#this has been in my unfinished folder for so long

[many-gay-magpies]

im not really as much into enha anymore, but it felt weird to leave this unfinished (plus i’m almost too happy with the colors i chose to NOT post it). have a niki!

[writing-mlm]

Hiii, can we please have more college!damian x male reader? Like a scenario where damian loves to draw reader but reader doesn't know this? Maybe friends to lovers? Idk your pick. The artist and his muse type of thing. Also, i LIVE for soft damian on this blog ong.

Forever my Muse

Summary: Damian has his finals coming up and he wants you to join-- at least that's his excuse to get you into the art venue. An artist needs their muse and for some reason, most of Damian's drawings include you in, naturally, he could fill museums with drawings of you. Pairing: Damian Wayne x Male reader WC: 5.8k

Dust-covered fingers were always something you had associated with Damian. Graphite, charcoal, pastels— anything he used to draw or even paint would inevitably stain his hands. It wasn’t intentional, and neither were the fingerprints he left on your stuff, or the paint you could never remove from your favorite sweater, but that didn’t stop him from apologizing. From buying you cleaning products and a new sweater; never mind it has never been worn in the year you’ve had it, Damian felt terribly sorry whenever he felt he’d stained something of yours. 

But never sorry enough to show you his drawings. 

You’d ask, you’d beg, but he would never give in. He’d show you when he was done, sure. You’d see the finished still-life drawings of whatever object had been in the line of sight, the paintings he’d done of his pets whenever he missed them, and the random sketches he did to loosen his wrist. But, damn, sometimes you wanted to see an unfinished drawing that wasn’t a warm-up. 

Even now, as the two of you are on the campus bus heading towards the music hall, he’s drawing. Sitting across from you on the bus, Damian easily adjusts himself to the movements of the bus as it jerks to a stop. He’s nice like that, you’ve never caught him off guard, he’s never fallen or stumbled in the time you’ve known him. 

Studying him, you wonder if he’s naturally so agile. You’ve seen him in your dorm's gym, during all-nighters you can sometimes see him running around campus, and once you had caught him doing one of those athletic challenges for some guy's video. He won. Of course. 

The bus comes to a complete stop and you look away, double-checking that it wasn’t your stop. It wasn’t. You knew that. But still. The need to check was far too great and you slipped back into a conversation with Damian. Only this time, you’re looking down at your phone to double-check the event and his eyes switch from staring at his sketch to staring at you. 

His eyes flicker between you and his drawing, erasing and adding lines where needed. He catches your eyes traveling up and he looks back down, working from memory as you start up a new conversation. 

Eventually, the bus reaches your stop and he carefully closes his book; he always worries he’d smudge his art, while he follows you out of the bus. 

It’s the end of the semester, ergo, it’s finals week. And for one of your music finals, everyone was to prepare a song and perform it. Truthfully, Damian doesn’t understand why you’d picked him to accompany you. He knows he’s not the best comfort, his demeanor often being the reason people don’t stick around too long. 

But, you reassured him. Telling him that his presence was more than enough for you. Knowing that he was somewhere in the crowd calms you down more than you ever cared to admit. 

The walk to the music hall isn’t short, but you can see the large building in the distance. The size is daunting on you as you see the crowd forming at the entrance. People aren’t allowed inside yet, but performers and their guests can head inside before anyone else. 

“I’m nervous,” You admit, wiping your hands on your shirt. “What if I fail?” You mutter, your eyes desperately searching to find solace in his green eyes. 

“You’ll do as you’ve always done,” He nods, looking ahead as you approach the building. “Exceptionally.” His sketchbook bumps against your folder of sheet music and you sigh through your nose, trying to calm down. 

“I’m so gonna choke,” Seeing your reflection in the glass, you feel as if you’d forgotten everything you learned. Every lesson, every mistake you fixed and learned from, the late-night practice performances with your friends. The song you’d composed nearly slips from your mind as you see yourself, walking in that suit and tie you’d worn several years ago. All of it left your mind and you felt like a beginner again. What even was a solfège?

“I'm trained in CPR.” He opens the door for you and gently encourages you inside, his fingers grazing your back. “You weren’t nearly as nervous for your accounting finals.” He notes, falling back into step with you. 

That’s another thing. Maybe that’s why you were so stressed. Double majoring was hellish. Twice the finals, quadruple the headaches. 

“Those were tests,” You scowl, showing the security your campus ID. “I’m going to be performing a live concert in front of nearly a thousand people. I cannot fuck this up, Damian. This is going to be posted for everyone to watch, too,” You ramble on. 

“Which you’ve done before, no?” He presses the elevator button and your heart hammers. You swear you’re going to pass out. He notices, of course, he does, and digs in his bag to find the fidget cube he keeps in there. 

“I have— thank you,” Taking the cube, he nods. “It’s just… I don’t know. Tests suck.” Rolling your thumb along the metal ball on one side of the cube, you stare at the numbers as they slowly tick down to the first floor. 

“That’s true,” He steps inside the elevator and you follow suit. “But you’ve made it thus far, you can go further.” He squeezes your shoulder as the doors close. There’s a silence in the elevator as it goes up to the second floor where you see your teacher waiting at the door to the waiting room, talking to a pair of students. 

“I can,” You affirm, dipping your head down as you smile. 

“You will.” 

—

You’re fifth in line to perform, watching a singer, dancer, another other pianist, and an opera singer go on before you go on did absolutely jack shit to help you. As you’re announced, you step onto the stage and try your best not to accept that there were thousands of eyes on you. Instead, you smile and wave as you walk across that large stage. Desperately looking for Damian in the sea of people. 

He’s in the front, right in front of where you could see when you glance up from the piano, you find out as you’re standing next to the piano seat. 

Damian’s eyes don’t leave yours, making eye contact with you as you fiddle with the buttons of your coat. He motions for you to stop and then does a breathe in breathe out motion with the same hand. Nodding, you blink away from him and hold your hands behind your back. Focusing on your breathing, you listen to the teacher as you’re done being introduced. 

The applause settles as you bow in, take a seat, and flip the page where your music sheet is. Slowly, you start. As a general music major, you weren’t restricted to just playing the piano. As emphasized by the microphone taped to your cheek. 

You aren’t the strongest singer by any means, you’re good for singing in the shower or on drives but you doubt you’d actually make a career off of your voice. What you hope will carry you is the piano, as you press each key your eyes flicker to Damian. He’s attentive, a smile on his face as you perform. 

Testing the waters, you glance at the people around him and they seem… pleased. Happy. Moved, even. You grin and return to staring at the sheet music. All of the notes flood back to you as you reach the last bit of the song, your eyes closing as your voice reaches a peak, holding a note. Then it’s just the piano, your voice echoing in everyone’s mind as the notes get slower and slower until you end it. 

Applause fills the hall and you stand up, taking a bow. Standing there, even if only for a moment, you can’t imagine why you’d been so nervous.

Collecting your sheet music, you exit the stage and hand the mic to the stage tech before leaving. 

When you’re nearing the exit, you spot Damian holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“When did you have the time to get these?” You laugh as he hands them to you. His eyes merely twinkle, refusing to give up one of his many secrets. “Thank you, they’re dope.” 

“You did it,” Damian reminds you as the two of you exit the building. 

“I did! Ugh!” Grabbing his shoulder with your free hand, you give him a little shake. “Thank you so much, you’re honestly the best. Was it good?” Falling into step with him, Damian doesn’t bother to fix his shirt. It’s hardly even moved, but you know he was detail-oriented in stuff like that. Hell, he hates it when he messes with his clothes. 

“It was mesmerizing.” He promises. “I do believe the woman behind me was crying.” Grinning, you stand at the bus stop, suddenly buzzing with excitement. Wanting to do it again, you start to imagine creating your own side business. Wedding musician, you can see it now. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” He avoids looking at you as he’s speaking. A rare occurrence on his part. But he does his best to look at you after building the courage. “I have an art showing next week. I understand the notice is short and you’re—“

“Send me the details.” You grin. His shoulders drop and he nods, clearly more relaxed. “I hope the attire is fancy. I got this fancy turtleneck I’ve been wanting to wear and slacks from my high school graduation just waiting to be worn!” 

—

With all of your finals out of the way, you finally had time to start removing the items from your dorm. One by one you removed posters and trinkets scattered across your end of the room. Pack your clothes into boxes, and save for enough outfits to get you through your two weeks left on campus. 

Damian was held up from finishing his art showing, unable to see you in person but he was more than happy with a Facetime call. With both your laptops placed in a space away from disturbing you, the two of you worked on your tasks. 

“I do need to be at the showing two hours early,” He tells you as you’re dragging the anti-suicide chairs to the closet, trying to see the top shelf. “But I’ll have arrangements to bring you to the venue.” 

“And my outfit is okay?” You ask, the chair wobbling as you stand on it. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. But hey, you’re not the one who installed a closet tall enough that only Shaq could see the top. “Because I can always swap out the turtle neck for a green button down— the silk one that Maddison made,” Always gave a fashion designer friend. She had used you as a model for of her projects a couple of months ago and with your measurements being unique to you, let you have it after she’d gotten her grade. 

“The button-down would be better suited,” He nods, leaning close to his painting before adding a tiny stroke. “The turtleneck is a little… on the nose.” Leaning back, he checks his reference picture before frowning. It goes away quickly as he picks up a bit of white and dabs it onto a dry brush. 

“I was afraid it was,” You laugh, grabbing a first aid kit from the shelf. Listening to him lightly brush the paint over the canvas, you toss the kit onto the bed and grab what little items are scattered up there. “Holy shit! Do you remember when that frat dude lost his frat ring?” 

“Unfortunately,” Damian glances at his screen, watching as you haphazardly get down from the chair. Nearly tripping, he wonders how you've made it this far in life without breaking a bone. 

“I think I did take it! Look!” Showing the screen, Damian looks almost impressed as you hold up a fraternity ring. It’s a shiny gold, likely fake but engraved with the initials of the Frat house. The two of you remember the guy had been going around to every single campus building with a missing ring poster. 

“What a thief,” He chides, setting his brush down and taking a physical step back from the painting. Harsh glares scan over brush strokes, ripping apart his painting bit by bit before he nods to himself. His glare morphs into a soft sort of gaze and he signs the back of it. 

“Is that your final painting for the semester?” You ask, the ring forgotten about as it’s tossed in a box of trinkets and you’ve moved on to ordering food. Probably Panda Express. Or maybe Chipotle…. really it’s whatever is closer and cheaper. 

“Hopefully,” He sighs through his nose, his paint box clicking shut. “I’ve been drawing and painting these past couple of days. My canvases take up an entire section of the art studio. I’m sure my professor cannot wait for them to dry and get glossed. Which I should probably start doing.” 

“How does that taste?” Setting your phone down, Damian’s face goes sour as he looks at you. “Personally, I think the gloss would taste tarty.” You add. “Or maybe like the frosting for Toaster Strudel.” Picking your phone back up, you continue your order. 

“Neither is correct.” He blinks. “It’s a toxin and filled with chemicals, it most likely tastes as good as acetone does, Hab—“ He pauses, and you look at him wondering what the issue is. “Habits of tasting chemicals shouldn’t be one you pick up.” He finishes his sentence with a bit of force. 

“I just love chemicals. Violin resin is my favorite.” Making a chomping noise Damian huffs. As you’re finishing up your order, you look at him. He’s halfway across campus and judging by the rack of canvases he wheeled over, he won’t be back until well into the night. Eh, it doesn’t hurt to ask. “I’m ordering some food, do you want something?” 

“No, thank you, though.” He shakes his head. “I have food from the court in case I get hungry.” He quickly adds. Humming, you place the order and scan over your room. The only things that need to get packed are things you’re still using. Now it’s just a matter of organizing the boxes and bins so you can still move around your room. 

“After the glossing, what’re you doing?”

“I have to write short summaries for each painting. No less than one hundred words,” He explains as he’s putting on a pair of latex gloves. 

“So, a breeze?” He laughs and nods. 

“I’m afraid I’ll go over the word limit,” He admits, sparing you a glance as you’re lugging a box to a corner of your room. “My paintings harbor a lot of my emotions and they’re far from short.”

“Real as fuck.”

— 

On the day of his art exhibition, you spend extra time in the bathroom. Making sure your hair is neat, and presentable, fixing your outfit, making sure you don’t stink. Anything and everything you could check over, you did. 

This nervous feeling was different from your pre-show nerves. Especially since you don’t even know why you’re nervous. Probably because you’d never actually gotten to see his paintings, at least the ones he was showing. He’d been ultra allusive about those, citing the exhibition would be the best place to view them. But even he was nervous and that’s a lot considering he’s Damian fucking Wayne. 

He texted you two minutes ago saying that the car was going to arrive within the next ten minutes and you rushed out to the front of the dorms. No need to lock the door behind you, since your roommate was busy sleeping and would stay in there until you came back. Plucking at your shirt, you watch a sleek black car pull up in front of you, and Damian texts you that the car is there. 

The ride is long, far too long for your liking anyway. But considering it’s in the middle of the city, it’s not unwarranted. 

The art… museum? What should you call it? The space where the exhibition was being held was a well-known art gallery— that’s the word! The gallery was well respected, talked about within art circles, and incredibly high-brow. Thank fuck you didn’t go with that turtleneck. 

There’s a woman in front of the gallery, greeting everyone who enters. She sees you and there’s a flash of recognition across her face. 

“It’s great to finally meet Damian’s muse,” She smiles as she shakes your hand. 

“His what?” You ask but Damian pulls you inside. 

“How was the ride?” He asks, his eyes darting between his professor and you. 

“Good but what did she mean?” You ask, looking around to see the other people around. Like your performance, it was open to the public and with Bruce Wayne’s son being in attendance, many people had showed up. Including his family. “Bruce Wayne is here?” Your head whips to Damian as you spot him in the crowd. 

“He is my father…” He trails. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Fuck no!” You gasp. “The knowledge of his wealth is burying me as we speak— but this is about you,” Turning to him, you smile. “Where’s your paintings? Those don’t look like your style,” Eyes flicker across the paintings and you can’t see Damian’s strokes, his colors or his lighting in any of them. A sort of pride swells within him, knowing that you’ve looked— studied his art enough to know that the ones around you weren’t his. 

“It has its own section,” He tells you, guiding you through groups of people and halls. “It’s going to be revealed in around half an hour. My professor insisted,” He stops at a section of the gallery covered by a curtain and two security guards. You never knew it was that serious, but damn. 

“Mr Fancy. Why don’t you catch up with your family? I’ll look around?” In truth, you were going to the nearest bathroom and making sure you didn't look stupid. 

“I’m more than certain they’d be more pleased if you accompanied me.” He shakes his head as you raise your eyebrows. “If that’s something you’d be comfortable with, of course.” 

“Sure,” Once more, he guides you past people until he spots his father and brother talking in a corner. 

“Father, Richard.” He calls as the two of you approach. “This is (Y/n).” Richard’s lips twitch as he fights back a smile, the smile only furthered curbed by his brother's glare. 

“Hello,” Waving at the two men, they reach to shake your hand instead. Bruce has a firm grip, probably tighter than it really needed to be but Richard is more than welcoming. He’s more than excited to meet you, although you can’t imagine why. 

“My other siblings are still in Gotham,” Damian explains, physically taking Dick’s hand from yours with a pointed look. “Although I’m surprised you didn’t bring Cassandra, father.”

“She’s here,” He shakes his head, glancing around for the mop of black hair. “In the bathroom, probably.” 

“Is that her?” You ask, looking at the woman in the corner. She’s standing there, downing a glass of champagne before returning to a conversation with a man. She looks like how Damian had described her, although he downplayed how intimidating she seemed. 

“Oh boy,” Dick huffs. “Let me go help her,” Excusing himself, you’re left with Damian and his father. The two of them talking with their eyes. 

“So, Damian’s told me you’re a double major,” Bruce breaks the silence and their weird eye conversation. He talks about you? Glancing at Damian, he’s making a point to look anywhere but you. That’s sorta cute— totally not in a romantic way, totally. 

“I am,” You nod, wishing a man with drinks would walk past you. “Accounting and a performing arts major.” He hums and there’s another beat of awkward silence. 

“From what he tells me, you’re excelling at both. That’s incredibly hard. Do you have any job prospects lined up for when you graduate?” He asks and you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” You admit, picking at your hands. “Since I'm not sure where I’d like to settle after I graduate it’s difficult finding places.” Bruce nods, quickly making sure Dick and Cassandra are okay. 

“Well, if your grades continue to stay or improve, Wayne Enterprises is always looking for accountants, especially one so esteemed.” He smiles at you, that sort of small smile that makes you feel more relaxed in his presence. A fatherly smile. 

“Yeah, praise from Damian is a lot.” Dick grins, leaning his weight on his younger brother. Cassandra agrees, leaning against the wall Bruce was standing in front of. “And he talks about you a ton!” 

“That’s enough.” Damian huffs, pushing himself away from Dick who frowns. “Let’s look at some of the artwork,” 

“You talk to your family about me?” You grin as he’s hauling you away from his family. He looks at you, clearly licking the inside of his mouth before he blinks and gives one strong nod. 

“Of course I do, it would be a shame to hide someone so talented.” He explains and then looks forward, his eyes swimming across the faces around him. “I do believe in your talents and my father is someone who can help them flourish; it would seem awfully cruel if I didn’t at least try.” You go to speak; to thank him but his attention is pulled away by the director of the show. 

“It’s time!” She gleams, ushering the two of you after her. 

There are already people gathered in front of his top secret exhibit, cameras and people wearing PRESS lanyards like the front and sides. Much like a moth drawn to a flame, they find Damian walking and try to hound him, only to be stopped by his family. They’re far more intimidating now but Damian pulls your attention from them and towards him. 

The two of you are in front of the whole crowd, the two guards holding one piece of the curtain and waiting for a cue to open them. 

“We welcome everyone to Damian Wayne’s very first art show,” The director says, her hand ghosting over his shoulder. He takes that as a sign to step forward, barely leaving your side as he explains his art. 

“Through My Eyes is a collection of various pieces I’ve created over the course of two years,” He explains. “The music that accompanies the art are pieces composed by my muse.” His eyes find yours as the curtains are pulled aside and for the first time, you notice the way he looks at you. The way his eyes never seem to want to leave yours, how he takes you in the same way he takes in the art around him. 

Then you hear it. More specifically you hear yourself. 

You hear the piece you’d played during your final, hearing your voice fill the spaces where people aren’t talking. Each key, and each note floods your ears as you turn to see his art. 

It’s you.

All of it. Each painting, each frame has something of you in it. 

“Holy shit.” You breathe, moving to the closest one. It’s a painting of you, wearing clothes you’d only seen in shows like Merlin, holding onto a statue of an angel. It’s almost impossible to not know where the inspiration had come from. After convincing Damian to go exploring with you and some friends, you’d come across a newly abandoned church with a large angel statue. On a dare, you pretended to dance with it. 

Sure, you’d seen the picture before but it was nothing compared to the painting. It looked amazing, you had never looked better. Your features were captured in the best way possible, you’d been posed in a way that made it seem as if you were guiding the angel in a dance. 

The description catches your eye next. 

One Last Dance wasn’t the first drawing of Muse, but it was the first drawing of him that I truly loved. He’d resparked a passion for painting for me. The painting had been on my mind for two weeks before I finally started to work on it, having it become my only focus for the two days that I worked on it became the norm for the next two years of my life. 

Muse doesn’t personally care for the Renaissance era, but it seemed fitting for such a painting. The feeling of dressing Muse in modern clothes didn’t ruin the drawing but it didn’t make sense, in my head their dance is accompanied by the sounds of the wings and their feet gliding across the floor. Just outside is probably a mob, unbelievable of a true angel. Muse would probably say that he was dancing to the sounds of Sleep Token and outside was a bunch of ‘angel fuckers’, but who knows. 

D.W

The next painting was smaller than the first, but it’s a close-up of your face. Your eyes are wide and you’re desperately pulling at your eyelids as a light twinkles inside of it. 

Blinding Gaze came about when Muse had gone to the eye doctor, fearing he was going blind. Turns out he was just extremely stressed to the point of temporary blindness. When we spoke about it, he joked that he was developing powers from that time he drank a sports drink mixed with a crushed-up Tylenol and he could shoot lasers from his eyes. While Blinding Gaze doesn’t follow his original plan of lasers, I imagine developing eye lights could be frightening. 

Blinding Gaze isn’t body horror, although I had intended it to be but I couldn’t bring myself to put Muse into that position. Even if it was completely fake. I did eventually remake the painting how I truly envisioned it, but I still prefer my Muse to the remake. 

Drifting to the next painting, you see yourself, dressed in your favorite smudged hoodie, dancing amongst the crowd. The people are drowned out in the colors of the background, nearly blending in meanwhile you’re ever so present. The light shone down on you in a way that made you seem like the main character in some movie, all eyes meant to be on you. 

A Night To Remember was undoubtedly one of the best moments of college thus far. Muse had been invited to a friend's party and insisted I come instead of remaining in the art room, drowning myself in oils and pastels. Although I’ve put his words in a more friendly manner. I hadn’t wanted to go, the noises and being pressed against unfamiliar faces was hardly something I ever enjoyed. But for Muse, I’d do anything he’d asked of me. 

Glued to him for the night, I found myself unreasonably drawn to him. I do not remember the song, in truth, I don’t remember much from that night aside from him. The way he danced, how he looked at me. How he looked in the room. I resented not bringing my sketchbook, but I would’ve been more out of place than I originally had been. 

Smoothening your shirt, you take a nervous glance around you. You’re unsure about how you feel, it’s a lot. You’ve never truly thought about Damian in such a light before, at least not to your knowledge. Sure, you’ve written compositions about him and sure, if you read between the lines in some songs they’re definitely about him. You and Him. 

Perhaps, without realizing it, you had made him your muse just as he had made you his. 

“I want you to see this one,” Damian says as he walks up behind you, finally free of people asking him questions. The music loops as he does and you count that there’s five songs on the set playlist. Each and every song was one you had created. Your song from the previous week plays again as you stare at him, smiling. 

“I’m your muse?” You softly ask, unable to remove yourself from the spot until you have gotten your words out. Damian dips his head down for a moment and wipes his nose. “You’re nervous,” The small tease makes his eyes roll and he clears his throat, the red settling from his tanned ears. 

“I want you to see this one,” He repeats and grabs your hand, gently guiding you past the people surrounding the room. They look at the two of you, watching as you walk up to a large painting in the center of the room. Clearly a last-minute addition but it seemed to be the focus. 

“Woah,” Is all you can say when you see the painting of you during your final. It’s painted in the same style as your favorite art era. The romantic era where colors were soft, even if they were dark. The painting itself had you in the center, a sea of people at the bottom and there are several ghostly figures of yourself, dancing across the stage leaving streaks of yourself at the top. The floor of the stage was covered in candles. 

“How long did this take you?” You ask, eyes darting between details and finding new ones each time you look. 

“Two days,” He shrugs. Slowly, you look at him and he looks back at you, confused. “I couldn’t sleep until I finished the painting. The way you looked during your final.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “It’s truly beautiful— you’re truly beautiful,” He adds, looking at you. 

“When you paint me like that I definitely am,” You laugh, looking back at the painting. 

“I only painted you through my lens. Perhaps your eyes aren’t as good as you think they are because the paintings truly do not live up to their references. You’re captivating and the way you’ve consumed my thoughts is honestly intoxicating.” His eyes twinkle as you look at each other. You don’t know what to say, honestly. You can stroke your ego a little, you could crack a joke, or you could bear yourself completely to him. But definitely not in a room filled with people. 

“Ah,” Dick breaks the silence. “You know he used to be a junior poet?” Grumbling, Damian looks over at Richard as he’s staring at the painting, sipping sparkling champagne from a flute glass while holding a cracker with cheese and jelly. Gross. Probably, you’ve never had it before. 

“I do believe I asked for a moment alone,” Damian gives a half-snarky grin and Dick shrugs. 

“A whole lotta people here, doubt you’d be alone.” With a sweeping motion, he gestures to the crowd around you. It’s not elbow-to-elbow crowded but you can hear at least seven conversations happening around you. 

“I suppose you’re correct,” He nods, following his brother's line of thinking. “Fresh air?” He asks you and you nod. 

There’s a park in front of the exhibit and it’s mostly empty, save for two kids and their parents but they’re clearly about to leave. Damian heads towards the benches but you pull him to the swings. There are three but one of them is tossed over the bar and you don’t feel like fixing it. 

Sitting with your back to the exhibit, you look over the trees and the playground. The sandpit with someone’s lost doll sitting down, a bucket behind it. 

“What did you think?” He spoke up after a minute had passed. The entire time he watched as you gently rocked back and forth on the swings, tempting yourself to actually swing. 

“You’re amazingly talented,” You hum, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Although, I already knew that. You’re like Michelangelo with everything you pick up.” Glancing at him, you smile when you see his hands. “You still haven’t cleaned the charcoal from your nails.” 

“No,” He blinks, his eyes staying closed for a beat longer than a blink. “Not of my skill level, (Y/n). Of the drawings. That you’re Muse.” He looks down at his fingertips and starts to pick at the bits of charcoal. “That you’re my muse.”

Softly you sigh before looking back to the trees. 

“What is there to think about? You’re my muse, I'm yours.” 

“You’ve written songs about me?” He asks and you sheepishly nod, refusing to look at him. “Which? If you don’t mind me asking,”

“Birds of a feather, I wanna be yours, and Golden hour. There’s more but they’re too embarrassing to admit,” Hearing him take a deep breath, you pick at your fingernails and slowly stop swinging.

“What now?” You ask, finally looking at him. He shrugs and starts to slowly swing. He thinks for a moment before he checks his phone. 

“When are you free? I can make reservations to—“

“Applebees or Red Lobster,” You cut him off and he looks at you, confused. “Applebees is once every so often, birthdays or celebrations. But Red Lobster? That’s graduation or date.” 

“You could’ve gone for a five-star restaurant, you know that, right?” He laughs and you shrug. 

“I heard they’re pretty shit. And I want to fuck up a seafood boil. Oh wait,” Blinking, you try to remember the Red Lobster menu. “Never mind, I don’t think they have vegetarian options. We could do Olive Garden or whatever vegetarian places you like. I’m not picky,” 

“And I am?” He teases and you roll your eyes. “Friday, at five. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to Olive Garden. And then to the movies to watch that new horror movie you’ve been wanting to watch.”

“That sounds perfect,” You nod and nudge your swing into his. 

“Can I admit something?” He slowly asks. “Forgive me if I’m being too forward but…” Watching as he licks his lip, you stop swinging. “May I kiss you?” 

“Yes.” You nod. Trying not to seem too eager, the both of you stand up and you watch as he raises his hands to cup your face. His fingers are warm, gliding across your skin as you hook one arm around his waist while the other holds his shoulder. “Do you want to lead?” You whisper as he looks at you, unmoving. His eyes dart down to your lips and he nods before closing the distance. 

His hands drag a little down your face, his pinky curving under your jaw before moving up into your hair. Slowly the kiss breaks and he dips back down for one quick kiss. 

“He’s been waiting months to do that,” Dick announces and Damian groans. You snicker and look behind Damian. Dick isn’t even looking, looking off into the distance before he’s sure that you’re done kissing before looking at the two of you. 

“Must he ruin everything?” He whispers to you before facing his brother. “I understand you have no concept of privacy, but this warrants that.” Dick frowns at the rudeness before he shrugs and points his thumb towards the venue. 

“They’re asking for you, thought I should come and get you before they spot you.” He explains through a sigh. “Would hate for our little demon’s kiss to end up on the front page. But, yeah,” He sighs and looks over at you. He stares at your face for a moment before he chuckles. 

“Take him to the bathroom, you got dust on his face.”

“It’s charcoal.”

[starry-bi-sky]

Hello Starry! I just had a thought about your Danyal al Ghul AU, and didn't have anyone else to share it with, so here we go:

If in this universe Bruce is Jewish, and Danny knows this(probably from a google search), he may wear a Star of David necklace to have a piece of his father with him at all times, since he knows he will never get to meet him. Or maybe the necklace sits in a box under a floorboard, because he can't stand the constant reminder of the father he'll never get to have. Maybe he observes Sam and her family celebrate Jewish holidays, or he learns how to by himself, but uses the time to mourn, instead of celebrate.

Anyways, hope all is well, and thank you for sharing your writing!

AAHHHH??? YOUR BRAIN??? Thank you!! I love sharing my writing, it soothes my need for attention lol. lmao, even. (Also how did you know i was thinking of my danyal al ghul au today -- i have an unfinished draft that i was thinking of delving into after my work meeting) also aahh!!!!!!!! im so happy that you wanted to share your thoughts with me about it <333

But dude BOTH of these ideas are soo?? GOOD and ANGSTY. I love angsty. Danny would for sure know if Bruce was Jewish, lil guy did an obsessive amount of research on his dad the moment he got his hands on a computer and figured out how they worked. Danny has like, a three inch thick folder almost on his father alone. Anything he could get his hands on, he's got it. That thickness is almost exclusively from his first like, six months in Amity Park. He keeps it in a box in his closet, along with his growing-folder on Damian and his achievements as Damian Wayne. He pages through it when he's feeling like mourning.

First off: him wearing a Star of David necklace to feel connected to Bruce. That is SO sad and I love it so much. He bought it with an allowance he'd been given when he first started living with the Fentons, he keeps it tucked under his shirt so nobody even knows he has it. Sam and Tucker don't until it slips out while he's hanging out with them and when they ask him about it, Danny very reluctantly tells them that his father is Jewish. When he's distracted, nervous, or sad, he fidgets with it. How this looks is that he looks like he's kinda rubbing his chest, like ungrasping and grasping something.

Second Off: him keeping it in a box under the floorboards. That is also so, so good. He's got it in the box along with a few other things that remind him of his father and Damian and his mother. He takes it out when he's feeling particularly lonely and homesick, it's a feeling that never really goes away even after five years of living in Amity Park. It's like a longing for something you'll never see again, but isn't that just how grief works? i can just imagine him sitting against the bed, late at night and back from patrol. He's still in his ghost form, his katana laid on the ground next to him, and his almost bird-like cape pooling down beside him as he cups the necklace in his hand like he's cradling an egg. Maybe he's bleeding from somewhere, and he's telling the necklace about patrol, murmured soft in Arabic.

When he finds out Sam is Jewish he probably, after much consideration, asks if he can observe their holidays -- after all, researching Jewish holidays only does so much. Sam agrees when he explains why, much to her parents chagrin, and he sometimes tags along. But once he gets an understanding of how they go, he starts doing it on his own. Somewhat. He celebrates with Sam for most of it, and then has some time to himself where he celebrates it on his own. So it's a little bit of both.

^^^ which brings me to thinking about my danyal snippet here where Sam is at a Wayne gala and tears into her parents over Danny in front of Bruce. And it's making me think of, with this idea in mind, Sam in a moment of emotional impulsivity, saying "I know that he wears a Star of David because his father is Jewish and he wants to be closer to him, because he loves him so very fucking much." And while saying that, briefly makes direct eye contact with Bruce as a way to tell him "I know you're his fucking dad. Look at the son you have left behind."

If only for the emotional gut punch that can leave Bruce with. 🥰

Thank you for the ask! I had a lot of fun responding to it, have a fantastic evening/day/night.

[wolfjackle-creates]

Answer My Call

As promised, this is the first chapter of @gilbirda's Wrong Number AU all fixed up. A lot of it is the same as the original version, but a lot has changed. It went from 3,059 words to 5,392. I'm gonna try and get somewhere with the next chapter of this, but no promises on time-frame. Also working on transferring at least the first chapter of all my WIPs over to AO3. This'll be the only time I tag a bunch of people for this as I'm gonna set up subscription posts.

Find the original prompt and fill here.

Find the Subscription Post here.

And the AO3 version here (locked to logged in users, reach out if you need an invite).

Story Summary: Jazz, Sam, and Tucker manage to help Danny escape the GIW, but they can't follow him and are under too much surveillance to communicate with each other. Sam snuck Danny a phone as he ran and Jazz sends him a text every day, hoping to hear he is all right. But he's not the one getting the texts.

Jason was away for several months on a mission with the Outlaws. When he finally returns home, he is surprised to find dozens of messages from an unknown number begging a Danny to tell her he's okay. Looks like there's not going to be a break between missions this time around.

----------

Jazz sat in a Nasty Burger booth and stared at her food. She'd ordered Danny's favorite, but her stomach was so in knots she didn't think she could eat.

All of this was her parent’s fault. If they weren’t so close minded and horrible, if they’d just accepted they were wrong…

Her circling thoughts were interrupted by a balled up napkin landing on the table next to her tray. Jazz was half to her feet ready to yell at whomever threw their trash at her when she saw Sam in a frilly yellow dress walking to the counter with her grandmother.

Huffing as if annoyed, Jazz settled back down and straighted the napkin. In messier-than-normal writing, Sam had scrawled the message:

I got him an old phone before he ran. His number is XXX-XXX-XXXX.

As surreptitiously as she could, she pulled out her own phone and saved the number to the encrypted folder Tucker had set up. Then she destroyed the napkin by soaking it in her unfinished pop and throwing her entire tray away, uneaten food and all.

Well, there was nothing else she could do in Amity. Might as well start the long drive back to Boston.

Upon reaching the edges of town, however, she realized leaving wasn’t going to be as easy as she thought. A GIW checkpoint had been set up and all incoming and outgoing traffic was being questioned.

Two agents approached her car before she could turn around and try a different way out. She did make them knock on her window before deigning to lower it just an inch, however. After what they’d done to Danny, she would never willingly play along with their games again.

“Ms. Fenton,” said the agent as soon as she realized she wasn’t going to open the window any further, “we need to search yourself and your vehicle. You are a known ecto-entity sympathizer and are suspected of assisting in the escape of subject P1. Vacate your vehicle immediately.”

“All I did was come back to my hometown to find my missing brother. I’ll need to see a warrant before you search my car.”

“Ms. Fenton, I don’t think you understand the situation. Due to the escape of the highly dangerous specimen P1, the town is under our a state of emergency. Mayor Masters has instated martial law to ensure the safety of all citizens. You can either vacate your car or you will be under arrest.” He grabbed a packet of papers from an inner pocket of his suit jacket and pushed one end through the crack in Jazz’s window.

Jazz took them and skimmed. The agent wasn’t lying; anyone caught breaking curfew or suspected of harboring or otherwise assisting a ghost would be arrested without bail immediately. All because her brother escaped that torture chamber. She stepped out of the car.

It took over an hour for the agents to search every inch of her car, purse, and luggage and convince themselves she didn’t have Danny hidden away somewhere. By the time she was allowed to go on her way, her jaw hurt from how hard she was clenching her teeth and her eyes stung with tears.

She hated Vlad. And the Guys in White. And the US Government. But finally she was free to leave.

And then she realized the white van was following her out of city limits. Really? Was she going to have to deal with them tailing her, too?

She ground her teeth and eased up on the gas pedal, moving to the right lane. Her father had taught her how to drive, but she’d learned better from the internet and recorded driver’s ed classes. She followed the speed limit exactly, only changing lanes to pass or allow others to merge on. Through it all, her focus remained on the white van behind her. She recognized Agent O as the driver.

Every so often his attention would slip and he’d wind up closer to her than intended. And then, finally, forty-five minutes after she started her perfect driving, she saw him yawn.

“Eat dust, creep!” Jazz shouted as she slammed her foot on the gas and jerked the steering wheel to swerve into the next lane. A chorus on horns followed her as she crossed the median and began going in the opposite direction. She had learned some things from her dad.

Two exits closer to Amity, she got off the highway and stopped at a Target for a burner phone which she activated at a local library. Then she got back on the highway east.

To her satisfaction, it took Agent O three hours to find her again.

-----

That night at a motel in who-knows-where Pennsylvania, Jazz double checked the locks on the door and that the curtains were closed before pulling out her new phone.

Her fingers trembled as she typed a message and sent it to the number Sam had given her.

Hey, Danny, it’s Jazz. Sam passed on the number for the phone she gave you before we were all separated. Please let me know you’re safe. Love you.

Jazz stared at the phone, hoping for a reply.

She woke with the phone clutched to her chest, but no new messages. Her breath caught and then she was curled around the phone crying.

“Danny, you’d better be okay,” she mumbled through her sobs.

But then her main phone alarm went off and Jazz forced herself up from the bed and into the shower. She could get through this. She had to.

An hour later, with her makeup applied and secret phone well hidden in her bag, she was back in her car and getting on the highway, a white van keeping pace behind her.

That night she was back in her dorm room in Boston. Her roommate tried to ask her questions about how her trip home went, but Jazz brushed off the concern. If she’d been honest, her roommate wouldn’t know how to reply anyway.

Instead, she waited until the other girl was taking a shower to pull out the burner phone and send another message.

Made it back to Boston. They’re following me now. Please don’t come here. It’s not safe. I know they’re keeping close tabs on Sam and Tucker, too. But they don’t know about this phone. Love you. Let me know you’re safe.

The next day, she got a phone call from an unknown Amity number during her Literature class. With a hurried apology to the professor, she gathered her supplies up and rushed out of the classroom as she answered the phone.

“Jazz speaking.”

“Hello, Ms. Fenton. My name is Detective Ramirez. I’m calling regarding your brother, Daniel—“

“Danny,” Jazz corrected automatically. “He prefers Danny.”

“Right, Danny. It appears he’s missing.”

Jazz’s breath hitched. She knew that, of course. But hearing a stranger say it so bluntly hit different. She walked faster, there was a single stall bathroom just a floor up.

“His teacher, a Mr. Lancer, reported his disappearance yesterday and your parents admitted they didn’t know his location either when we went to check on him. Do you know where he may be?”

“I don’t.” Finally, there was the bathroom. She rushed in and shut the door behind her, locking it before sliding to the ground. “Have— Have you figured out how long he’s been missing?”

“Near as we can tell, it’s been a week. Do you know why your parents wouldn’t have reported him missing?”

Jazz let out a mirthless laugh. “Are you from Amity, detective?”

A pause, then he said, “I am.”

“Then you know my parents. They were probably too busy trying to torture a ghost to notice Danny.”

“Would it be possible for you to stop by the station to answer some questions?”

“I’m in Boston for school, detective. You can come here or I can answer any questions you have on the phone. I will not be going back to Amity unless it is to see Danny.”

“Very well. Did your brother have any motivation to or history of running away?”

And so began an hour long interrogation. Jazz played her part to perfection. She cried, she begged, but she didn’t give him anything.

That night, after her roommate went to bed, she sent another text.

A detective called today to see if I might know where you are. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him anything. Maybe next time I’ll let slip some lies, send the GIW on a wild goose chase. Love you. Let me know you’re safe.

It became a ritual. Every day she’d keep her head down and go about her classes ignoring the agents following her and once a day when she could guarantee her privacy, she’d send another text to Danny. Each one ended the same way.

It’s been a week since you escaped. Did you make it to the realms? Love you. Let me know you’re safe. The detective actually came all the way to Boston to interview me. Can you believe it? I cried on him and begged him to find you and may have mentioned how much you loved visiting Aunt Alicia who lived off the grid. Hopefully that’ll distract them. Love you. Let me know you’re safe. Agent K tried to wait for me outside my Psych class today. I just met his eyes and glared until he said something into his walkie talkie and left. Love you. Let me know you’re safe. Today is your birthday and you're still not responding to me. I don't know what I'll do if you die a second time on me. Love you, let me know you're safe. Sam, Tucker, and I can't talk. We're under too close of surveillance. I think Sam is being home schooled now and Tucker got a scholarship and his parents sent him away from Amity. I don't know if it was the GIW or Vlad, but promise me you won't return to Amity. Love you, let me know you're safe. I got a call from the detective. They've basically given up the search. Of course they couldn't find you. I guess mom and dad made the call to have you declared dead. You're funeral is next week. Strangest part about this is it's 3 years too late. Love you, let me know you're safe. Dani was able to visit today. She’s safe and trying to find a way to the realms. We worked on finding ways to mask her ecto-signature and we’re finally happy with the results. I think she’ll be safe now. Love you. Let me know you’re safe.

Jazz didn’t mention how the study room they’d been practicing in was raided by GIW agents less than twenty minutes after Dani had left.

I’m back in Amity. Your funeral is tomorrow. I hate it here. I hate even more how much it still feels like home. Love you. Let me know you’re safe. They didn’t even show up. Love you. Let me know you’re safe. I miss you so much. I hate how useless I am. I’m not you. I can't build a portal or boo-merang to search for you. You'd better come home soon. Love you, let me know you're safe.

-----

The first thing Jason did upon returning to his Gotham apartment was shower. The second was sleep for a solid eleven hours.

And when he woke up, he made himself a huge breakfast, reveling in the opportunity to put a kitchen through it’s paces for the first time in months.

But the first non-essential thing he did was plug in his phone and turn it on. After months away, his notifications would be insane and he wanted to be rested and full before bothering to skim through the family group chats.

Unsurprisingly, his messaging app showed over two thousand unread texts. What was surprising, however, was that 71 of those were from an unknown number.

He opened that thread first and skimmed the most recent message.

Agent K tried to pull me aside to question me and search my bag twenty minutes before an exam. Asshole almost made me miss it! But I managed to run and got to my classroom just in time. Love you. Let me know you’re safe.

Jason raised an eyebrow and scrolled to the top of the thread. By the time he’d finished reading, his vision was tinted green.

Looked like he wasn’t going to have those relaxing few days before his next big case.

With a sigh he turned on his laptop and searched Amity. All he could find was a generic government website proclaiming it “The Most Haunted Town in America!” Every link on the page was broken when he tried to click it.

He ground his teeth and searched for “GIW” and “Agent K.” Neither yielded any useful results either.

By five o’clock he was nearly ready to scream in frustration and the green wasn’t leaving the edges of his vision. Looks like he was going to need backup.

He stomped out of his apartment, got on his motorcycle, and ignored all speed limits as he rushed through Gotham.

Traffic and noise decreased the further from Gotham proper he got until city streets were replaced by McMansions with their fancy landscaping and long drives.

He continued until he got to B’s home and made his way up the long drive. Though he quickly turned to the smaller path that lead to the kitchen entrance rather than continue up to the main doors.

After cutting the engine, he continued to sit on the bike for a moment as he stared at the door to the kitchen. Was he really going to do this?

He closed his eyes and phrases from the desperate texts filled his mind. With a deep breath he stood up and walked through the door.

As expected half an hour before dinner, Alfred was in the kitchen getting everything ready.

“Master Jason!” he exclaimed. “Give me just a moment.”

Jason watched with a slight smile as Alfred stirred the gravy and lowered the temperature. “Hey, Alfie.”

Alfred made his way towards Jason and pulled him into a hug. “Welcome home, my boy.”

“Got in yesterday. There enough food for one more? Who else is around?”

“There’s always enough food for you. Now, help me stir the vegetables. Masters Bruce, Damian, Duke, and Tim are all home.”

Jason hummed as he got to work helping with the last of dinner prep. “Is the replacement up to anything big right now? I was thinking of asking for his expertise on something.”

Alfred clicked his tongue. “You’ve only just returned from an extended mission. I haven’t even had the chance to check you over for new injuries yet. Can’t you rest for even a day?”

“Come on, Alfie. Don’t you know us better than that by now? No rest for the wicked as they say!”

Alfred gave him a Look. “You are hardly wicked, Master Jason.”

Jason looked back down at the vegetables he was helping with. “I think these are done. And you know I wouldn’t ask Replacement a favor unless it was important.”

“I know you know his name is Timothy,” Alfred said as he passed Jason a bowl. “But he is not working on anything time sensitive at the moment that I know of.”

“And you know everything.”

“Hardly. Now, help me set the table.”

Jason did as instructed and the two fell into an old routine.

Bruce walked into the dining room as they were laying things out. “Jason. When did you get back?”

Jason took a deep breath forced himself to stay relaxed. “Yesterday. Figured I’d grab some of Alfred’s cooking tonight.”

“How did your mission go? Have you filed a report yet?”

God, couldn’t he just ask how Jason was like a normal person?

Alfred stepped in before Jason could snap. “Master Bruce, you know I do not allow shop talk at the dinner table.”

“I’m doing great, B,” he said with fake cheerfulness. “Had the best breakfast this morning and slept amazingly, thanks for asking.”

“Jason—”

“I’m gonna get the last of the dishes from the kitchen, Alfred,” said Jason before Bruce could say anything more.

In the kitchen, Jason leaned over the counter and breathed as he counted to ten. He shouldn’t have come here. Not with the pits so close to the surface after seeing those messages.

But he was bat-trained and he couldn’t leave a mystery alone and he needed someone with better computer and hacking skills than he had. So here he was.

He could do this. It was just dinner then a question.

He grabbed the last two platters of food and returned to the dining room. Duke and Tim had arrived in the meantime.

“Hey, Jason,” greeted Duke.

“Hey, kid. How’s Gotham been treatin’ ya?”

“Same old, same old. Glad to see you’re back and in one piece.”

Jason grinned at him. “The other guys aren’t so lucky.”

Duke laughed. “I’ll bet.”

Tim piled food onto his plate. “You should’ve said you were back. Dick would’ve made the trip out here to join us. Barbara, too, probably.”

“It was a last minute decision. Where’s the demon brat?”

“Here,” said a voice from behind him. “Todd. You appear to be healthy.”

Jason blinked at the kid a few times as Damian walked around him and took his own seat. “Uh… yeah. Thanks. You appear… healthy, too.”

Nonplussed by the lack of aggression, Jason took his own seat and began serving himself as well.

Over dinner, the others filled him in on the major family drama as well as what had happened in Gotham while he’d been gone. Even Bruce seemed to be trying after his initial missteps.

But then they were finishing dessert and Tim got up to leave.

“Hey, Replacement, by the way, can I get your opinion on something? My computer skills don’t seem to be enough to get me the information I need.”

“Really? You’re gonna call me ‘Replacement’ at the same time as you ask for help? Fuck you?”

“Language, Master Tim.”

“Sorry, Alfred.”

“Look, Tim,” Jason corrected himself, “apparently someone contacted me months ago for help and I only just found out because I’ve been gone. It seems to be time-sensitive. Now, I can spend days or weeks more trying to figure this out on my own or you could probably do it in an hour or two.”

And of course Bruce had to butt in. “Who contacted you and what is this case?”

Jason shrugged. “Dunno. Looks like a case of wrong number, actually.

“A wrong number?” That caught Tim’s attention.

Jason hid his grin. Hook, line, and sinker. “Yep. She thinks she’s texting someone named Danny. I’m the one getting the messages.”

Tim sighed. “Fine. Give me a ride back to my place and I’ll see what I can do.”

-----

“What the fuck, Jason.”

Eight hours later and they were both tired and Tim still hadn’t gotten anywhere with his search. But he had fried two computers.

“It’s not supposed to do that, is it?” asked Jason staring at the Lazarus-green screen covered in bright blue gibberish. “Is that color combination even legal?”

“You’re worried about the colors? Dude! This isn’t even code. I don’t even recognize half these symbols!”

The computer let out an awful screeching-wail that had Jason covering his ears. Then it started to smoke and the screen when black. When Tim tried to check out the hardware, it had overheated so badly the plastic casing was melted.

“I think it’s time we try calling this Jazz woman.”

“Yeah. Would it be better to call her as Jason or Red Hood?”

Tim just raised and eyebrow at him and Jason sighed as he opened up his messages and hit call, setting it to speaker phone.

He winced when a woman picked up instantly with a cry of, “Danny!”

“I’m afraid this isn’t Danny,” said Jason.

He counted the seconds until the woman spoke again. Seven. “Please, just delete all the messages. If anyone finds out about them, I’ll be arrested. And the guys in white aren’t gentle with prisoners.”

Tim’s eyebrows rose and Jason bit his cheek to hold back the curses.

“You’ve got the wrong idea. I might not be Danny, but I want to help. You’ve reached Red Hood. I was unconctactable for the last few months while on a mission and I only just saw your messages. Red Robin is with me and we plan to help you and Danny. But we need more information.”

Another pause and then Jazz spoke again. “I’ll need some proof you are who you say you are.”

“Seems reasonable,” agreed Tim. “Give us fifteen minutes to get into costume. We’ll take a selfie. You can even specify the pose and any features you want included. Sound fair?”

“Fine. I want Red Robin to give Red Hood rabbit ears and Red Hood to give Red Robin Moose antlers."

Jason groaned. “Seriously? Can’t it be literally anything else?”

“Nope. I want to be sure you’re not just stealing something off the internet. I’ll also be doing a reverse image search on whatever picture you send, just to confirm.”

Tim laughed, the asshole. “Smart. We’ll send the photos soon as we’re changed and in position.”

“Very good. I’ll also have some questions for you, you understand. My record with those associated with the government has not been very good. Which is why my brother, his friends, and I never contacted the Justice League.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t associate with the government then, isn’t it?” asked Jason.

“That’s the only reason I’m even considering telling you the truth, Mr. Hood.”

-----

It ended up being half an hour before they could both get in uniform and agree on a spot where they could take the pictures. Jason finally convinced Tim they should pose next to his favorite grotesque and the pictures were sent off.

Five minutes later, his phone range.

“Cute gargoyle,” said Jazz before they could even get out a greeting.

“It’s a grotesque, actually,” corrected Jason on autopilot. He could feel Tim’s eye roll even with the mask.

"Why can't I access anything from the town of Amity or find any information on the GIW you mentioned? I fried three computers trying to track down information. Literally. Had to disable the smoke detectors."

Now it was Jason's turn to roll his eyes. Tim always got so intense when it came to research.

“You certainly don’t waste time. But before I answer your questions, I need to ask my own.”

Tim frowned, but there was no sign of frustration in his voice when he spoke. “Of course. What do you need to know?”

“What do you know about ghosts?”

“One of my teammates is a ghost,” said Tim.

“And there’s another one who works with Justice League Dark,” added Jason.

A pause, then a surprised, “Really? I didn’t know that.” She hummed and Jason wished he could see her face to see what she was thinking. “Do you know about the Anti-Ecto Acts?”

“The what?” asked Tim even as he started typing into his watch. “Wait, if I search for this, will my device burst into flames?”

For the first time, Jazz laughed in genuine amusement and Jason felt he was getting a glimpse into who she really was. The sound pushed the green back from the back of his head and his breath seemed to come a little easier.

“No, the acts are fine. Here, I’ve got the code number.”

Tim searched the number Jazz related. Thirty seconds after pulling it up, he let out a low whistle. “What the fuck. The League has no idea these laws exist. I can promise you that. Martian Manhunter and all Lanterns would leave immediately.”

“What’s it say?” demanded Jason, trying to read the tiny screen over Tim’s shoulder.

“These Ectoplasm Dependent Entities, are they the ghosts you mentioned?”

“Yes. More specifically, the ghosts referred to are sapient creatures from a parallel dimension called the Infinite Realms by its residents and the Ghost Zone by some humans. Ectoplasm, and this is an oversimplification to the point of being incorrect, is required by ghosts the way living creatures on Earth need carbon. Hood, the Anti-Ecto Acts declare all Realm Ghosts as non-sapient, excluding them from the Meta Protection Acts. It also states that they are to be turned over the to Guys in White, more formally known as the Ghost Investigation Ward and abbreviated to GIW, for experimentation and elimination.”

“Well shit. And I assume Danny is targeted by this group?”

“Got it in one.”

A chill went down Jason’s spine. “That’s what you meant by his funeral being three years too late.”

She sighed, all hints of laugher gone and Jason wished he could bring it back. “My brother is different. I won’t tell you more than that. He’s still alive, though. Or at least he was when he escaped the Guys in White about three months ago.”

Jason and Tim exchanged glances. She was definitely holding a lot back. So Jason decided to change tactics. “You mentioned another Dani, too. With an i?”

“She’s my brother’s clone. We consider her our little sister, but our parents don’t know about her. We haven’t been able to provide a stable home for her and she loves to travel and is more than capable of protecting herself, so we just keep in contact and hope she’ll come when she needs help.”

Tim perked at the word clone. “We can offer her safety,” he promised. “One of my teammates and best friends is a clone.”

Jazz hummed. “I'll let her know the next time she reaches out. No promises, though. She's even less trustful than I am.”

Jason took deep breaths. “How old are you, your brother, and sister?” She sounded young and had mentioned college many times in her messages.

Jazz hesitated. “We’re all teenagers. Dani was created three years ago, but was aged up.”

Jason spun and kicked the wall hard. Tim caught his arm to keep him from overbalancing. “Okay. Of course you are. Because adults can’t help but force children into roles they should never have to take.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Bit hypocritical of you to say that.”

“Yeah, well, look where it got me,” Jason retorted, voice a growl.

“I feel like I’m missing some context,” said Jazz.

“It’s nothing,” said Jason. “I just hate when adults put kids in danger or don’t help them get out of danger.” And it was definitely time to change the subject. “You mentioned two other people? A Tucker and Sam? Do they need help?”

“They’re not in danger like the Dannies. But the Guys in White suspect the three of us of collaborating with ghosts and are keeping a close eye on us. Our main phones are tapped and any messages we send will be read and all calls recorded. The instant they have proof we’ve assisted or plan to assist ghosts, we’ll be arrested and detained.”

“What can I do to access information on these Guys in White and Amity?” asked Tim.

“You need a computer that’s ectoplasm-compatible. I don’t have a spare, but Tucker would. He’s at a tech school in San Francisco.”

“What’s that mean, ectoplasm-compatible?” Tim was still typing away at his watch and Jason was jealous of his ability to read and listen at the same time.

“Tucker can explain it better than I can. But basically, things from our world don't work around ectoplasm. It gives off it's own form of energy and our gadgets, and bodies, can't handle it. But if something is exposed to low quantities over a long period of time, they begin to change. The ectoplasm is incorporated. This allows the device to display video and pictures of ghosts. Computers that are not ecto-compatible can't even connect to ones that are. An ecto-compatible computer, on the other hand, can access information from a non-compatible one.”

Jason couldn’t help but latch onto one specific word. “What do you mean bodies? Can humans become ecto-compatible?” The idea sent a shiver down Jason’s spine for reasons he couldn’t quite name.

“It’s complicated. Ectoplasm is dangerous for humans. Really dangerous. My brother and friends and I have done some research on how it interacts with living matter from this dimension and… Well, its far too complicated to discuss over the phone with people I don’t know if I should trust and who don’t have the requisite background knowledge to understand it anyway.”

Tim hummed in a way Jason knew meant he wasn’t satisfied and wouldn’t rest until he got all the information he could. “Would Tucker be willing to sell me an ecto-compatible computer if I reach out to him? How much would he want for it?”

Jazz laughed, but this time there wasn’t any happiness in it. “If you’re really going to help Danny, he’d give it to you for free. And if you can get him to trust you, he’ll show you all the backdoors he’s made into the Guys in White’s servers.”

“Fantastic. How can I contact him?”

Jason let them talk specifics as he stared out over the city. Not even twenty-four hours home and he was right back in the thick of things. When it seemed like Tim and Jazz were wrapping things up, he added, “I’d like to speak to you in person.”

“I’m in Boston,” she said with a laugh.

Jason made the calculations, adding time for a ninety minute nap. “I can be there in seven hours.”

“I’ve class in seven hours.” She sighed. “But I’ll text you a time and place. I need to make sure I get somewhere the Agents following me won’t be able to find right away.”

“I can go in civvies,” offered Jason. “I’ve more than a few fake IDs. Might be easier to hide what we’re talking about.”

She hummed in consideration. “I’ll let you know. I have your number after all.”

“That you do. I’ll head your way sooner than later so I’m at least close by when you manage your escape.”

“Very well. Then I suppose I’ll be seeing you soon. Will you both come to Boston or are you going to Tucker first, Red Robin?”

“I’m going to go to Tucker. I need that computer and access to the relevant information. Then we can start to plan. Before Red Hood leaves, I’ll make a few communicators so you can contact us on a secure line. And I’ll give one to Tucker, too. At least then you’ll be able to talk to each other.”

“Thank you.” Jazz’s voice was quiet and filled with emotion. It made Jason’s heart clench. No way was she faking that. But she gathered herself and her voice was strong again when next she spoke. “And Gentlemen?”

“Yeah?” asked Jason.

“If it turns out I was wrong to trust you? Your bodies will never be found. My friends and I have been keeping Amity safe from ghosts and ghost hunters alike for the past three years on our own. We have access to resources you can't even imagine. And if we are no longer held back by the fear of putting both Dannies in more danger, well, we can do a lot of damage."

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Jason. “You can trust us.”

“I hope you’re not lying,” she said before disconnecting the call.

Jason let out a whistle. “I like her.”

Tim huffed a laugh. “Of course you do. You know, this could only happen to us. What are the chances of a wrong number text reaching one of us?”

-----

Far away, in a tower in another dimension, a being smiled. His appearance changed from child to middle aged to elderly and back as he watched the lives of many on the mirrors that covered every surface of his home.

“Just a little longer, my Prince,” he said as the threads of time wove a pattern that glowed just a little bit brighter.

----------

Next

Tag List (Reminder, this is the only time I'll tag for this story. Please see the above subscription post if you want to be notified for tumblr updates.)

@dragonsrequiem, @saltyladynightmare, @thewondersoflebanon, @ashleysmshley-blog, @severedleftie, @vythika96, @kota412, @fuck-you-too-world, @overtherose, @jojo-fanatic, @undead-essence, @ashleysmshley-blog, @emergentpanda-blog, @wolfeyedwitch, @riot-ghost, @britcision, @gennydreams, @annameibunniealsoartist, @hailsatanacab, @ghostadjacentfae, @stormhaven257, @longlivethefallen, @boredomfarie, @notmuchtopost, @deeterzz, @chemical-pepis, @rin1sakami, @marivictal, @letoasai, @shykitten28, @addie-lover-of-stories, @ambiguouslyominous, @clenastia, @sleeping-squire

[random-thot-generator]

Thots go brrr so...

More medieval AU, this time with Good King John (Price).

Good King John who just wants his bratty Princess, dammit. A.K.A. - When a Good King Goes Bad

TW- MDNI 18+ Only- explicit sexual content, sexual situations and language, brief bloody violence, bit of bdsm- spanking, brat taming, mentions of bondage and impact play, my usual brand of fluffy smut

Notes - I know, I know... I've got two unfinished series and an embarrassing amount of WIPs in my drafts folder, but I can't help it. Soo... sorry, not sorry. No beta- embrace the imperfections.

warning banner by: @cafekitsune

-

Good King John, who went to a lot of trouble to earn your hand in marriage, only to have his best knight, Sir Simon - the Ghost, duped into delivering a chambermaid to him, instead. Oh, how you must have laughed, wicked little Princess that you are, thinking you had got one over on him. And you did, you tricksy little minx. Your trick worked, Princess, but playtime is over, now. It's time to come home and take your rightful place by his side as his queen.

Good King John, who makes the long journey to your kingdom to fetch you home himself, only to be thwarted again when your father, the conquered king, informs John that you snuck out of the castle under cover of darkness and escaped to parts unknown. John knows this is a lie, of course, but he can't fault your father for trying to protect his only child. Still, the wedding banns have been posted throughout the realm, so he will be taking his bride-to-be home with him, whether you or your father like it or not.

Good King John, who sends his spies out into your father's kingdom to discover what they can of your where-abouts. He knows well enough that it's the servants who are privy to everything that transpires within the walls of any castle, and so directs his spies to concentrate on them, specifically. It isn't long before their inquiries are soon rewarded.

Good King John, who is informed by one of his spies that you have disguised yourself as one of the servants at the castle. You've been masquerading as a male youth, a stable hand of all things, working and sleeping in the stables with the horses. His spies also report that you have also concocted a most devious scheme to lead John on a wild goose chase. You paid a sailor in silver coin to spread the rumor that he saw you boarding a ship bound for the Silk Coast, which is many weeks and leagues away. John can't help but be impressed by your adept little mind, wicked as it is. He has to reach down and adjust himself at the thought of soon having you all to himself.

Good King John, who decides to play along with your ruse, so orders his knights to commandeer a ship and begin the preparations for the long voyage to the Silk Coast. He must make it seem like he's fallen hook, line and sinker for your devious little plot. Later that evening, while dining with your father, the conquered king, and your stepmother, his trophy queen, John reveals to them his plans to follow in your wake and bring you home. He then requests to borrow one of your father's many servants for the journey. Thinking King John has fallen for your trick, your father happily acquiesces to his request. "You may take whichever servant suits your needs best," the conquered king offers magnanimously.

Good King John, who arrives at the stables before dawn, waking the stablemaster and telling him he is there to select a 'lad' from among the stable hands present. John spots you immediately, sleeping on a pile of hay. "That one will do," he says, pointing you out. The stablemaster, no wiser to the ruse than anyone else, kicks you awake and tells you to go with King John. Unable to refuse, what else can you do but go along with him or risk exposing yourself.

Good King John, who feels near giddy with excitement, knowing he now has his princess in hand. Sure, he could forfeit the gold he spent on chartering a ship and simply take you back to his castle, but then he'd have to lock you away and keep you under constant guard even after the two of you are wed. John knows he will have to win you over to tame your shrewish heart, and so decides to allow your ruse to continue.

Good King John, who boards the ship with you, having you lug his heavy saddlebags as you follow along behind him, instructing you to ready his cabin for him while he discusses the upcoming voyage with the captain. You nod and just barely catch yourself before you curtsy before him. Stable hands don't curtsy, you silly ninny! You give a quick bow and scurry away to do his bidding, thinking you'll sneak off the ship while he's distracted with the captain.

Good King John, who is no fool when it comes to your tricks, locks you inside the cabin then orders the captain to set sail immediately, trapping you aboard the ship with him. He returns later to find you glumly staring out of the porthole. "What's the matter, lad? Already feeling seasick?" he asks you, making a valiant effort to hide his smug smirk. He then has you join him on deck to watch your home recede into the distance as the sails billow and snap before catching the wind There's no escape for you now, but as soon as you put into the next port, you'll be gone.

Good King John, who orders you about like the servant you supposedly are, telling you to help swab the decks, then puts you to work in the galley. By the time he tells you to fetch his dinner and turn down his bed for the night, you're exhausted. Nothing pleases him more than to see your pinched expression when he sends you out yet again after dinner, this time to fetch him hot water so that he can wash. Even better is your look of dismay when you return only to be ordered to help him disrobe and bathe him.

Good King John, who revels in your awkward state as you help remove his clothing, stripping him down until he proudly stands before you in all his nude glory. You've never seen a grown man naked before and struggle to keep your eyes averted from his crown jewels as he patiently waits for you to wash every bare inch of his skin. Is this thing supposed to jut out like a jousting lance, you wonder as you take him in hand and drag your soapy fingers over his length.

Good King John, who is almost cross-eyed with the pleasure of your touch. Your soft hands have already lathered him from stem to stern, but to feel them now wrapped around his cock as you bathe him is almost his undoing. "Gods above! That's good enough, lad," he rasps out in a gravelly voice, clamping a hand around your wrists to stop your hands before he paints the front of your homespun tunic with his seed. You blink up at him with a fevered gaze, breaths softly panting.

Good King John, who listens to your exhausted little snores drift up from your pallet on the floor later that night, wanting nothing more than to pull you up on the narrow bed with him and test the strength of the ropes supporting his thin mattress. It is too soon for such things, unfortunately. Your curiosity has definitely been piqued, if your wide-eyed stare and firm grip on his cock were any indication, but he'll have to win over your heart and mind, if he's going to convince you to stay of your own accord. You're a willful creature, too smart and opinionated for your own good, but that's what first attracted him to you. He knows he's playing with fire, keeping you in his quarters, but he's certain he can control his desires long enough to win you over.

Good King John, who spends a week in close quarters with you aboard the ship. During this time, the duration of his sponge baths has lengthened considerably, taking much longer than the first time. John is more than happy to allow you to take your time as you become intimately familiar with his body, relishing your touch despite how torturous it is. He groans and his head falls back as your soapy hands cup his balls and lather his cock. Forcing himself to make you stop yet again finally breaks his iron will. Something has got to give, he decides. It's time to end this ruse of yours.

Good King John, who is at his wit's end, forms a most devious scheme of his own. After encouraging you to bathe and change in his cabin, he pretends to leave, saying he needs to speak with the captain. He waits outside the door and listens until he hears the splash of water, then enters the cabin again. There he finds you in all your naked splendor, a mortified expression on your face. "Well, well, what do we have here? I leave behind a young lad and return to find a comely wench in his stead." he says with a mock frown, not bothering to hide how his eyes rake over your nude form.

Good King John, who leans against the door, blocking your only exit as he glowers down at you. You grab the nearest bit of clothing, one of his shirts it turns out, and quickly don it to hide your nakedness from his hungry gaze, but it's too little too late. His blue eyes burn you with their avid intensity. A lie is already sitting on the tip of your tongue to explain your presence in his cabin, but then he takes the wind completely out of your sails when he reveals that he's known who you are the entire time. "Come now, Princess. No need to fret. I am your betrothed, after all. You don't need to hide from me. We'll treat the rest of this voyage as a pre-honeymoon, so we can get to... know each other better." All you can do is gape at him before the reality of your situation finally sinks in. "I will never marry you," you vow.

Good King John, who chuckles at your bluster, which only incenses you more. Unlike everyone else, however, he doesn't shrink away from your viperous temper, laughing at you when you begin to hurl whatever you can get your hands on at his head. He ducks a hairbrush, a cup and a bar of soap as he stalks forward to grip your arms, yanking you into his chest. "Rage all you want, Princess. It won't change your situation. Now calm yourself before I turn you over my knee." You sputter and spit, eyes narrowed in fury. "You wouldn't dare lay a hand on me!" you hiss at him.

Good King John, who takes your words as a challenge and is having none of your sass. Pulling you over to the bed, he sits down and has you draped over his knees so fast your head spins. Your bare bottom is exposed when he rucks his shirt up your back, holding your squirming form with ease as he brings his large hand down on the globes of your ass with a loud crack! You gasp in shock at the sound before fire needles into the skin of your bum. It's not a bruising strike, but the humiliation of being spanked lights a fire in your belly. Your efforts to escape double, but it's all for naught. He holds you in place like a misbehaving toddler and smacks your ass again. "Keep it up, you little brat," he says with a dark laugh. "You're long overdue for a proper punishment, anyway, you spoiled little thing."

Good King John, who spanks you until your cheeks glow red, your bratty behavior inciting his lust like nothing else. He's already hard as granite and having you squirming and moaning on his lap is only making it worse. His large hands knead and massage your plush bottom, watching the way your hips grind against his flexed thigh. He can see your 'punishment' has affected you in much the same way when he glimpses how swollen and wet your pretty cunny has become.

Good King John, who can't resist the temptation and slides his calloused fingers along the cleft of your bum, following its path between your legs, hissing at how wet he finds you. You go still at the contact, breath hitching in your throat as your back arches to his touch. No man has ever touched you down there before, and the feeling confuses you. Though you're loathe to admit it, you like how he's touching you, and Gods help you, you want him to keep doing it!

Good King John, who is hanging onto his control by a thread. Reining in his raging libido, he sits you up on his lap and brushes the last of your angry tears from your cheeks. "There now," he soothes, shushing you. "That wasn't so bad, was it? Just needed a firm hand to calm you down, aye?" He slides his hand between your legs again, the tips of his fingers grazing your wet folds. "Would you like me to make you feel better? Hmm?" What else can you do but nod vigorously, desperate to see what else he can do with those rough fingers of his.

Good King John, who brings you to the edge of bliss, sliding his fingers through your wetness, worrying the sensitive nub at the apex of your thighs. "Poor needy girl," he coos in your ear. "I'll make it all better. You'll see." And he does. Great gods above, he does. His hands work you like a piece of malleable clay, all your fury now spent, sending you to the heights of ecstasy as you wail and writhe on his lap, two of his fingers buried in your spasming cunt.

Good King John, who soon has you addicted to the things he can do with his hands and his tongue and his cock. You find yourself going out of your way to cause trouble, just so he will "punish" you again and again. The memory of his cock in your mouth makes you drool with want. The thought of his tongue slithering up your pulsing channel makes your thighs clench as you soak through your small clothes. Whether he's binding you to the bed to edge you until you're a dripping, crying mess or slapping your greedy quim for coming without permission, even when he's pounding into you from behind to "teach ya a lesson, Princess," you're more than willing to submit to his whims.

Good King John, who has no illusions about you, despite your eager participation in bed. Given the chance, he knows you'll still bolt like a scared rabbit at the first opportunity. Then the captain speaks the dreaded words. "We're coming into port, my lord." Though wary, John can see how excited you are at the prospect of being back on land again, so agrees to take you into the port city for a short walk, so long as you dress in your stableboy clothing to draw less attention.

Good King John, who warns you not to attempt an escape. "This is not your father's kingdom, Princess. There are pirates and cutthroats who wouldn't hesitate to have their way with you before slitting your throat. Do not leave my side, understood?" You eagerly agree, thinking he's simply trying to scare you. You're certain once you mention who your father is, these so-called pirates and cutthroats will be tripping over themselves to escort you home, especially when you tell them of the reward your father will pay out for your safe return.

Good King John, who allows you to lead him into a bazaar. You marvel at all the strange sights, all the exotic languages and unfamiliar smells. In truth, you lose yourself in the experience for a bit, catching yourself enjoying John's company. He is so well-traveled and knowledgeable, telling you about all the different places he has been, all the wonders he has seen. "Once we're wed, I'll set aside some time for us to travel. Would you like that?" he asks, and your current situation is once more at the fore of your mind. You can't fall weak to his charms. You must escape. He is your enemy, the man who conquered your father's kingdom and took you from your home.

Good King John, who pays no attention when you tug him into a busier section of the bazaar. There are throngs of people milling about, vendors hawking their wares, their loud cries and the bustling crowd serving as a distraction. Before he realizes what's happening, you let go of his hand and duck between two stalls, making a mad dash down a narrow alleyway. Your only thought is to evade and escape, knowing John and his men will be hot on your heels. Your path is winding and mindless, leading you further into the labyrinth of the city until you find yourself standing outside of a dingy looking tavern. Surely you can find someone inside who will be willing to help a poor damsel in distress.

Good King John, who is frantic with worry. He wasn't lying about the unsavory nature of this particular port city. Pirates and cutthroats do indeed frequent this port and would not hesitate to harm you or worse. Telling his men to fan out and find you, he takes his trusted knight Sir Kyle with him, questioning anyone who is willing to stop and listen. It's an old fishmonger who finally points him in your direction, saying a lad fitting your description nearly bowled him over.

Good King John, who slows in front of the same tavern you yourself found mere minutes before and sends Kyle in to search for you. No sooner does his knight enter the tavern when a startled cry sounds from an alleyway before being cut off. John feels his heart shoot straight up into his throat when he peers down the dark passage to see two men wrestling to subdue you. One of them snatches the cap from your head, your hair spilling out before the other one strikes you across the face. John sees red, bellowing like an enraged bull as he charges down the alley with sword unsheathed.

Good King John, who meets the blackguards head-on, his rage knowing no bounds as he hacks and stabs and slashes at the men who would dare to put their hands on you. By the time Sir Kyle finds him, John has hacked the men to death, blood flying from the tip of his sword as he draws back to strike again. "My lord!" he shouts, rushing to his king's side. "My lord, they are done for. Stop!"

Good King John, who is still seething with rage, turning a murderous eye on his own man. "My lord, 'tis I, Sir Kyle! Please, sire, we must be away. Grab the Princess and let us make haste back to the ship before you are discovered!" At the mention of his princess, John's fury evaporates as he turns his worried gaze to you. The devil who struck you has knocked you unconscious, your limp form collapsed against the wall. "My love," he whispers, gathering you into his arms before motioning for Kyle to lead the way back to the ship.

Good King John, who is beside himself with guilt and worry. He stares down at your still form, cursing himself for not keeping a closer eye on you. He knew the risks but was lulled by your sweet smiles and girlish charms, despite knowing your penchant for trickery. Now look what his failure has wrought. His beloved princess lying still as death in his bed. Even the ship's doctor cannot give him answers. "She seems hale and hearty, save for the goose egg on the back of her skull. I cannot say with any certainty when she will awaken, sire, or... even if she will awaken. I'm sorry, my lord. There is nothing more I can do."

Good King John, who sits by your bedside all through the night, rubbing warmth into your chilled fingers and stroking your brow. "Come back to me, my love, and I swear I'll return you to your home. I will leave you in peace and never plague you again if you will just open your eyes." Yet his pleas go unanswered, his bitter tears dampening the soft skin of your hand.

Good King John, who awakens to the feel of your fingers carding softly through his hair. Sitting bolt upright, he stares into your eyes, now open and alert. You frown, the prettiest pout he's ever seen on your lovely face. "My head hurts, John, and I've a powerful thirst. Is there wine in the carafe?"

Good King John, who calls the ship's doctor to his chambers to give you a thorough check-up. He pokes and prods, then calls you well and gives you a remedy for your pounding head and strict instructions to remain abed until the dizziness wears off. You lie in wait for John's return, certain you're due for a proper scolding, disappointed that it won't be one of his 'punishments' you receive, instead. However, John doesn't return. Servants do, with food and drink in hand. Hot water and soap are delivered as well, along with a lovely dressing gown and slippers. You sit on the edge of the bed and bathe, one eye on the door, expecting John to "surprise" you again, but still, he does not appear. You eventually fall asleep, head still turned towards the door in expectation.

Good King John, who honors his promise to you, even if you weren't awake to hear it at the time. His guilt knows no bounds, so he determines to deliver you safely back to your father. He tells the captain to turn the boat back towards the shores of your father's kingdom with a heavy heart. He knows he will surely pine for you the rest of his days, knowing no other woman will do now, that only you will ever hold his heart. He resigns himself to a lifetime of loneliness.

Good King John, who requests regular reports on your health and well-being, receives a request from you, delivered by the ship's doctor. "The Princess requests your presence in her chambers, sire. She's in a right fit of temper, if I do say so myself, my lord. She chucked a book at me for not answering her questions to her satisfaction." John can't help the wry smile on his face. His feisty princess doesn't put up with any guff. She's a warrior through and through, his lion-hearted minx.

Good King John, who enters his old quarters to find you pacing the worn floorboards. "Where have you been?" you demand, bottom lip jutting out as you cross your arms. "Is ignoring me my punishment for running away? If it is, it's not working. I don't care if I ever see you again!" A sad expression dims his ocean-blue eyes, but his smile is as kind and indulging as ever. "I understand your ire, my lo— ah, Princess, but fret no more. You will soon be relieved of the burden of my presence. We arrive at your kingdom on the morrow. I'm sure your father will be overjoyed to have you home again."

Good King John, who bids you a strained farewell and quickly removes himself from your cabin, leaving you to blink in shocked silence after him. He's returning you to your father? You slump on the bed, unable to process his sudden change of heart. Had your escape angered him enough that he's finally decided to wash his hands of you? Even at your worst, John withstood your tantrums and waspish words. He'd always been so kind and attentive and... loving. As realization sets in, a sadness like you've never known before settles in your breast.

Good King John, who sends his man Sir Kyle to collect you when the ship docks the next day. "Where's John?" you ask, as the knight hands you up into a waiting royal carriage. Sir Kyle avoids your sharp gaze, his mouth set in a grim line. "The king has gone ahead to meet with your father, my lady. I doubt you will see him again." Your heart constricts in your breast as the door slams shut and the carriage lurches into movement.

Good King John, who is in the throne room with your father when you arrive. The knights who guard the door deny you access, their pikes crossed to block your way. Oh, you throw a right strop until your ladies-in-waiting come to collect you, leading you down the corridor as you shriek like a harpy at the top of your lungs. They lock you in your chambers, leaving you to batter at the door with your fists until your strength is exhausted.

Good King John, who returns to his own kingdom a broken man. He spends his days staring out the windows and rubbing at the ache in his chest that has plagued him since he saw you last. He doesn't shirk his responsibilities, managing his kingdom and holdings with a firm and fair hand, but his heart is no longer in it. It has been cleaved in two and he fears it will never mend.

Good King John, who glowers down at a missive sent by your father, the conquered king. As he reads it over, a dozen carts laden with chests of gold and precious gems are delivered as well. His heart seizes in his chest as he reads the message your father has sent.

'May this find you well, Good King John. It shames me to say that since your departure, my castle has not known peace. You have surely bewitched my daughter, for nothing will soothe her anger except the promise of being reunited with you. I beg your mercy, good king. Please accept my daughter's dowry and know I fully endorse your marriage, if you are still inclined to take her as your bride. I wish you all the luck, good king, for you will surely need it.'

Good King John, who reads the missive several more times before a royal carriage with your father's crest comes clattering into the courtyard. He stares on in awe as a shrill voice erupts from the depths of the carriage. "Get this bloody door open! I want to see my husband! NOW!"

Good King John, whose smile could light up the night sky as he watches you step out of the carriage, sharp eyes searching the crowd until you spy him standing on the steps with his guards. Without a care for decorum, you snatch up your skirts and run to him, kitten heels pounding up the steps until you're standing before him, panting for breath, hair coming loose from its pins. Your eyes blaze with ire but are now tempered with an emotion much softer. "You're a fool if you think you're getting rid of me that easily, my husband."

Good King John, who roars with laughter as he catches you up in his arms and hugs you tightly to his chest. His heart is fit to burst when you cup his whiskered face in your hands and whisper, "Don't you ever leave me again, John."

Good King John, who kisses you soundly on the lips before whispering back, "Never again, my love. Never again."

-

Dark Knight! Ghost drabble (prequel)

[dfortrafalgar]

Hello hello, long time no see

For starters, I just wanted to make a very sincere apology for those who left inbox and dm requests before my sudden absence. in the past however long its been, i haven’t stopped thinking about each one

Secondly, i’ve been unbelievably busy. With irl work, more commissions on my plate, and general life drama, my mind has been absolutely running nonstop. the other day I slept in until 11:30AM and that is NOT like me. my job requires me to wake up at 3:00AM some mornings, so most of my summer has been spent napping. And I don’t particularly enjoy napping

Third of all… I did not stop writing, but my focus switched from Law to the insane brainrot that overtook me after watching the Haikyuu movie in theaters with some friends back when it released. I made an OC to ship with Daichi and one fic led to another which led to another which led to a google drive folder which led to various scribbles and unfinished fanart and… yeah

I’m still deliberating on if I want to post any of those. I might, but I’ll have to readjust my masterlist cus it’s not One Piece based!

Lastly, I have a lot of unfinished fics in my google drive, some (most) are requests that i have yet to finish and post (again, i’m truly sorry!!!) and some are random ideas i had. Two of them (a 2-part fic) take place in the same AU as I’m Losing You as well

All of this to say, i am BACK and am going to try to get back to posting semi-regularly again. To those who have stuck around, thank you so so so much and I really appreciate you, and to those who are still waiting on your requests, you have NOT been forgotten. I’ve literally had dreams about some of you I’m being so serious

Love yall!!! <3

[thevalencianroyals]

A bit of a life update …I graduated university! 🥳🎓

After not opening my game for so long do not get me started on cleaning my mods folder that I haven’t touched since I bought the game six/seven years ago but anyway…

Tbh, I was going to let this story fade into the ether but I don’t feel comfortable leaving it unfinished. I started it when I started college, and it’s been with me through the past years, even when it stayed in my drafts. Royal simblr looked a lot different back then lol but I always enjoyed writing my story for my valued readers. And I’m even considering a prologue of a previous monarch to follow when this is done. Free time is however always eluding me.

Anyway hugs and kisses to you all, I hope everyone has a great summer, and fingers crossed for the final chapter!!! 🤞🏾

[hurricanek8art]

Okay, I don't know what's going on with Tumblr and everything has been absolute chaos with my life the past few months, so y'know what, screw it. I think I'm actually brave enough to share some of my art. At least it won't just be sitting on my tablet that way.

This is my Sith Inquisitor turned Force-sensitive Outcast from SWTOR, Roodaka Greatstorm-Kallig. I haven't really plotted everything out with her regarding her story, but she's not my Outlander. She leaves the Empire right after Ziost, after losing all of the family she'd used her Dark Council connections to find and save from slavery, and Lana recruits her to help Sana-Rae run the Enclave about two years before the Outlander (my Knight Aja Verdona) is rescued. She's prickly and petty and spiteful but I love her dearly. And because I've never posted art before, art process and a little bit of character lore ramble under the cut, I guess?

I usually work with lined art/sketches that are admittedly very messy, but when I did the first one back in May I was experimenting with actually rendering/painting, and I saw a fashion post thing that looked like something Roo would wear, so I was mostly just playing around, it's not a solid outfit design for her. It's janky and wonky and oh Lord please don't look closely at the anatomy or face it is not up to my usual standards, but I was so proud of myself for the lighting on this one, as well as how I managed to render the muscle. Like, the lighting! I have no idea what I'm doing but I think it looks so flipping good! And I was happy with how the crackly lightsaber blade turned out—it is supposed to be Aloysius Kallig's lightsaber, meaning it's at least over a thousand years old, right? It should be a little janky with age!

The second one is supposed to be post Fallen Empire, after she's left the Sith and become sort of a wandering Force-user—think Ahsoka as of, well... Ahsoka, but more on the side of Ventress if she'd survived TCW (don't get me started on that choice 🙄🙄🙄). I came into it knowing a little more of what I was doing, but I kinda got in over my head and gave up on the 100% lineless thing, you can definitely tell with the sword/clothes. 🥴 The second piece has been sitting unfinished in my WIP folder for months, so I just said screw it, finished up some details and called it because I am SO PROUD of her face and hands (I DREW A GOOD HAND WITHOUT LINEART WHO AM I?!?!) and how I rendered her skin, I don't want it to live in WIP purgatory forever. You can actually tell that's muscle! And a neck!

I'm proud of how her tattoos turned out, too. I played around with Cham Syndulla's tattoo pattern, turning it at different angles. It felt like a good way to root her in Twi'lek culture despite the Kallig bloodline having been separated from it for so long. She gets the first one to cover up a slave tattoo, and the rest after Ziost to further reclaim her identity and culture, leaving the Sith behind.

I have no idea how to close this post. Um... thanks for reading all this, if you have? I've never posted art before, I'm kinda terrified. 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

[dinovia-grant]

Writer Asks

I was tagged by the dearest of all dearhearts, @cassiopeiasara

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 53, but full disclosure, I haven't yet moved everything I've written to AO3 yet.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 885,181 (but honestly, OBaaT Georg is an outlier, and maybe shouldn't have been counted...)

3. What fandoms do you write for? Currently? Ever? Currently, it's SuperCat and, more recently, Guiding Light/Otalia. Stupid unfinished WIP that has haunted me for 15 years...

4. What are your top five fics by kudos? These are all SuperCat, btw. One Bridge at a Time, At the Pleasure of the Hotel de la Paix, Uncharted (part 11), At Sea, and (the shocker) Steel Blue.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Yes, as many as I can. I've been known to respond to some years after they were written. Comments are the lifeblood of my writing. One comment at the right time can inspire so much. Sometimes, even the completion of a lingering unfinished story...

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Easily, my tears ricochet (Mirandy). My wife (Lisof9) and I took a vow decades ago (pre-dating, even) that we would always write happy, hopeful endings where the couple is together.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Everything else? See above. That doesn't mean there isn't angst. My wife taught me everything I know about chasing characters up burning trees and then lobbing grenades and feral raccoons at them. She also taught me about cliffhangers.

8. Do you get hate on fic? Once. A long time ago on an ER fic, of all things. I didn't write a word for two years after that.

9. Do you write smut? Yes. I'm kinda known for that. It is sometimes even requested, meaning the prompt is given to me because it requires smut.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? Hmm... Not really? Let me explain. One of my SuperCat stories mentions Emily Carlton from The Devil Wears Prada, and one of my Guiding Light stories has a brief cameo from a character on Saving Grace. The only true crossover I've ever written was wacky. It was Star Trek: Voyager and CSI: Miami. Decide for yourself: Wackiness. It's short.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not sure I understand the question. You mean plagiarized.? There was a rash of that happening in the early 2000s, I think, but my readers always let me know.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? I'm not sure. Probably.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Oh, absolutely! My wife should be considered my co-writer in everything because I have been known to pick her brain when I'm stuck. I've also co-written in the Guiding Light/Otalia fandom and in the L&O: SVU Casey/Olivia fandom.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship? Oh, lord love a duck. SuperCat is certainly my once-and-future obsession. I've been writing them for over seven years at this point and, at last count, have 10 WIPs in the works for them.

My OTP Prime, though, is B'Elanna/Seven from Star Trek: Voyager because that's how I met my wife.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but probably won’t? Hide Beside Me (Guiding Light/Otalia) has haunted me for 15 years, but remember when I said comments were the lifeblood of writing? Someone commented on it last week which revived my interest in finishing the story. I have a draft for chapter 32 in my WIPs folder right now because of that. I hope I finally get to check that one off my to-do list.

16. What are your writing strengths? Research, capturing character personalities, dialogue, and romance.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Fight scenes and the fact that I'm so slow as a writer.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Actually, I have a plan to write an Astrid/Raphaelle story in French when I feel I'm up to snuff in French again. I can't wait. I love that ship.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Ever? Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. Buck/Wilma, on my handwriting practice pad from school. I was 10. Published in a 'zine? A Star Trek: The Next Generation Worf/Deanna story. Published online? Xena, Warrior Princess.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written? Currently, there are two:

Queen of Hearts, (ST:Voy, B/7), because it was a love letter to the woman who is now my amazing wife.

One Bridge at a Time, (Supergirl, SuperCat). I'm proudest of this one because it took me seven years to write, came in at 310+k words, and I finished it. I never gave up on it. It was always in my mind. And now I'm working on a sequel to it. :)

I tag anyone who would like to answer it. Although, I would be interested in reading the answers from @shaych03 and @fewthistle if they'd like to participate.

[mysandwichranaway]

Based on the figurine above. I remember collecting the figurines in minish cap so fondly.

This has been sitting in my drawings folder unfinished for so long, it was haunting me. I originally started it for the Zelda anniversary, but while i was working on it, the program crashed and i got mad. So mad, in fact, that i didn't touch it for like a month straight.

[impishtubist]

finish your shit december, part 2

I challenged myself this month to just finish all the things that are lingering in my drafts folder. Either that, or post the abandoned stuff so someone else can enjoy it. 

Part 1 is here. I posted 45K of an abandoned Remus/James raising Harry fic on AO3:  love's such an old-fashioned word. 

Part 2 is an abandoned fic where Sirius and Remus raise Harry, and Sirius has a difficult time with Harry calling him “dad”. It’s not a new trope and it’s been done so many times that I don’t feel like I have anything original to add to it, so I’m not going to finish it. 

So, without further ado, here are 1800 words of feelings about Sirius being called “dad.” Some of these scenes are unfinished, so they start and/or end abruptly. That’s just the way it’s going to be, sorry! 

-----

The first time Harry calls Sirius dad, it’s a punch to the gut. 

It’s a sticky evening in August. The late-summer air is thick and cloying when Sirius Apparates to Ottery St Catchpole, and he’s drenched in sweat by the time he reaches the Burrow, even though it’s only a short walk from the designated Apparition point. He steps into the blessedly-cool house and is immediately set upon by several delighted children. 

“Hello, Ginny m’dear,” he says, sweeping the youngest Weasley child into his arms, and she giggles when he kisses her cheek. “Percy, George, Fred, hullo. Ron, what’ve you got there? Oh, yes, that’s a very nice toad. Harry, lad, are you ready--”

“Dad!” Harry breaks through the crowd of Weasleys to latch onto Sirius’s hand. “Come see!” 

Sirius must black out for a moment. All of a sudden, he’s in the back garden, with no idea how he got there. Ginny is no longer in his arms--oh, Molly has her, good--and Harry is chattering happily away about a piece of art he’s made. Sirius’s mind is blank except for dad dad dad dad.

Dad is James. Dad is reserved for the man who wept the first time he held his son, for the man who was Sirius’s brother in all but blood, for the man who gave his life in hopes that it would give his wife and child time to escape. 

Sirius isn’t dad. He doesn’t deserve that title, not after his actions got James killed and made Harry an orphan.

“Harry,” he says softly, crouching next to the boy, taking the picture from his hands to examine it, “I’m Pads, remember?”

Harry gives him an odd look. “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay.” Sirius decides not to press the point, instead choosing to praise Harry’s artwork. “This looks great, Prongslet. Shall we find a place to hang it up at home? I think Uncle Moony would love to have it in his study.” 

***

The next time it happens, Sirius is trying to get dressed and pack a suitcase at the same time. He’s already missed his Portkey, which means he’s going to have to Floo, and the International Floos at the Ministry are hell this hour of night. At this rate, he’ll be lucky if he arrives in enough time to snatch a couple hours of sleep in his hotel room before the conference starts tomorrow.

Remus is down the hall, giving Harry a bath. From the sounds of it, he’s having about as much luck with that as Sirius is with his packing. Harry’s voice is high and distressed, and though Sirius can’t make out the words, he can tell that the boy is on the brink of a complete meltdown. He’s had a long day, and it’s already half an hour past his bedtime, and Sirius is leaving him for the first time. Remus is doing his best to soothe him, but it’s a losing battle. 

Sirius closes his suitcase and latches it just as tiny feet come pounding down the hall and hurtle into the bedroom. Harry, naked and wet, latches on to his leg and wails, “Daddy, no!” 

Remus skids into the bedroom, holding a towel.

“Harry James, for Merlin’s sake,” he mutters, crouching to wrap Harry in the ridiculously fluffy yellow towel. Harry squirms, trying to break free, but Remus gets him wrapped snugly in the towel and lifts him into his arms. “Sirius has to leave, but he’ll be back--”

“No,” Harry cries, reaching a hand out to Sirius. “Don’ leave, Daddy, no!”

There’s no mistaking what he’s said, not when Remus instantly pales. Sirius can’t pretend that he misheard it, that Harry said Pads instead. 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius manages, and he doesn’t know who he’s apologizing to. Harry, for leaving? James, for usurping his place in Harry’s life? 

I never wanted this, James. I never wanted to take this from you. 

Remus recovers first. He bounces Harry gently in his arms and says, “Pads is coming back, Harry. It’s only for a couple of days.” 

Harry sobs, still reaching for Sirius. Sirius doesn’t know what to do. He stands frozen, warring with himself. He always comes when Harry calls for him, always, ever since that awful Halloween night when he pulled Harry from the wreckage of his home. Harry had sobbed for Pafoo and Sirius had been there. And now he’s just going to leave Harry? For a medical conference? 

“Go,” Remus tells him over Harry’s cries. “Sirius, go. This is important. We’ll be fine.” 

It’s a conference on new, experimental treatments for cursed wounds. It could change countless lives. Sirius still wants to throw it all away, because Harry is asking for him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself if he walks away now. 

“Harry, give Pads a kiss,” Remus says in a cheerful voice, and Harry stops crying long enough for Sirius to cover his pudgy cheeks in kisses. 

“I love you,” he whispers. Then, he kisses Remus, grabs his suitcase, and practically flees the room. 

Harry’s wretched sobs echo in his ears for days. 

***

None of the dozens of parenting books Sirius read in the first few months after Harry came to live with him prepared him for the horrid, soul-sucking pain of hearing his best friend’s child call him Dad. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. He’d tried to correct Harry, once, gently reminding him that he already has a dad and that Sirius is perfectly happy being Padfoot, but it all ended in tears. 

“Sirius, he doesn’t even remember James,” Remus tells him softly in bed one night. “You’re all that he knows.”

“We’ve told him about James and Lily.”

“But it doesn’t mean anything to him. Yes, we tell him that he had parents and that they’re gone now, but I don’t think he grasps what that means yet. Because as far as he’s concerned, he’s already got two parents who take care of him and love him.” 

“James would hate me if he knew,” Sirius mutters. 

“What are you talking about? Of course he wouldn’t.” Remus strokes Sirius’s hair. “Sirius, what do you think the point of making you godfather was? That it was just something James and Lily did on a whim? That it was just symbolic? They wanted you to raise Harry if anything happened to them. We all know that James is his father, but to Harry, you’re the only father he knows.” 

“So I should just let him call me dad?”

“That’s what you are to him,” Remus says. “And I’m afraid if you push back on it too much, he’s going to start to think that you don’t want him.” 

“James should be the one who’s here for him.”

“But he’s not,” Remus says gently. “We are.” 

***

When illness descends upon the Potter-Lupin-Black household, it usually takes them all out at once, and Harry is typically the culprit. Not that he can help it, but he is the only one of them who spends his day surrounded by thirty other less-than-hygienic five-year-olds, and so he often brings their illnesses home to his guardians. Remus is usually the one who is affected the least, but this time it’s only two days until the full moon and he’s already moonsick, so catching the ‘flu from Harry knocks him immediately out of commission. Sirius, though he feels like death himself, can’t curl up in bed next to his lover like he so desperately wants to. Someone has to look after Harry.

“Sick, Siri,” Harry moans against his shoulder, his skin fever-hot and burning through Sirius’s shirt. 

“I know, baby.” Sirius paces the kitchen, rubbing Harry’s back as the boy clings to him. He’s already given Harry the maximum amount of pain potion and fever reducer allowed for a child his age, so now there’s nothing to do but wait it out. Harry’s too young for a sleeping draught and too uncomfortable to fall asleep without one. The only thing Sirius can do is offer him this paltry comfort.

Slowly, Harry grows heavy against his shoulder, and his wheezing breaths start to even out. Sirius aches all over and his head is spinning and there’s a fierce pounding behind his eyes, but he keeps up his steady pacing. Anything to keep Harry calm and comfortable. 

When Harry finally goes limp against him, Sirius carries him upstairs. He eases Harry carefully onto his bed, drawing up the blankets and tucking him in. 

“Stay.” A small hand grasps his finger just as Sirius shifts his weight, preparing to get up. “Daddy stay.” 

“Daddy has to go to bed, too,” Sirius says softly. The word is ash in his mouth, and his eyes sting. I’m sorry, James, I’m so sorry. 

“Stay,” Harry says again, his voice wavering, and how can Sirius say no to that? 

“Okay, Haz,” he whispers. Harry’s bed is much too large for the five-year-old, but can fit them both easily. Sirius scoots up to lay next to Harry, his head on the other pillow, his body curled around Harry’s. 

***

On the morning of Harry’s sixth birthday, he wakes them both up at dawn by climbing into bed with them. He thinks he’s being quiet and subtle, but he’s all knobby knees and sharp elbows, and they both come awake instantly.

“Harry,” Remus groans, shoving his head under his pillow. Sirius, more of a morning person than Remus is, merely chuckles and cuddles Harry close.

“Let’s give Moony five more minutes, hm?” he murmurs, knowing that if he can get Harry to lie quiet and still for a moment, he’ll inevitably fall asleep again. 

“No,” Harry says, sticking out his lower lip. He’s clutching a book in both hands, and he says, “Papa read?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Remus surfaces from under the pillow. He stares incredulously at Harry, who rolls over to face him. 

“Papa?” he tries again, and though Sirius can’t see him, he knows Harry’s giving Remus the biggest puppy-dog eyes he can muster. “Please?”

Remus seems incapable of speech, so Sirius clears his throat and plucks the book from Harry’s hands. “How about I read to you, sprog?” 

“No,” Harry says again. “Papa does voices.” 

“Papa does do the best voices,” Sirius says, shooting Remus an imploring look. Remus can fall apart about this later, just like Sirius did a couple of years ago

Remus clears his throat and sits up, the blankets pooling in his lap. He pats his thigh, and Harry crawls over to him, presenting him with the book. It’s a wizarding children’s story about a prince who falls in love with a dragon, and it’s been Harry’s favorite for the past three months. Sirius can recite the whole thing in his sleep, but Harry’s right--Remus does it better. 

***

Sirius steps into the house and knows immediately that something is off. The house is quiet. Too quiet. When you have a seven-year-old--especially a seven-year-old who is the progeny of James Potter--silence is suspicious. This is the kind of quiet that means the house’s inhabitants are Up To Something. 

“Remus?” he calls cautiously, shutting the door behind him. “Harry?”

“In here, Pads,” Remus says, and Sirius follows the sound of his voice to the main room. Remus is seated in the armchair closest to the fire, his knees pressed together, bending over something that’s on his lap. Harry stands next to him, peering intently at whatever it is that Remus is tending to. 

“What’ve you got there?” Sirius asks, setting down his bag and shedding his jacket. He drapes it over the back of the couch.

“Come see,” Harry says, grabbing Sirius’s hand and pulling him over to the armchair. “I found her.” 

It’s a kitten. She’s tiny, far too young to be away from her mother, and Remus is painstakingly bottle-feeding her. 

“She was in the garden,” Remus supplies without looking up. “The mother cat isn’t anywhere nearby.”

And Remus would know, his werewolf senses able to scent her in an instant if she was around. 

“Can we keep her?” Harry asks.

“Ah, well…” 

“I told him that he had to ask you,” Remus says, the traitor.

“Cats are a lot of work,” Sirius tries.

“I can take care of her,” Harry says. “Moony got me a book.”

“Did he, now?” Sirius says, trying to shoot Remus a glare, but Remus is ignoring him. Of course.

“Please?” Harry tugs on his hand, looking up at him with wide, imploring eyes. “She doesn’t have a mum, just like me. I can look after her.” 

Sirius drags a hand down his face. Oh, how this kid has played him. Despite himself, he feels faintly proud. 

“Yes, fine,” he says, and Harry shouts in glee. “But she’s your responsibility, Harry.” 

“I know. Thank you, Dad!” Harry throws his arms around Sirius’s waist, squeezing him tightly. Remus also gives Sirius a pleased smile, and Sirius rolls his eyes. As if he could ever deny the two of them anything.

Harry spends the rest of the evening attending to the kitten, learning how to bottle-feed her from Remus and debating various names for her. He rejects all of Sirius’s suggestions (even though Sirius thought that “Salome” was an excellent choice, actually, and “Minnie” was a close second) and eventually settles on Cleo. 

“S’pose she’s kind of cute,” Sirius says when they’re up in the middle of the night to feed her. She’s still tiny, too young to be away from her mother, and needs feeding every few hours. Remus wasn’t about to make Harry get up to do it. 

“Want to hold her?” Remus asks, and Sirius snorts. 

“Nah, ‘m not a cat person.” 

***

He’s been a Healer for the better part of ten years now, but no part of his training adequately prepares him for the sight of Harry, pale as death, standing at the bottom of the stairs with blood streaming down his arm and dripping onto the floor. 

“Sorry about the carpet, Padfoot,” Harry says weakly.

***

Sirius is napping on the couch when the Floo roars and Harry comes tumbling out of it, followed closely by Remus. The boy’s talking a mile a minute, excitedly recounting to Remus every moment of his weekend with the Weasleys. Remus takes Harry by the shoulders and steers him quickly into the kitchen, murmuring, “Harry, we talked about this, Dad isn’t feeling well, so we need to keep it down.” 

Their voices fall to quiet murmurs, and Sirius drifts off again. 

Remus wakes him at dinnertime with a glass of water and some more potions. Sometime during his nap, Cleo had joined him, and she’s curled up and purring on his stomach. 

“‘m not a cat person,” Sirius mutters dejectedly. Cleo, oblivious to this fact, purrs away.

“I know, darling,” Remus says, sounding amused. “But Cleo seems to think otherwise. Come on, potions first, and then some food.” 

Sirius grimaces as he swallows the potions, then manages half a bowl of soup. Remus goes off to make dinner for himself and Harry, but Cleo is content to stay right where she is.

“You’re s’posed to be Harry’s, y’know,” Sirius murmurs to her. 

Cleo only purrs louder. 

***

Sirius hadn’t been prepared for the memories that would slap him in the face when he stepped onto Platform 9 ¾. Seeing the Hogwarts Express for the first time in many years--and yet, at the same time, in hardly any time at all--transports him instantly back twenty years ago, to the day that changed his life for good. 

Remus’s hand finds his and squeezes. Harry’s taking everything in with wide, wondrous eyes. 

“Got everything?” Sirius asks him, even though he knows that Harry does. The boy’s been packed since mid-summer, and if by any chance he’s forgotten anything, Sirius can owl it to him immediately.

“Yep.” Harry looks at them both, sudden apprehension tingeing his expression. “I should...probably go find a compartment?”

“Probably,” Remus says. “We’re cutting it a little bit close. I’m sure Ron and Neville are already here, and you can sit with them.” 

Ron is indeed already on the train, and Remus helps Harry get his trunk and Hedwig settled in his compartment. Sirius opens his arms for a hug, and Harry falls into them. He’s so thankful for this boy who is as affectionate as James was, and hugs him tightly.

“Don’t forget to write to us,” he says. 

“I won’t.” 

“And use the mirror if you need it.”

“I will.” 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad.” Harry presses his face into Sirius’s chest. Sirius squeezes him tighter.

“We’ll see you at Christmas, baby.” He drops a kiss on top of Harry’s head, then releases him so that he can hug Remus.

[dearfuturehusbandblog]

ZMAN CHEIRUSEINU aka "I'M the terrible communicator!?!?!?!!"

Dear Future Husband,

I hope nobody ever quizzes me on this blog because there are so many things that I've started and stopped writing that never got posted that I literally never remember what I've actually put here...

Not that that's really fully relevant to what I was thinking about writing now, but I currently have two unfinished posts in my drafts folder (amidst 25 others that will probably never get posted) that are just a recap of this year so far.

Because I'm just a kid and life is a nightmare.

Explaining what's going on right now is kind of problematic because I haven't provided the lengthy backstory yet (which is one of the drafts I have yet to finish...)

Suffice to say, MotherLivelyHeart is being a nightmare to me again.

I think I've shared before that MLH and I share a vehicle? If not... yeah, we share a car. I'll have to look through my posts to see if I've explained that situation before, because that's one more thing to check off the "my life absolutely f*ing sucks" list.

Usually this isn't the worst thing in the world because we operate on different schedules and there isn't much crossover when it comes to who needs the car when, and when there is I usually drop her off somewhere, do what I need to do, and pick her up after.

For the record, I HATE when she offers the opposite because I have a history of being abandoned in places waiting for her to pick me up and it gives me such severe anxiety.

So last week on Sunday I asked MLH what her plans were for the next day. I asked this because I overheard a phone call she received on Friday from the dentist's office about an appointment she had on Monday at noon that she hadn't told me anything about and I knew if I was going to ever find out she was going to take the car, I would have to be the one to ask her. So I asked. And wouldn't you believe it, she had a dentist appointment on Monday at noon! Shocker.

Now, I'd been out of work since the beginning of January (again, details will hopefully be in another post) so I had a lot to take care of at work last Monday and I told her that.

We agreed she would have the car for her appointment and I would take the car to work when she got home.

Come Monday afternoon, suddenly everything has changed.

You see, her boss called in sick and she had the day off because she has a specific job that requires her to work alongside her boss and if he doesn't work, she doesn't work.

So she had the day off. Joy.

Of course, did she tell this to me directly? No.

Did she message me this information? No.

I'm just supposed to approach her and ask, "hey, did your boss call in sick and give you the day off?" I guess.

So she went to her appointment and ran some errands and called me while she was still out. Apparently some specific water bottles she can only get in like two places were available at one store about 20 minutes away from our house and she placed a pickup order so she could get them before they were sold out. The order had to be picked up between like 2:30-3:30pm and she called me at around 1:30.

Great.

She picked a pickup time that was directly during the time I was supposed to be at work.

Which she knew.

Because I told her this literally the day before.

So I told her fine. She should do the pickup order and when she got back I would take the car to work.

"Well, I also wanted to go swimming."

*Deep breath* Ok, what time is swimming?

"From 2-9pm."

At this point I didn't know how long I'd be at work because one of the things I had to take care of could be like 4-6 hours and I didn't know if there would be enough time when I was done to get home and let her get to the pool with enough time to swim before they closed.

"Ok, well why don't you go swimming, do the pickup order, and then I'll take the car to work?"

"Well, I want to come home and eat something first."

Ok. So now, what was supposed to be my time to take the car is going to be "stolen" by her coming home (15 minutes), eating something (15 minutes), going to swim (40 minutes), getting the pickup order (30 minutes), and coming back home (20 minutes).

This is TWO HOURS off of my time.

WHICH I HAD TOLD HER I NEEDED LITERALLY THE DAY BEFORE.

So she came home, ate something, and changed into her bathing suit. She left around 2pm for the pool.

I assumed at this point I'd hear from her around 3:30pm that she was around the corner.

But 3:30 came and went.

4:00pm came and went.

4:30pm came and went.

5:00pm came and BigSis messaged that she would be done at work in an hour and could either of us give her a ride home?

MOTHERF@*$%^#$ER

So it's been three hours without an update from MLH, but then she responds "I should be on my way back from the pickup order then."

EXCUSE ME!?!?!?!

She left for the pool at 2pm. THREE HOURS have gone by and she hasn't even gotten the pickup order that was supposed to be picked up between 2:30-3:30pm!?!?!?!!?!?

But she tells me that I'M a terrible communicator.

I was supposed to get the car by 1:30pm latest. It was now after 5pm and I STILL hadn't gotten to work yet.

As much as I hate when she offers to drop me off at work so she can take care of things that will take a few hours, SHE DIDN'T EVEN ASK ME THAT. She made it seem like I would have the car all afternoon to take care of what I needed to at work. And when her plans shifted, she made it seem like I'd have the car by 3:30pm latest.

And let me remind you THAT I TOLD HER THE DAY BEFORE WHAT MY SCHEDULE WAS SO THAT THIS S*** WOULDN'T HAPPEN.

But I'M the terrible communicator.

At that point I was so frickin annoyed already. MLH messaged me "should I get her or just come home" and I was so peeved I said "just get her because if you come home and I take the car I'm not picking her up."

She didn't respond to that message.

Great.

No thumbs up. No "ok." Just nothing.

Then at 6:12pm I get a message from her "car's downstairs in front."

So no message from BigSis that MLH had picked her up and they were heading home. No "we're around the corner." No nothing except over an hour later "take it."

BUT I'M THE TERRIBLE COMMUNICATOR!?

At that point it was too late for me to do some of the things I needed to take care of for work because, again, I was supposed to have been there FIVE HOURS EARLIER. And a friend messaged and asked if I could go with her to Costco, so I said to hell with it and I went to Costco with her.

While I was at Costco I messaged both MotherLivelyHeart and BigSis about what I was getting so we were all on the same page. Included in that message was eggs because, well, I was getting eggs.

I got home at like 10pm and MotherLivelyHeart and BigSis were already asleep. I made a couple of mini salami kugels with some spinach that oddly floated to the top, waited for them to cool, tried 1/4 of one before sticking them in the fridge.

Next morning I open the fridge and there's a new carton of 1.5 dozen eggs. Because apparently MLH went to the supermarket early in the morning and got eggs because "we were out."

DESPITE ME LITERALLY MESSAGING THE NIGHT BEFORE THAT I WAS BUYING EGGS AT COSTCO.

Oh, but it gets better. Because the salami kugel I had tasted the night before was missing.

BigSis was working from home so I asked her about it and she said she had no clue.

So I asked MotherLivelyHeart about it, thinking maybe it slipped out of the fridge, smashed, and she threw it out.

But no.

Guess who ate it.

Yep, the woman who has been suffering from gout and avoiding meat for the better part of a year.

The woman who saw it in the fridge and said to herself "oh, that's one of the broccoli kugels LivelyHeart made for herself for Shabbos that she said wasn't good. I guess I'll eat that for breakfast without asking her if she really doesn't want it because although she's on a weird diet right now, there's no way she's made a meal plan for herself that includes this food item she made for herself."

Because, did she message me to ask if she could have it?

Nope.

Did she knock on my door to ask if she could have it?

Nope.

Halfway through eating it she realized it was salami.

And she still finished the whole thing.

And still at NO POINT did she message me AT ALL to even tell me that she ate it.

I had to find out by inquiring OF HER.

BUT. I'M. THE. TERRIBLE. COMMUNICATOR!?!?!?!

I shouldn't be mad.

It's just food, after all, right?

Except that it's not.

It's a frickin pattern of carelessness and disregard for me as a person.

And I'm so frickin sick of it.

I'm so damn tired.

It wouldn't have killed her to ask.

It wouldn't have killed her to apologize.

And what I haven't really explained here (because again, that's in a draft post) is that I've been on an elimination diet since January 1st which has cut most things from my available food selections.

But is she on an elimination diet?

Nope.

So we have a HOUSEFUL, a PANTRYFUL, and a FRIDGEFUL of food she can eat.

And she chooses the ONE thing I made FOR ME.

Which she KNEW I made for ME.

Instead of the MYRIAD OF THINGS that she can eat that I can't.

Which means that she's not only taken a meal from me, but now I'm at a food deficit from the fridge while she lives in abundance.

BUT. I'M. THE. TERRIBLE. COMMUNICATOR.

So let's leap forward to today.

Today was Shabbos mevorchim. Pesach is in two weeks.

And MotherLivelyHeart decided we are going to change over the kitchen two weeks ahead this year.

So she scheduled her cleaning lady to come tomorrow (Sunday) to help clean the kitchen so it can be turned over.

Did she take into account that this would be motzei Shabbos and that we'd have to make Shabbos and that would involve dirty dishes and use of the stove/oven and pots and pans?

Yeah, no.

Did she take into account that the way she wants to clean the oven requires the oven to be self-cleaned before and after which takes a good several hours and creates so much smoke that we'd have to keep the windows open and also it's like 40F right now and she also wanted to go to sleep early because the cleaning lady is coming at like 8am?

Yeah, no.

BigSis went over the oven cleaning thing with her and she exclaimed "are you kidding me?! Then why am I having the cleaning lady come tomorrow?!"

BECAUSE YOU SCHEDULED HER WITHOUT CONSULTING US.

BECAUSE THERE WAS NO COMMUNICATION.

DO YOU SEE A FRICKIN THEME HERE!?!?!!?

Oh, but there's more. Because there's always more.

Thursday was another nightmare day for various reasons. One of which was that I ran errands with MotherLivelyHeart.

She scheduled an appointment for smackdab in the middle of the time I told her I'd be working.

YES. AGAIN.

And she wanted to drop me off at work and pick me up when I was done.

Well absofrickinlutelynot, thankyouverymuch.

I was supposed to work until 6pm.

I had told customers I would be available until 6pm.

Her appointment was scheduled for 6pm.

So of course "I need the car at 5:30pm."

She wanted to drive me to work earlier so that she could take the car at 5:30pm to her appointment that wouldn't be done until 7pm and then come get me an hour and a half after I was done working.

But I was supposed to trust that she wouldn't run errands or dilly dally around and that she'd actually get me at 7:30pm, which we know is never the case.

So I told her no, I'd be taking the car to work. But I would notify the customers I'd only be there until 5:30pm, at which point I'd get her and drive her to her appointment. Then while she was in her appointment I could do the Shabbos shopping, since it seemed pointless to have to wait for her to come home again before I could go out and shop.

For various reasons, we had three stores we needed to go to, one of which was about 20 minutes in the opposite direction of where her appointment was. I figured I could go there first, then on my way back to get her I could run by the other two stores, get her and then we'd go straight home.

But no.

Because it was raining and people apparently don't know how to drive in the rain. So despite me taking the highway, which should have cut like 10 minutes out of the ride each way, it took me about 30 minutes to get to that first store, which I was in for maybe 10 minutes, and as I was checking out MLH messaged "my appointment is almost over, where are you at?"

So all I had time for was turning around and going straight to get her.

Which, fine, whatever.

One of the stores we went to literally just for chicken.

And it was chicken for her because she wanted a specific type of breaded chicken for Shabbos.

So I figured I'd run into the store and grab it while she stayed in the car.

But no.

Because while I was unbuckling, she was unbuckling. Because she decided to come in.

So she went to look at side salads and I went to the chicken section where I waited but she never showed up.

Then I get a message from her.

"Where are you?"

Excuse me???? WHERE ARE YOU, WOMAN???

I told her I was at the chicken section waiting for her and she said "I already checked out. I'm going back to the car."

WE LITERALLY WENT TO THIS STORE TO BUY HER CHICKEN.

SHE CAME IN WITH ME.

PRESUMABLY TO BUY HER CHICKEN.

But she's checked out already!? WITH WHAT!?

Oh. Apparently something to eat. Because she's hangry.

Which she, OF COURSE, DID NOT TELL ME.

Fine. Whatever.

So I bought her frickin chicken.

And then on the way home she got mad at me about three driving-related things that were out of my control (like the car started making a weird noise that might be the muffler, and there was a huge pothole I couldn't avoid, and I was coming to a stop at an intersection when some lady rounded the corner quickly and we barely missed colliding...) which resulted in her yelling at me that she hates the way I'm driving.

So, yeah, that was a fun ride home.

*EYEROLL*

Anyway, on the way to her appointment she said "we never worked out a Shabbos menu."

I told her the same thing I've told her almost every week over the last three months: I'm eating differently from you guys, so you just tell me what you want and I'll grab it from the store, because I already have set aside what I'm going to eat.

And she tells me "my boss has off tomorrow, so I can cook."

Which is perfectly fine in my eyes because I'm still recovering from an injury (again, that's one of the drafted posts...) and I also had a horrendous cold for the previous two weeks so I'm still trying to get back to baseline. Any pressure off me is appreciated.

We basically worked out that for shabbos we'd do a big soup for Friday night (which I would make), then she wanted chicken (obvs) and I had bought green beans at Costco I told her she could have, and then Shabbos lunch would be fish and salady stuff.

Well, Friday rolls around.

The day already sucked because I tried adding some vegetables back into my diet during the week that are apparently problematic for my digestion. Fun.

But then MotherLivelyHeart decides to stick to her arbitrary Pesach cleaning schedule which says to clean the milchig dishes she's had piling up all week. So of course she decides to do this at like noon and doesn't finish the job and there are still milchig dishes in the sink at 3pm when I need to go in and make the soup.

Add onto that, one of my "chores" is the pareve dishes, some of which have been piling up too and also need to be done, which she feels the need to remind me of, despite her milchig dishes still filling the sink.

So I go in around 3pm and just start cooking, using the small bit of counter space that's available to me.

She decides that's the perfect time to finish the milchig dishes.

FINE. WHATEVER.

She gets them out of the way and reminds me YET AGAIN about the pareve dishes.

FINEWHATEVER.

So around 4pm I'm back in the kitchen, doing the pareve dishes, of which I only got about half done because it was causing pain and I still had to cook.

So I pivoted and did the soup.

But nothing else had been cooked yet.

So I made the green beans.

And I had to separate the soups so I could add things to theirs that I can't eat.

At this point I'm still annoyed from her the day before, my insides are so unhappy with the newly tested foods, I'm in pain from the injury, and I'm trying to cook for Shabbos.

Around 6pm I asked BigSis if she could help with the chicken. She was like "I STILL HAVE TO SHOWER!!!" As though she didn't have all day for that and somehow me needing help is my fault. She said "if you had asked me like three hours ago I could have done it."

Except that three hours ago, the milchig dishes were still filling up the sink, so.... what exactly do you expect from me!?

Sometime a little earlier when MotherLivelyHeart had been in the kitchen it was clear I wasn't doing so well and she asked what was wrong and I described the pain and she was like "I'm sorry" and then disappeared.

So then she gets a "20 minutes to candle lighting" alarm on her phone, and she's been trying to light early in zchus of the hostages and chayalim, so she calls out "20 minutes to licht benchen." Which I responded to but she didn't hear, obviously, because she yelled again "LivelyHeart, did you hear me!?"

To which I responded an annoyed "YES!!" and she was like "you don't have to talk to me that way! I clearly didn't hear you. And BigSis and I can make Shabbos on our own, you know."

Which, MYGODWOMAN. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO.

My responsibility based on our conversation was the soup.

ZE HU.

SHE was supposed to do the chicken and the green beans and whatever else they wanted.

So now she's annoyed at me because I'm annoyed at her for not doing the thing she was supposed to do, but I'M the one in the wrong.

FINE. Whatever.

In the end I didn't do the chicken.

I literally didn't have the strength for it, let alone the energy.

Not that it was really missed at the meal, but she was a bit annoyed and gave me that same "BigSis and I can cook for Shabbos on our own, you know." To which I responded "You said you were going to cook." I literally don't even remember what her response was.

Well, fast forward through Shabbos to tonight because I asked her if she wanted the chicken for melava malka or if we should stick it in the freezer for a week since it's KFP.

She wanted it for melava malka.

Which, fine, whatever.

I told her if she could bread it, I would cook it.

She got gloves, she got bowls, she got the chicken, and she got eggs.

She did not get the other ingredients she needed for the breading. Or a plate to put it on. Or a fork.

She sat down at the table and then asked me to get the other ingredients.

Which, fine. Whatever.

I got an interesting piece of mail that I'll discuss in another post when I know more what's going on with it, but it basically called my attention to research something. So I was on my computer off to the side while she was breading the chicken.

The next thing I know, she's frying the chicken.

I went into the kitchen and asked her why she was frying it when I told her I would do it for her since cooking usually exhausts her, and she got all frustrated and exasperated at me and said something like "I DON'T HAVE ALL NIGHT TO WAIT FOR YOU."

And I was like, "what are you talking about!? I was waiting for you to finish breading it! you didn't tell me you were done!"

Which just pissed her off more.

BECAUSE. I'M. THE. TERRIBLE. COMMUNICATOR.

But this is the time of year we celebrate freedom, right?

This is the time of year we thank Hashem for rescuing us from a horrible situation.

Well, where's mine?

We're supposed to celebrate every year as though WE ALL left Mitzrayim.

As though we were ALL saved.

But I am not saved.

I have never been saved.

The stupidity I've just described above is just a piece of the insane patterning of my entire life.

I have no escape from this nonsense.

And I'm just so done with all of it.

I want it all to be over.

I want it all to go away.

Where's my freedom?

Where's my salvation?

I really have to finish those other two drafts, because this isn't even the clearest picture of what I've been dealing with since 2024 started. It's barely April and I just want this secular year to be over.

There are a couple of people who have suggested guys to me over the last several months and, although they're not really what I'm looking for, right now I just don't have the emotional energy for a new relationship. I'm just so burned out from this one that I deal with every frickin day of my stupid life, which of course I can't even tell these people.

So... dear future husband, I hope you can hang in there, because I don't know when I'll be ready for you.

But maybe by then I'll be a good communicator.

-LivelyHeart

And now for the story after the story:

So, after that disaster of a drive back from the store on Thursday night, we got home around 8:30pm and although she got something small to eat from that second supermarket I knew that MotherLivelyHeart hadn't eaten anything since lunch so when I made dinner for myself I made a second bowl for her. I brought it to her and she said "oh... you didn't have to do that." Not a lot of enthusiasm there.

She didn't eat it for about a half an hour, by which time it was probably cold, and the next thing I knew, she was in bed going to sleep without another word about how it was.

Now, I don't demand praise or feedback for anything I cook, but she usually makes a comment about whatever I make, so I found it odd that she was silent on the matter.

On Friday I went to ask her about something else and while I was talking to her I asked how her dinner was the night before and she said something along the lines of, "it was... interesting. ground chicken just doesn't cook well, it's not your fault. you prepared it well, it's just not that good. ground turkey is better."

No "thank you," no "it was sweet of you to think of me," no "I appreciate the effort especially considering that you're working through the pain right now."

Just meh.

I love when I'm appreciated.

[hamletwithelcors]

I was looking for something else in my dribbles folder, but I found this. It's a half-idea and very much unfinished, but I still enjoy it. Ryder x Reyes, but mostly just Ryder dealing with the aftermath of playing with Remtech on his own.

------

For a boy that once drunk ryncol and lived, the drop from Lexi's drug cocktail goes right to the top of Auggie’s shittiest experiences ever list. Whether that cocktail was trying to hold back in his mind or simply has broken fully open and existence simply transcends beyond comprehension.

Words stop having any sense of meaning as does time. Every sensation, every sound, explodes around him like ten thousand fractal grenades. It's too much, everything everywhere, and this constant ping ping ping like a broken radar but loud, so loud and no one else seems to hear it and he's pretty sure he's floating outside his body again too. It freaks him out, being too here and nowhere at the same time too.

He can't feel anything at all except the whole of the universe. It’s terrifying.

“It's a side-effect of the Remnant”, a light says and after an eternity or maybe just a moment, it adds, “I think.”

He blinks back into existence.

“You think?!?” Snapping his head up, it doesn’t take long for everything to become too much again and a hand quickly guides it back down again. He faceplants into something soft, solid, warm and another arm or maybe thirty loop around his waist.

It feels familiar, a repeated pattern over time and Auggie feels loved like he’s never been loved before.

“Just stay here.” It speaks gently, stroking what feels like his soul but probably is just his hair. It’s nice, until the first light continues.

“You used a lot of it. Unassisted. Your brain is …It’s trying to cope.”

“I'm gonna puke.”

“No. That’s why you're staying here. Breathe, it'll be fine.“ His favorite light says, gently guiding him back to reality with words and love.

“I like this light.” He pats the space in front of him. The hand stops, for a moment but moments are eternities now and Auggie just whines until it comes back.

“So needy.” But affection laces every syllable.

Nothing else tries to reason with him after that but hand stays put, gently playing with his soul as Auggie falls through a millennium of suspended motion.

When he finally reaches the end, breaking through the film of existence and time begins again and words stop overlying into a millions languages and dialects, Auggie finds himself on the Tempest.

He’s in his room, though not in his bed.

Outside, a dark unnatural planet floats in space, barely visible to the naked eye. Stars burn around and he's curled up against Reyes' chest.

It must be uncomfortable, with his feet up on the desk. That, and Auggie’s scrawny ass can’t be helping any. He weighs nearly nothing, but nearly nothing over a millennium must still be exhausting all the same.

There's still a hand in his hair, and exhaustion tugs his head down again. What's another hour, after all?

[liminalmemories21]

Fic Writer Interview

tagged by @jesuisici33. Thank you.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

33 apparently. How did that happen?

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 

486,829

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

first four fics in the Long Story Short Series, and then It came without ribbons! It came without tags! It came without packages, boxes, or bags!

The first doesn't surprise me, just because those were the first stories I wrote so they've been up the longest. The second does.

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

Yes. I love reading comments, and I always kind of feel like I'm having a conversation between the fic I wrote, and the comment, and then the response. It's nice.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

None? I honestly don't think anything I've written has an angsty ending.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

All of them? I'm not writing fic to depress my serotonin levels.

7. Do you write crossovers?

Not really. Or at least not yet. I've referenced 911 (OG) in a couple stories, but no real crossovers. There's one I kind of want to write where Carlos and Eddie knew each other from before, but I haven't figured out what the point of the story would be beyond - hey look they're both from Texas (and not even near each other in Texas)

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Just once. It was weird.

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

I have taught myself how to.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No.

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

Not one I've posted. I have co-written a couple fics that never quite got finished with a friend, in a different fandom.

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Well, to write it's definitely TK/Carlos, although I have an unfinished Academic!AU for The Old Guard that I love. To read . . . do not make me choose between my children.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

See above about Academic!AU for The Old Guard. I mean never say never, but it's been a couple of years.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I like to think, dialogue, internal monologue, and a vibrant OC

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

Staring at my google docs folder and going, nope not today when it comes to editing.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I don't. A word here or there, but my Spanish is limited to menus and slowly working my way through a museum sign. I wouldn't try and write anything in it.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Published? Tarlos.

Unpublished? Umm, let's not talk about that Smallville fic that's on a thumb drive somewhere. Or the Merlin Acamedic!AU that was just an excuse for a friend and I to write about our love affair with Edinburgh. Or The Old Guard, which I wrote recently enough that it's probably not actually embarrassing and I should really go back and reread and fix because it's like 90% done.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

RWRB. I love those characters so much.

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Knave-verse. Specifically Knave 2.

Also, I have a really soft spot in my heart for through sames of am through haves of give about TK's relationship with Enzo, because I love Enzo and it is criminal how the show has never given us an Enzo (although, let's be honest I'm going to be disappointed if they do and it's not Stanley Tucci).

tagging @carlos-tk, @heartstringsduet, @irispurpurea, @lightningboltreader, @orchidscript, @reyesstrand, @theghostofashton, and @walkinginland

[thechaoscryptid]

The Great WIP Cleanout of 2024

(and a general life update because hello, I am indeed still alive)

SO 👏🏻 I've been busy doing pretty much everything BUT writing for the bulk of the year, but especially these past few months I've been absent. There's been a lot of zine work (ended up as a surprise shipping and finance mod on four projects in various stages of completion), a lot of knitting (hats are my favorite things, actually), and I got really into M*A*S*H over the summer (Hawkeye...beloved.....).

Despite the large amount of not-writing, I have been working on SOME things. I published my first erotica story in @/duckprintspress anthology Many Hands, I have a narrative poem in an upcoming poetry zine from Memento Viviere Press, and have been picking steadily at some other short stories for publication and press patreon rewards.

I also have a really, really big creative journey I'm about to embark on, and that means getting serious about what I'm actually going to finish and NOT finish fanwork-wise (as well as doing some major housecleaning in my docs folders so I can go into this with a clear head).

I've got a whole shitload of work in my documents that, realistically, I am not going to finish. I'm either uninterested in the work, the fandom, or some other aspect of the ~process~ and those obstacles are making finishing the WIP more hassle than it's worth. That said, I want to share what I have, because some of it slaps (even though it's old)!

Sooooo over the next week or so, you can expect to see me putting quite a bit of unfinished and abandoned work on AO3 in the interest of utilizing its ARCHIVE function. I'll also be posting a summary to finish Wake the White Wolf - the fic was SO close to my heart for a long time, and I'm really grateful for every single person who's ever been invested, but the style and knowledge gap between when I stopped updating and now is just. Impossible to bridge (and not something I have the time and energy to do these days).

I'm gonna try and be here a little more too, because I miss interacting with y'all. I think the time away has done me a solid and left me a bit more centered, more able to get in touch with myself and really hammer out my next steps in both writing and life in general.

(and you can DEFINITELY count on me still doing fanwork, even though I've been moving toward more original stuff ❤️❤️)

[issybettyx]

SBI AU LOVERS HIIII

This morning me and my friends were having discussions about our brains and aphantasia and so on and so forth. The thing is, my brain is just silence apart from songs. I can’t see anything, and when i try say words they repeat as if on a broken record and I cant think of anything else

HOWEVER!!!!! My creativity is unstopped, and so I have a longggggg long list of unfinished fics of all varietys, a few of which (one from each duo, i have a folder for each sbi duo oml) I am shortly explaining below with a snippet and how many words of it i have written, because my word is overloaded with documents i don’t touch so :D

Enjoy!!!

———

1. Angel duo - Phil is a worker in the music industry who finds people who could make it, and Tommy’s just trying to have fun playing music.

667 words

Phil: hey mate i think you’re great-

Tommy: not interested soz xx

Phil: … wanna be my son instead then?

2. Bedrock bros (this one was difficult i have 11 bedrock bros docs in this folder so) - Techno has a boring ass life, routine shit, and Tommy is this magical child who almost gets hit by his car. Soon Techno finds this child trailing after him everywhere he goes, and so he has no choice but to become his dad.

2376 words

3. Crimeboys - fic inspired by Unlikely Events, which is inspired/based off of Detroit Become Human, highly recommend both!! Wilbur is a detective who was given the job of looking into deviants, but on one of his searches he finds an unopened android box, and inside is an android called Tommy, who is believed to have been bought for illegal purposes. Wilbur plans to exploit this, but is shocked to find himself growing attached, and even more shocked to find Tommy growing attached too.

6340 words

4. Emerald duo- this fic is LONGGG so in very summarised summary- Techno was kidnapped as a young child and raised in a ‘vigilante programme’. Phil, the number 1 hero, had his child stolen from him when the kid was only a few days old. So, when a vigilante is on the streets with the same emerald he gifted his missing child and bright white wings too similar to his own pitch black, he gets curious, but finds out way more than he bargained for.

23,846 words (i made designs for this man and everything)

// brief mention of the following: abuse, abandonment

5. Sand duo (i have 1 sand duo fic - i should fix that)- i basically got bored one day and said ‘i’m going to make father and son suffer- oh and tommy’s unalive too :D there’s no point in summarising it you can get the gist from one screenshot

427 words

// blood implication, death mention

6. Twins duo- they’re twin brothers and they’re ninjas, they fight horrible criminal organisations and bump into a father and his son who got roped into it. But guess what? There’s also MAGIC. Phil has magic, which is weird cus Techno didn’t notice and Techno ALWAYS notices, cus he’s awesome like that. Anyways they keep bumping into eachother and become family in the end

3125 words

Anyways if you enjoyed this I’m glad :D i might make another one, yknow with my 49 unfinished sbi fics, this was only SIX of them, so :D

Good day, and check out my ao3 if you like my writing cus i actually do post some of the stuff i write!!! <33 (issybettyx)