortal man with nothing but speed to protect him, surrounded by the most dangerous people on Earth, so sure he could not be touched that a mocking smile played at the corner of his mouth even as Ultraman fumed and Owlman's lip curled in disgust; as Hydrolord made the sea crash against the rocks outside as though it would swallow the fortress whole.

Dash was terribly powerful or very foolish, and either way he was brave.

Perhaps he had given the offense purposely, to show how little he cared for his colleagues’ anger, or perhaps he hadn’t cared enough to concern himself with what they might want. He had simply sat back in his chair at the high council table and eaten cheeseburgers almost too quickly to see the motion of hand to mouth, and yet with no great hurry, and smiled, and let the empty paper wrappers pile up at his elbow.

The meeting had ended early and with everyone but Dash in ill temper, even Superwoman, who’d gotten fed up by then with Atlantean and Kryptonian sulking.

If the Dash had been waging some kind of war that day, Talon thought he might have won.

But this was a new night, and the ocean prince seemed in good spirits as he led the way up the winding gravel path, toward the stone turrets of the refurbished old fort. Pirate-hunters had sailed from this island, once. Never pirates.

The Superwoman intercepted them all in the entry annex. “Orin! Owlman! Just barely on time!” She was wearing a cape today, a great billow of cloth-of-gold that trailed behind her like smoke as she swept forward across black tile, but still fell heavy about her whenever it hung still.

“Diana,” the prince greeted the princess, all careful courtesy. His armor glimmered a slightly paler shade than her mantle. “A fair moon for you?”

“Lovely. I fought some sort of prehistoric flightless dragon in a magical cavern. It was delicious. Have you bested that Kraken yet?”

“It’s learning to fear me.”

She leaned in and patted his cheek, a condescension he accepted with a tight-lipped smile. “Well done,” she said.

“Thank you.” His bow was stiff. “Excuse me.” Prince Orin stalked off toward where his squire was carefully adjusting the placement of silver domes over platters on the long sideboard, his good mood dispelled.

Silver corroded rapidly in seawater. Those domes were not an Atlantean affectation. Talon had seen something similar in Owlman’s home. Wondered if asking about them would be a believable opening to conversation.

“Oh, and you brought your cupbearer again, I see!” Superwoman exclaimed to the King of Owls, the full weight of her attention falling onto Talon, and immediately claiming the whole of his focus. (Not quite the whole; some was still reserved for his king.) “I like this one,” she announced, tapping a thumb against the bronze armor plating along her upper arm with a noise like rain on tin roofing, mouth curling up. “He doesn’t flinch.”

Flinch? Well. No. It wasn't that she wasn't terrifying, of course. Talon simply had very little energy to waste on feelings like fear. He'd been trained better than that.

"Your Highness," he murmured, ducking his head. A hand came down upon it. Not quite as large as Owlman’s, and bare.

"Hm," she hummed. "Courteous little creature you've trained, Bruce. Your way is so dismally slow, though." Long fingers that could crunch bone like dry leaves toyed with his hair.

Owlman's hand clamped down on Talon's shoulder. "But effective."

"I think you'll find my methods are entirely efficacious, thank you." The sharp note in her voice promised pain, but the hand that slipped from his hair, curled down his face and under his chin was merely firm.

Talon's breath threatened to stutter in his chest. He was supposed to defer to her. He was not supposed to allow liberties. How to resolve these dictates. Was this a test.

If Owlman objected to having his right hand pawed at, he would say something. The hand on his shoulder had tightened, but not in threat. Not as a message. There would be claws in that. Talon submitted to the touch.

The Superwoman's skin against his face seemed to burn. As though with perpetual fever. They said she had been created in divine fire. Talon knew his own body temperature was low. A side effect of the electrum in his bones.

Owlman touched him barehanded, sometimes. That was never so hot as this.

She tilted his head up with a firm pressure, and he stared vacantly into her forehead.

"Why the mask?" she murmured.

"That intangible mystique." The Owlman's voice was heavy with impatient sarcasm. "Diana, if you're finished inspecting my possessions..."

Superwoman swiped the pad of her thumb over Talon's lips. The pressure struck like a bolt of lightning, raced up and down his spine, wrenched at his gut and left his whole skin tingling, chilled. He didn't quite manage to suppress all reaction; his master certainly felt the twitch through the hand still clasped tight around his shoulder. It tightened.

"Chapped," she observed. "You should look into an oil or wax for that, boy."

"Diana." Exasperation. There were very few beings in the world Owlman would bother to show exasperation without menace, but the Superwoman was beyond his power to control, or to readily annihilate. He seemed almost a man, with her. Merely mortal.

The Owl would not let the Superwoman take Talon. He would not. It was too great a loss of face. The practical inconvenience of losing him could be weathered, if necessary, but politically—

"Oh, very well." The Superwoman took her hand away. Talon had never been so grateful to belong to Owlman. "Do drop fifty cents on a tube of chapstick for the boy, though; it can't be efficient for his lips to be constantly splitting, no matter how fast they heal, and it's poor aesthetics."

"Thank you," Owlman said, withering. "For your input."

"Always happy to help, Bruce." She winked at Talon. "See you around, pretty boy."

“Isn’t he too young for you?” the Owl grumbled, falling into step with Superwoman and leaving Talon where he stood, the turn of his head and slope of his shoulder indicating absent dismissal. The edges of their capes brushed together, hard sunlight and soft shadow.

“But showing such potential. You do have nice taste, and they’re so delightfully moldable at that age.”

“Must you always interfere with my things.”

“You’re so generous with them. I only trashed your beach house a little, and I took care of the bodies myself. Anyway, I’ll let you play with my next acquisition if you like.”

“I’m not much for games.”

They were out of earshot, then, and approaching the great oval table that took up one whole end of the hall, raised up on a dais with a single beam of light pouring down onto the center, reflecting from the polished surface enough to light the faces seated around it, though the spotlight did not quite reach them.

Ultraman was already in his chair, its high winged back blazoned with the crest of his house on a gilded field. In the smaller chair facing his, Dash sprawled comfortably back against his sigil of lightning.

As he, Superwoman, and Hydrolord all reached their places, Owlman flicked the particular sign of dismissal that meant commence duties toward Talon. At the table, Atom expanded abruptly into being to fill his seat, and in the shadowed hall beyond, Talon fell away toward the lesser table that lay along the far wall.

Where Garth of Atlantis had, in his master’s absence, been cornered by Donna of Themiscyra.

She loomed over him with only a slight advantage in height, and though she seemed unarmed but for the coiled whip stored on one hip, and was smiling, the threat implied in the way she stood far too close for courtesy was very clear.

Prince Orin’s squire was his master’s opposite: stockily built, and thus solid even for an Atlantean, but only half a head taller than Talon despite being the eldest of the three, with ringlets of dark hair and purple eyes, and in place of the broad smile or frothing rage most common on His Highness of the Seas, Garth’s expression alternated between brusque bare-courtesy and poorly hidden resentment.

He seemed a very poor courtier and was a mess of defensive vulnerabilities, but had clearly been selected for his loyalty over all other concerns.

The Superwoman's right hand, in contrast, was her mirror image—"My sister, Donna," she had said absently the first time she brought the girl with her, and the resemblance was strong; stronger than his had ever been to the Owl, and they’d been mistaken for blood relations more than once, the few times he’d been deployed at his master’s side outside of uniform. And yet there were differences, ones Talon had catalogued at once, and watched still for any change.

Her balance was less perfect, and when she lashed out the loss of control was far less calculated, far likelier to leave her vulnerable. The fire in her stare was different, full of sparks and a snapping pride that spoke to doubts which could undoubtedly be targeted, if it came to a fight. Owlman had estimated her age at fourteen, with the caveat that Amazons did not age at the usual human rate.

Talon had spent three meetings with them already, without having been forced to fight. He was sure it was only a matter of time.

Today seemed likely to be the day, by the set of each of their shoulders. He might welcome it—pain was a small sacrifice for the clean certainty of violence, even against those he must not kill without a clear command. Certainly it would be easier than any other interaction.

But in combat he would have no luck subtly extracting information from their conversation. No good. He had a mission to complete. And Owlman planned to avoid conflict tonight.

“Careful, Amazon,” Garth cautioned, as Talon drew near. “To insult me is to insult my master.”

Superwoman’s protégée flicked the long tail of her hair out dismissively. “And I should be scared of your prince? What power does he have, besides the right to go crying to his mommy?”

“He is knight of the seven seas and the prince of Atlantis, who holds the trident of Neptune.”

“And what is that to the Queen of the Cats? Face it, he’s only here to pretend to be relevant outside his goldfish bowl.”

Garth’s hand strayed toward his waist, though there was no visible weapon there. “You insolent—”

His teeth snapped shut on word and possibly tongue as the heel of Donna Troy’s hand slammed up under his chin.

In the disorientation this created she yanked his gut onto her fist with a handful of curls, then flipped the triple human weight of an Atlantean’s dense muscle and bone casually over her shoulder.

He hit the ground on his face and had only time to break the fall before she was on him again, twisting his arm tight against his spine so that any struggle might tear it from its moorings—an even more serious injury for a boy who swam everywhere than it would be on the surface.

She dragged his head back with a loop of silver whip around his throat.

“Insolent,” she said, her face hanging just above the back of his ear, though she spoke loud and clear enough that Talon had no struggle to hear, “is a word for your inferiors. I am no such thing.

“I am the Lady of Ilium, carrying the legacy of the Titans that stand beyond the world. Troy fell because it trusted too well in the guardianship of Poseidon. Learn from them.

“Because if you continue to cross me I will challenge you to a duel of honor, and throw you down again with my lady and the gods to witness, and shackle your will to mine. And do you think your prince will still value your service, if he can’t trust you not to obey me, instead?”

The squire’s short breath and silence were answer enough, and Donna Troy smirked and let him go, standing up and not offering to help him to his feet. The long half-second it took him to rise spoke volumes to those who knew how to look, and the Amazon flicked the long tail of her hair again in scorn.

She flicked her eyes toward Talon with the gesture, and he realized she was gauging his opinion, his reaction to her violence and her successful threat. She wanted his approval? Or his respect. Or his fear.

He didn't fear her. Genuinely. There was...very little she could do that could threaten him, really. Up at the high table, her mistress was smiling sharkishly at his master, looking for a weakness. She would not find it. She would never find it.

Lady Ilium dismissed the squire of Atlantis and tried her own sharkish smile out on Talon, assured of his attention. He showed his teeth in return. It was not a comforting expression, but he didn't think it would be taken as a threat.

Could she break his will, with her magic? What would that be like?

"Anything to say, Birdie-bye?" she asked him.

Perfect. An opening.

He tilted his head. "Your queens don't know about this meeting, do they?" It was a question for both, if Garth wanted to seize the floor.

"Tch." Donna rolled her eyes and looked away, up at the table where the adults were indulging in intrigue. "Hippolyta will come around." She shot him a look. "Anyway it's not as though your government approves."

Owlman owned the city and state governments. The federal was proving a little more challenging. Talon shrugged one shoulder in carefully calculated indifference. It wasn’t the same thing. “My king,” he said, “is here.”

“And you think being the lord of a made-up Court with no realm of his own is somehow of more account than heir to an empire covering two thirds of the world?” Garth demanded.

Talon regarded him without expression, and the Lady Ilium burst into snorting laughter at the sight, and leaned forward to backhand Talon’s arm—a gesture that seemed almost friendly meant, though he felt blood vessels burst at the impact, and immediately begin to mend. “You’re chatty today, aren’t you shorty? Don’t worry about Diana, she knows what’s up. Her mom’s old-fashioned, we just have to work around her for now.

"Lots of Amazons want in on the outside world, letting you men control it just because it would be a huge chore to change things is such a drag.”

She wrapped an arm around Garth’s neck, too quick for him to evade, but rather than choking or cracking his spine she just dragged him sideways, until his head was conveniently positioned to violently tousle his curls. “And don’t worry about Atlantis, gillsy. We’re not gonna mess with your soggy system, that’s what allies is all about. You’re getting us onside, Atalanta’s gonna owe you.”

Donna Troy, Talon decided, was not originally from Themiscyra. Valuable intelligence, if he could support it with evidence. As a first step he would have to find a way to get her to touch him again, and confirm the impression of a hand far too cool to be a thing like her sister-mistress, of earth and holy fire.

[laquilasse]

FJSISNJFKS I saw the ask u got about the Bruce/Loki art before I saw your post and I thought it meant Bruce Wayne and Loki and I was like!!!?? NoW tHIs iS a CrOssOvER 😂😂 and it took me reading the dialogue bubbles and the captions like 3x to understand it was BB Bruce 🙈🙈 also “less lethal perhaps” had me Cracking Up Too Loud omgoooooodh

tbh I could have fun shipping Loki with almost anyone, so I’d just have to worry about what @jerseydevious would think of me 

[camsthisky]

I donated under Sheillagh O :) I'm such a sucker for deaging, can u do a deaged Damian (like back to being like a couple months old), only B, Dick, and Alfred are in the manor with him, and it's such a bittersweet few days. And Dick and Bruce have this quiet moment when Dami is asleep or something where they're both feeling Dad Emotions(TM) about not being able to raise him (or something similar, like just those bittersweet Angst Feels about baby Dami from his basically two dads) :)

sorry it’s taking me so long to get through these but thank you so much for donating!

cerusee’s gofundme page - please donate if you’re able to

There’s a quiet in the manor that has Bruce unsettled.

It used to be if the manor was quiet, things were—maybe not right, but it definitely meant he was awake and alive. The only sounds to be heard was Alfred moving through the rooms one by one, cleaning and cooking and looking after Bruce’s well-being, even when Bruce didn’t appreciate it.

That all changed in the days after Dick arrived at the manor. The once quiet walls resounded with sound, and the manor has been full of a strange liveliness ever since that eight year old boy flipped in Bruce’s life and Bruce’s home.

And as the years went by, the quiet became strange. More children wiggled their way into Bruce’s heart, and he’d found himself with more kids and less quiet than he knew how to deal with. The longer the halls were silent, the more it meant something was wrong.

When Bruce silently enters the living room, Dick’s asleep on the couch, head tilted back and soft snores crackling in the back of his throat, brought on by exhaustion. Bruce wants to tuck him in, but the bundle in Dick’s arms stops him.

The other kids are all gone. Jason and Steph and Babs dispersed somewhere throughout the city, doing their own things. Tim is with his team. Cass is back in Hong Kong. Duke is visiting some friends. Alfred is out getting more supplies.

And Damian.

Damian is wrapped up in blankets, held in Dick’s arms, twelve years younger than he’d been two days ago.

Bruce has no new leads on how to bring Damian back to his original age, and they’ve found they can do nothing but wait until Zatanna is able to stop by and help them figure out the situation. Unfortunately, neither Dick nor Bruce are equipped to deal with a baby that’s not even a year old.

But neither are willing to give up on Damian. They’re trying their best.

Dick stirs slightly when Bruce drapes a blanket over his lap and pulls sleeping baby out of Dick’s arms.

“Wha’s?” Dick mumbles, blearily blinking up at Bruce. He tenses suddenly, but then his eyes travel from Bruce’s face to the baby in Bruce’s arms, and he deflates, his eyes fluttering shut again. “Oh. ‘S just you.”

“When’s the last time you slept.”

“Dunno.”

“Go sleep in a proper bed,” Bruce tells him quietly. “I can handle him for a few hours.”

Dick groans quietly. “He’s just gonna scream again.”

Dick’s probably right. Despite his age, Damian has kicked up a fuss every time Dick’s been out of his sight for more than a few minutes. It’s given both of them headaches, but Dick’s been stubbornly pushing through his exhaustion to make sure that Damian doesn’t scream himself hoarse.

“Bed, Dick,” Bruce says again. “I’ll go with you, but you need to sleep.”

Dick hums. “Sounds nice.”

“I can’t carry both of you.”

“Liar,” Dick huffs, smile playing at his lips as he cracks an eye open. “You totally could. I know for a fact that you carried both Tim, Cass, and Jason in that family game-a-thon that you organized.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, you organized that.”

“You have no proof.”

“I’m getting tired of repeating myself.”

“And I’m getting tired of your face.” Dick pauses, his eyebrows creasing and his eyes fully opening. “I sound like Jason.”

“Dick.”

Dick stretches and pushes himself to his feet, only stumbling once on the way up the stairs and into Bruce’s bedroom. They settle on the bed—Dick under the covers, curled up with his head pressing against the outside of Bruce’s thigh like he’s ten years old again.

Bruce is careful not to jostle the delicate cargo in his arms. He doesn’t want to deal with the consequences of accidentally waking Damian up. And he doesn’t want Dick to deal with the consequences. They’ll both end up staying awake another couple hours, and Dick doesn’t look like he can afford that right now.

“I miss him,” Dick says into the dim light of the room. “’S too quiet around here.”

Bruce grunts.

Dick snorts. “Eloquent.”

“I was agreeing.”

“Really? Couldn’t tell. It sounded too much like your stop-annoying me-Dick grunt.”

Bruce doesn’t sigh, but it’s a close thing. All he feels is fond, though, so he prods, “You miss him?”

Dick makes a noise of agreement. “Damian is a pain in my ass but I’d rather he be a thirteen year old pain in my ass.”

Bruce stares down at Damian. “He’s cute when he’s asleep.”

“He’s not when he’s awake.”

“Hrn.”

“I guess one or thirteen, he never really changes, though. Still got a set of lungs on him.”

“Did you get peas thrown at you again?”

Dick sighs forlornly. “I thought I could get him to eat it this time.”

“Dick,” Bruce says, and this time the fondness comes through in his voice, “Damian won’t do anything he doesn’t want to do, regardless of how old he is. He’s still Damian.”

“And that’s why we love him,” Dick breathes out. “But I miss having the chance to spend time with the kid where we can just sit in each other’s spaces and be. Or patrolling together. Sometimes I like to sit and read in his room while he draws, and it’s nice way to relax.”

Bruce is quiet a moment before he voices what’s been on his mind the last day and a half.

“And if he’s stuck like this?”

Dick snorts. “What else? We raise him, and he’ll still be Damian, and maybe he’ll remember what we’ve been through, but I’m still going to miss that thirteen year old brat that drives me crazy.”

Bruce stares at his sons. One in his twenties and the other just a tiny baby, and he wonders how he’d gotten so lucky to have the two of them. To have Cass and Tim and Jason and Duke, too. And Stephanie and Babs and Alfred. He wonders what he did right.

And then his eyes drift to Dick’s peaceful, sleeping expression, and his heart clenches, because back then, all those years ago, he’d seen a boy who’d been just like him, and he’d made a choice, and it must have been the right one.

And of course, he’d jump at the chance to have been able to raise Damian from birth, but Dick’s right. With Damian as he is now, there’s nothing in his head of what they’ve been through together in the past, and he does miss that thirteen year old grumpy child that is so much like him, and yet has the potential to be so much better with Dick prodding him along in the right direction.

“We’ll get you back,” Bruce whispers to the baby, so small in his large arms. “And if we don’t, you’re still part of our family, Damian.”

[spiderwing]

☕️ mini m&ms are better than regular

 I have never eaten m&m’s so I’ll take your word for it

send me a ☕️ and an opinion (popular or unpopular) and i’ll say whether i agree or disagree

[tiarasnteakettles]

Can u please post a link to ur shop that u mentioned in ur last post?

http://tiarasnteakettles.storenvy.com/ :) 

[offbrandginger]

A mood board for Andreil + outfits for the winter exy banquets?

here you go!

[medievalthymes]

🌈🌹🌺are my fave emojis I can't decide

city: rome | new york | montreal | cairo  

season: summer morning | warm spring day | crisp autumn nights | winters dusk

fashion designer: Elie Saab | Zuhair Murad | Alexander McQueen | Paolo Sebastian

flower: lilac | red rose | hydrangea | water lily

Genre: Southern Gothic | Romance | Fantasy | Sci-fi

Music Artist: lena del rey | ed sheeran | the black keys | lia ices

Compliment: your posts are all really cute and funny! and omg if that’s you and your cat in your icon that is adorable 💖

Am I following? not yet | f+ | forever and always 💕

want one?

[thecorvidrotation]

I present to you my art for the @ravencyclebigbang – a playlist! 🎶

I teamed up with @blueseyforthesoul to make a playlist to go with their fic "We seek someone to sew sutures in the places where we're torn," a bluesey soulmates AU where Gansey and Blue meet because she’s the bassist in his friends’ punk band. This playlist was a journey – I pulled the initial songs together way back in March, and I ended up romping through a range of artists/genres to find what I wanted – but the result is a queer, punk, folk-leaning soundtrack that weaves between band vibes, friendship shenanigans, and bluesey feelings. I hope you enjoy it!

Thank you to kirani and @sheillagh-tries-life for being awesome to work with, and to the mods for putting the big bang together! I had a lot of fun. :D

Listen on: Spotify • YouTube

(i’ll add a version on my 8tracks as well when they sort out the licensing issues.)

tracklist, notes, and warnings below:

I wanna be the one you love

Raise the Youth – The Orphans

The Tide – RVIVR

Lord, Beer Me Strength – ONSIND

Calling Old Friends – Defiance, Ohio (this is the song that inspired the fic title btw!)

Lookin’ for a Love – AJJ

Ten Things – Paul Baribeau

308 – Signals Midwest

True Trans Soul Rebel – Against Me!

My Heart Aches for You – Pansy Division

The One You Love – Porch Cat (title track! on Spotify but not YT, click the link to listen on Bandcamp)

They / Them / Theirs – Worriers

Rotten Apple – Screaming Females

Test on My Patience – Dead Sara

Vampires Are Poseurs – Pat The Bunny

Party Queen – RVIVR

Big Feelings – Worriers

We Never Tell – Garbage

Your Heart Is a Muscle the Size of Your Fist – Ramshackle Glory*

Everyone’s A Little Bit Weird – Great Cynics

The Sound – RVIVR

It’s Love – The Softies

Heavy Cross – Gossip

Garden – Meet Me @ The Altar

Jenny – The Mountain Goats

You Are Loved – Defiance, Ohio

*Warning for reference to a friend’s suicide in the final verse (song overall is about relying on community in difficult times instead of struggling alone)

Let me know if I missed any warnings. Happy listening! c:

[blueseyforthesoul]

We seek someone to sew sutures in the places where we're torn

Gansey isn't the half of his soulmate pair with a name, and Blue hasn't said anything so he doesn't think she has his name either. That doesn't mean he doesn't have a huge crush on the cute bassist of his roommate's band. Shenanigans ensue.

Words: 10.6k

Rated: Teen

Chapter: 7/7

Tags: Punk Band AU, No Supernatural AU, Soulmate AU, Trans Gansey, Nonbinary Noah, Friends to Lovers, Self-Esteem Issues, Crushes

This was written for the @ravencyclebigbang and my artist was the amazing @thecorvidrotation who created a kickass playlist to go along with the fic! You can find that here.

And of course one hundred thank yous to both my artist and to my beta @sheillagh-tries-life who helped me sort out some crucial plot points that just weren't flowing.

read it on ao3!

[wille-zarr]

Get to Know Me

Tagged by the amazing @angelwars11​ :)

Get to know me

Rules: Tag nine people you’d like to get to know better.

Top 3 ships: Errrrrrmm hehehehe.... most of my favorite ships are clones/my OCs soooooo

😬

Last song: “Camouflage” by Selena Gomez

Last movie: Youtube is like 99% of my daily diet. I can’t remember the last movie I watched. Maybe Jane Austen’s Persuasion? Or Independence Day.

Currently reading: So. Many. Clone. Wars. Fanfictions. Mostly clone fanfictions. Yall it’s a problem.

What food am I craving right now: RAISING CANES OR WHATABURGER. ANYTHING HORRIBLE FOR ME.

Tagging: 

@sana-katarn​

@sheillagh-tries-life​

@shells210​

@arda-ancalima​

@ssojibae​

@fancycheesebread​

@every-flavored-bean​

@spockulative​

@sluttysuperheroes​

@sirianddeanseethestars​

[fictionfandnb]

I was tagged by @checkeredwithflame to post 9 pictures from my phone that represent me. Legos, my hysterical fear of the dentist, the car I was named after, and the one food (creme brulee) that I know how to cook!

IDK how this works or how many I'm supposed to tag. So I tag @sssssssim @the-weaver-of-worlds @onemuseleft @sheillagh-tries-life @praisethedarkness @freshwoods

[laquilasse]

donation prompt for @sheillagh-tries-life who requested Dick and Damian post-nightmare. thank you for donating!

Cerusee’s GoFundMe

[camsthisky]

For @sheillagh-tries-life. Thank you so much for donating! Enjoy!

Also, thanks to @preciousthingsareprecious and @timdrakeothy for looking this over! You guys are awesome :)

Could you do a YJ verse (like during S1/early time skip ish) Dick being a lil ridiculous/v dramatic with Bruce in front of the team?

“I’m bored,” Wally says to the static on the TV more than the other occupants of the room, and he exhales loudly as he flops back onto the couch so that everyone knows how completely and utterly serious he’s being.

Dick snorts and leans forward in his seat. And Wally’s says Dick’s the dramatic one. Which—well. He’s not wrong. Dick grew up a performer. Drama is what he does. But that doesn’t mean that Wally isn’t a drama queen, either. Maybe Dick’s rubbing off on him.

“Hi bored,” Artemis says, eyes trained on the textbook in front of her. “I don’t give a shit.”

Dick chokes, and so does Wally, except Dick is managing to let out somewhat strangled laughter while Wally is just straight up spluttering, looking almost affronted by the fact that Artemis had just done that. Kaldur sighs exasperatedly, and Conner and M’gann both share confused looks.

“What the hell,” Wally hisses when he manages to regain some of his composure. “What the hell.”

Dick’s grin is big and teasing. “You totally set yourself up for that.”

“I’m actually surprised you didn’t see it coming,” Artemis says, flipping a page of her book before scribbling something down in a notebook next to it. She doesn’t even crack a smile, and she sounds completely unbothered, so much so that it sends Wally into speechlessness again, and Dick starts cracking up all over again.

He hears M’gann whisper to Kaldur, “I don’t think I understand,” and Conner say, “I don’t think I even want to,” but before Dick can properly help Kaldur explain it, Wally finds his voice.

“I hate all of you,” he grumbles, sinking back into the couch. He turns his gaze to Artemis, who still isn’t even sparing him a glance. “Especially you.”

“Find someone who cares,” Artemis tells him.

Wally’s eyes find Dick’s, accusing, as if to say, this is all your fault, and Dick snorts again. “She verbally kicked your butt fair and square, KF.”

“I’ll kick your butt fair and square,” Wally mutters. He doesn’t sound like he means it, but Dick brightens, a smirk stretching across his face.

“Challenge accepted,” he says, and the room freezes. Even Artemis looks up from her homework. Wally’s gone pale, Kaldur still looks exasperated, and M’gann and Conner both look interested. Dick makes sure to keep his gaze on Wally. “What? You backing out? I’ll even fight without my belt. Just plain old sparring. You and me.”

“No,” Wally says.”

“You said you were bored.”

“No,” Wally tells him, the word repeated more forcefully this time. “No way in hell. The last time I fought you, I landed flat on my ass.”

“Language,” a voice says, and Dick turns to see Superman stride into the room, Batman and Black Canary just a step behind him. They look—if Dick had to pick a word—amused. Despite his reprimand, Clark’s got a smile on his face, one reflected by Black Canary. Batman’s not smiling, but he doesn’t have his angry face on, so Dick thinks that’s as happy as he can probably get with the cowl covering his face.

Wally’s up and sprinting towards their mentors before Dick can even blink, talking a mile a minute. “What’re you guys doing here? Do we have a mission? Training? I thought that it was Batman who gave out missions, not Superman, so why’s he here? Not that we don’t want you here, Superman, but it’s just a surprise to see you—”

Dick hops out of his seat to elbow Wally, effectively cutting him off. Wally sends him a short glare, but Dick tilts his head towards the superheroes in front of them.

Superman’s outright grinning now, and Black Canary’s biting her lip to stop herself from smiling, and—dare he say it—that almost looks like a smile on Batman’s face.

“We heard what you said,” Black Canary says, eyes alight with amusement as she glances between Dick and Wally. “About sparring.”

Wally groans, and Dick grins, hopping on his toes. “Does that mean what I think it means?” he asks.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Batman says, voice gruff but not unkind.

“What’s not a bad idea?” Artemis says, sounding wary as she, too, stands up.

“Sparring with Robin,” Batman clarifies, this time just slightly more annoyed. He pauses a moment, looking over all of them before he continues, “Robin has the potential means to take down each member of the League down, provided that he took them on separately. Do any of you?”

Wally grimaces. “Every time I spar with him, I end up on my butt. Every. Time.”

“That’s when you figure out a way to take him down,” Black Canary reminds Wally. “That’s the point of training, isn’t it?”

“To get our asses kicked?” Artemis snorts.

“To better your chances against your opponent,” Superman corrected. “And eventually learn how to beat them.”

“He trains with you,” Conner says, and Dick whirls around to look at him, but his eyes are trained on Batman. There’s this intensity that Dick isn’t sure he understands. “Can he beat you?”

There’s silence, and even Dick’s frozen where he’s stood, mouth opening and closing as he looks between Conner and Batman. The rest of the team, too, has all but stopped, eyes on Batman as they wait for his answer. And some of them are even looking at Dick.

Batman doesn’t say anything for a long while, but when he does, it’s to Dick. “Can you?” he asks, and Dick’s face splits into another grin, because that’s—Bruce is challenging him. No one other than Dick can hear it—well, maybe Clark since they’re best friends, or whatever Bruce likes to call it—but it’s definitely there.

And Dick? He snatches up the challenge immediately. “Heck yes! Prepare to get your ass kicked!”

Dick is going to lose. Horribly. And he knows it. Doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try his best.

Clark looks exasperated. “Seriously, Robin? Language.”

Dick sticks his tongue out and cackles.

Superman throws his hands up in the air and turns to Bruce. “Language?”

“He’s fourteen,” is Batman’s reply.

“I could tell A—”

“No!” both Dick and Batman say at the same time. Dick practically yells it, but Bruce is that carefully controlled growl of his. Clark just raises an eyebrow, but Dick just moves on. Better that way.

He turns to Bruce, bouncing on his heels. “The sparring ring?”

Batman grunts, and then he’s sweeping out of the common area, everyone’s eyes trailing after him.

Dick turns to Wally and says, face carefully neutral. “I just want you to know, if I don’t make it out of this alive, you’re not allowed to touch my comic books. Or my video games. Or anything else of mine.”

Wally blows out a big breath, eyes wide. “Dude!”

Dick cackles and then he’s making his way towards the sparring ring, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, slow pokes!”

At first, Dick doesn’t move. He stays where he is, crouched on the very edge of the ring, opposite of Batman. Batman’s still, too, and neither of them pay much attention to the eyes on them on the outside of the ring. They’re too busy looking over each other, sizing the other up before they attack.

Despite this being far from the first time Dick’s ever faced Bruce, a trill of excitement travels down his spine. He thinks that this might be the first time that Robin has ever sparred with Batman (the thing in the Watchtower doesn’t count. Bruce hadn’t been in control of himself, and in the end, he’d needed Conner’s help).

All too suddenly, Batman relaxes, and then he’s leaping forwards, reaching for his belt underneath the cape. Dick knows what’s coming, but he narrows his eyes just in case something unexpected happens— like that. He cartwheels out of the way as Bruce feints with a thrown batarang and sweeps a leg out to take out Dick’s legs. Dick cartwheels a few more times before he ducks and rolls forward, springing forward to grab Bruce’s hand and maybe pull off that new move he’s been working on, but Bruce doesn’t give him a chance. Bruce grabs the arm and twists—but Dick’s already breaking the hold.

They go on like that, Dick more on the defensive than the offensive because of the way he’d been trained. He brings out every bit of acrobatic skill he has and then some, but Bruce always seems to be one step ahead of him. Finally, after about another ten or fifteen minutes, until Bruce finally pins Dick to the ground, holding Dick’s arms behind his back in a way that prevents Dick from slipping his grip.

Neither of them are heaving for breath, but the fight had still been somewhat of a workout. It’d been hard to think more than two or three moves ahead while physically fighting, but Dick had done it up until now. And it had left a thin sheen of sweat on his skin.

“Good,” Bruce says in a rare show of compliment, and then he goes and ruins it with, “but not good enough.”

“Just you wait,” Dick huffs. “Give me, like, a year, and I’ll be kicking your ass all the way to the Watchtower.”

“Hnn.”

Dick rolls his eyes as Bruce lets him up. Expressive as that was, Dick thinks that maybe Bruce should consider not talking in Bat-speak when he’s around anybody other than Dick and Clark, so that they can understand him.

Dick dusts himself off as he stands up, and turns to face his teammates. Wally still looks pale, Artemis has her mouth hanging open, and Conner and M’gann are both openly staring. It’s only Kaldur that’s regarding him weirdly. He looks like Alfred does sometimes when Bruce and Dick spar at home—some weird mixture of pride and sadness.

Dinah’s smiling, though, as is Clark, so Dick grins brightly, ignores his teammates, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and asks, “Well? Who’s next?”