#*continues writing on my google document. . . . .*

[aster-daydream404]

I CAN’T STAND THEM!!!

[sexynetra]

❄️💧

❄️ share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing

“Shut up. I wasn’t staring. I hate you.” She griped, a last ditch effort to keep her defenses up, but Anetra just snorted and cracked one eye open.

“No. You really don’t.” She smirked.

“I really don’t,” Marcia echoed gently, moving a wayward strand of hair out of Anetra’s face.

💧 Share something romantic/hot from your WIP, or just something sweet if it's gen.

The soft bites and licks had Marcia’s head swirling, and she knew that there would be marks afterward, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“Do we have to worry about your roommate coming back anytime soon?” Anetra breathed out, trailing her kisses up Marcia’s throat and onto her jaw.

[yannawayne]

viii. a little death

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: MILD SMUT (will put indicators if people want to skip), Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Suggestive jokes, Doppelgangers AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

The black of his suit bleeds seamlessly into the surrounding darkness, making him appear more phantom than man.

He looks like a living nightmare.

Damian lifts his head just in time to see Batman towering over you, his cape billowing ominously in the night breeze. A cold chill runs down Damian's spine as dread settles heavy in his chest. Of all people, his father was the last person he wanted to find him here like this—vulnerable, exposed, and with you.

Reacting on pure instinct, Damian scrambles to his feet, positioning himself firmly between you and the Dark Knight.

"Father." Damian’s voice is low but steady, though the weight of what’s happening lingers in every syllable. His mind races, knowing that Batman doesn’t recognize you in your vigilante form and likely believes he's cheating on you.

To Batman, this looks like betrayal.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 12:13 AM - Stark Tower, Gotham City.

The rhythmic clacking of a keyboard filled the room, a steady, almost hypnotic sound that gently tugged you from sleep. You stirred, the tangled sheets wrapping around you like a cozy cocoon. Damian’s strong arms were draped around your shoulders and waist, his warmth a comforting presence as he held you close.

As he shifted slightly, his fingers traced absentminded patterns along your back, a tender caress that sent a soft shiver of relaxation down your spine. You groaned softly, turning towards him and resting your head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart beneath your ear was a soothing, rhythmic pulse, grounding you in the comfort of his embrace.

Across the room, Morgan was propped up at your desk, her messy hair pulled back with a headband, though a few stray tendrils had escaped and framed her face in an untidy halo. Her eyes were fixed intently on the laptop screen, where a Google document was open, filled with lines of text that seemed to flow endlessly. In her free hand, she cradled a steaming cup of coffee, the rich aroma wafting through the room and mingling with the faint scent of the morning air. 

After returning to the tower yesterday, you and Damian had practically slept through the entire morning—this one, however... 

You groaned, burying your cheek deeper into the pillow as you tried to block out the light from the laptop and her typing. 

“You bitch. Do you ever sleep?” you grumbled, your voice thick with sleep as you rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand.

Morgan gave you a lopsided grin, the steam from her coffee curling around her face like a comforting fog. “Sleep? What’s that?”

You rolled onto your back, stretching your limbs. “That’s usually my line.”

She shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee. “I know. Just kinda hyper tonight,” she said, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she continued typing.

"By the way,” she hummed thoughtfully, “what kinks do you think Nightcrawler would have?"

"..."

You could feel Damian’s confusion even before he spoke. "Excuse me?" he blinked at her, squinting as if he’d misheard. “Why on earth would you ask that? And why now, of all times?” “I’m writing fanfic,” she replied matter-of-factly, still typing away. “Ooh! You’re her boyfriend. What kind of freaky stuff do you think her hero-sona would be into?”

You stifled a laugh, propping yourself up on one elbow to enjoy the show. “Choking kink.”

Damian, who had been leaning against the headboard, choked on his own spit. His eyes widened in shock, and his face turned a deep crimson. “What?!”

“Don’t play dumb,” you snickered, reveling in the way his skin turned redder by the second. “I know you knew this one.”

Morgan’s gaze flickered between you two, her expression momentarily blank, though a hint of something inscrutable flashed in her eyes before she quickly shook it off. She returned to her typing, the clacking of keys filling the room once more.

“That’s so basic,” she huffed, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Give me a better one. I need something with a little more flair.”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Bondage, then. Webs, remember?”

Damian's face turned an even deeper shade of red at the mention of webs, his mind clearly racing to process the suggestion. 

Morgan’s fingers paused mid-keystroke as she considered your suggestion. A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face. “Web bondage? Now that’s more like it,” she said, quickly typing it in. “I can work with that.”

“I’m surrounded by lunatics,” he muttered.

Morgan grinned wickedly. “Lunatics, maybe, but this is going to be one hell of a fic. And don’t worry, Dames, I’ll make sure Robin gets some action too.”

He shot her a glare. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

“There are ships of us already?” you blink, surprised. 

Morgan coughs into her hand, an odd twist in her face. “There are ships of everyone these days. People have imaginations that just don’t quit. "

“I had no idea,” you said, blinking in surprise. “What do they call it? SpideyBird? WebWing?”

Damian looked genuinely disgusted. “Why do they even need a name for it? Why are people spending time on this?”

You patted Damian’s shoulder reassuringly, trying to lighten the mood. “At least they’re rooting for us to be together, right?”

Morgan just shrugged off Damian’s reaction and continued to write. “The fanfics of you are pretty fresh. Only around a hundred works so far, but the edits…” She trailed off, her fingers fumbling for her phone with a mischievous grin.

Groaning, you shut your eyes as Morgan’s grin widened. 

“Do not show me—” you began, but before you could finish, the audio started blaring from her phone.

Well, come and get it now Come and get it now Baby, show me what you're doing Come and turn around 'Cause it's not just a figure of speech You got me down on my knees It's getting harder to breathe out

“MORGAN!”

She looked up, grinning widely as if she’d been waiting for this exact reaction.

“What?” she laughed, thoroughly enjoying the moment. “You can’t tell me this hot.”

Curiosity got the better of you, and despite your better judgment, you peeked at the screen. The video was a shaky close-up, showing you leaning against a car, your hair tousled and your armor cracked. You were breathing heavily, your head thrown back.

The camera zoomed in slowly, and the lyrics that accompanied it were dramatic and overly romantic, turning the entire scene into something far more intimate than it had ever been. You could almost understand why someone might find it “hot,” but that didn’t stop the wave of embarrassment from flooding through you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “That is horrible. I was literally on the brink of death. Was that from last night?” “Yeah,” Morgan nodded as she replayed the clip. “Your fans ate it up. Apparently, it’s going viral.”

Damian, who had been eerily silent throughout the entire exchange, finally broke his silence. “Where is that on?”

You immediately yanked your hands away from your face, your eyes wide with disbelief. “No. Don’t even think about it.”

“Tiktok,” Morgan answered casually, a hint of mischief in her tone. To your horror, Damian pulled out his phone

“Don’t you dare!” you warned, but it was too late. Damian was already typing your codename into the search bar. 

As the search results loaded, an edit began to play, and you felt your face flush with heat. The chosen song only seemed to amplify the humiliation. 

Touch me, yeah I want you to touch me there Make me feel like I am breathing Feel like I am human

Damian, smirked, liked the video, and saved it.

“STOP!”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 8:06 AM - Gotham City.

"..."

"..."

"Why—"

"Don't—" you seethed, sinking deeper into the plush leather seat of Tony’s limousine. The soft leather creaked under your weight as you clenched the armrest, your knuckles turning white. "Don’t even say a word."

Damian pressed his lips together, suppressing a smirk. 

His gaze drifted over your outfit—no, the uniform you’d been practically forced into. The Stark Industries cap perched on your head was like a crown of corporate shame, its logo glaring down at you from the brim. Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your torso, the bold emblem stretched so tightly across your chest it might as well have been tattooed on. Even your sneakers were branded with that obnoxious red logo.

You felt like a sellout.

“You look stunning,” Damian said, barely holding back a laugh as he glanced over at you from his seat across the limo. 

“Stunning?!” You shot him a scowl, the edges of your mouth twitching downward. “I look ridiculous!”

“Why didn’t you just wear—”

“I couldn’t!” you snapped, jabbing a finger at Morgan. “This fucking ginger goblin threw my clothes out! Now I’m stuck as a goddamn billboard!”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo," she mocked, turning to you from her spot in the limo, sprawled comfortably on the cushions. Her fingers casually brushed against the plush fabric as she spoke, “Don’t shoot the messenger. Dad’s idea, not mine. He wanted you to have a ‘fresh look.’”

You turned to Tony, who was lounging at the far edge of the limo, his dress shoes propped up against one of the seats. He was absorbed in his phone, mindlessly scrolling through this week’s gossip. Occasionally, he chuckled to himself, completely oblivious to the steam practically pouring out of your ears.

Fighting the urge to choke-slam him right then and there, you spoke up “What the hell is this all for, anyways?”

Tony peered up from his phone and grinned, “Oh, come on. It’s a marketing move. There’s going to be paparazzi and everything. We thought it’d be fun to put you in our new line of promotional gear.”

“Fun? You think this is fun?!”

“It’s not like we’re asking you to wear spandex,” Morgan snickered, her eyes drifting to meet Damian’s. He shot her a glare in response. “It’s just a little branding.”

“I’d almost rather be wearing spandex,” you grumble, pressing your cheek to the cool glass of the window. Your breath fogs up the surface, creating a clouded view of the city beyond.

Morgan whistles. "That's a sight I'd love to see."

You roll your eyes. The cityscape outside rushes by, a blur of towering buildings and streaks of light blending into a hazy, indistinct swirl. Outside, the world seems distant, almost unreal, as if you're moving too fast to truly grasp any of it.

“By the way, you’re going to hate me, but…” Morgan spoke up again, reaching into her bag. “I also brought a jacket.” She held out a sleek, branded jacket that perfectly matched the rest of the outfit.

You slammed your head into the glass and vowed to burn every Stark-branded item you owned.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 8:14 AM - Wayne Tower, Gotham City.

Bruce wondered if it was too late to file for unemployment.

He sat at the head of the conference table, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the middle-aged man droning on in a monotone voice. The man's garish mustard-yellow tie jerked awkwardly with each exaggerated gesture, as if trying to bring some life to the dull presentation. His glasses, too large for his face, inched down his nose with every movement, threatening to fall off completely.

“—as you've all been aware, we've been facing issues regarding our stolen drone flight technology due to criminal activity in the—”

The slides projected onto the screen, filled with graphs and charts, were melding into an endless stream of data that felt like it was slowly turning his brain into mush. Bruce barely registered them. Instead, his mind was a million miles away, lost in a fog. He let his attention drift to the ceiling tiles, idly counting the tiny imperfections as the briefing continued. 

TICK. TOK. TICK. TOK.

He glanced at his watch, stifling a groan as he saw only a few painful minutes had passed since he last checked. The meeting, as usual, felt like a slog, but today was particularly grueling. 

His thoughts kept drifting back to the text he received last night. Damian had invited him to your dress shop appointment today, telling him he would be covering the bill. Without a second thought, Bruce agreed and sent his card over—and if Alfred hadn’t intervened, he might have ended up buying out the entire boutique in his enthusiasm.

Could you blame him?

Much like Selina, you were stubbornly independent—always managing on your own, even when you needed support. It was a trait that made him proud, but it also left him wishing he could be more involved in your life.

If Bruce were a better man, less emotionally constipated as he often chastised himself, he might have reached out more. He might have asked if you needed to talk, offered his support more openly, and bridged the gap that seemed to widen with each passing year.

But he wasn’t that man. He was the one who held back, kept his feelings guarded, and let the distance grow because he didn’t know how to close it.

Adding salt to the wound, Stark would be there too, intruding on what should have been his time with you. 

An absolute diva. That man had a way of dominating any room, leaving little space for anything—or anyone—else. It wasn’t just Tony’s overwhelming presence that irked Bruce, but how effortlessly Stark seemed to connect with you.

In just a few months, Tony had managed to get closer to you than Bruce had in years. Where Bruce held back, Tony leaned in, closing the gap he couldn’t seem to bridge.

To make matters worse, Stark had already gotten a head start. Although Bruce would have loved to pick you up himself, he was stuck in this meeting he couldn’t cancel again—he’d already rescheduled it thirteen times.

Which is why, the moment the clock hit 12, he was already on his feet, pushing his chair back and making a beeline for the door.

"Sir, we still need to discuss—" mustard tie stuttered, but his protest was cut short as Bruce, without turning or breaking his stride, raised a hand and dismissed him with a flick of the wrist.

“Contact my secretary if you need anything,” Bruce called over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for debate. The matter was closed.

“I’ll handle whatever needs to be done tonight,” he said, shutting the door firmly behind him.

And he would. Bruce had already gathered a significant amount of data on Black Mask and the recent robberies plaguing Wayne Enterprises. Although the case had taken a backseat amid the chaos with the spider vigilante, it was time to refocus. The priority now was to tackle what truly needed his attention.

As he stormed through the hallways, the lens of a nearby CCTV camera tracked his movements.

The camera’s feed flickered momentarily. The image on the screen sputtered and glitched, revealing fleeting glimpses of different worlds—flashes of varying times and places. Colors bled into one another, shapes twisted and warped, and for a brief, disorienting moment, the image seemed to fracture, as if reality itself was breaking apart.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the glitching ceased. The feed stabilized, leaving only a faint trace of the anomaly that had briefly unsettled the surveillance system.

Bruce jabbed the button for the ground floor and slid into the elevator. 

The lens refocused, but he was already out of sight.

 ༻⊰───⋅

The vehicle glided to a stop in front of a gleaming marble building, and you all stepped out, heading toward the entrance. The interior was as opulent as the exterior promised. Marble floors gleamed underfoot, and glass walls reflected the polished attendants who moved gracefully in their sharp suits. Nearby, customers mingled and laughed, their designer outfits adding vibrant splashes of color to the sleek surroundings. 

Your attention was drawn to the sleek signage behind the lobby desk, where a name was displayed in elegant gold lettering.

“La Ouvere.”

French. Expensive. So luxurious it practically oozed excess. Because, of course, this was the place Tony chose.

Grumbling, you adjusted your cap to hide your face. 

You couldn’t believe he made you wear company merch to a place like this. 

CLAP.

You looked up just in time to see two rough hands slam together in a handshake, the sound sharp and echoing through the lobby like a gunshot. Tony and Bruce exchanged pleasantries, their faces stretched into wide, almost painfully forced grins.

"Bruce! Good to see you," Tony started, his voice oozing with practiced charm. "I’ve got to say, I am a huge fan of your recent striptease at the Iceberg Lounge."

"Ha." Bruce’s reply was tight-lipped. "Tony. Always a pleasure."

The handshake lingered a beat too long, both men gripping each other’s hands like they were trying to see who could squeeze the other’s bones into dust first, daring the other to flinch.

Bruce placed a hand on your shoulder with a fatherly air. “I’m glad you saw great potential in her. I’ve always known her to be quite the achiever from a young age.”

Tony wasn’t about to let that go uncontested. He quickly slid his other hand onto your shoulder,  “Well, if anyone’s been pushing the limits and achieving great things, it’s definitely been her.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And it’s all thanks to the support system. After all, it’s not just about talent but the environment that nurtures it.” He gave your shoulder a pat, adding, “Despite the struggles, her aunt raised her well—you just get to reap the benefits. Haha. Not everyone can rely on billion-dollar labs to get ahead.”

“Well, thanks to me,” Tony says, giving your shoulder a shake (again with the shoulders thing.) “I’d say she’s got plenty of both now.”

The testosterone in this room was so thick you could practically taste it.

“Alright,” you shake your head, gently removing their hands from your shoulders. “Lovely. Nice. Wow. Can we like, go inside now?”

Tony tossed you a quick glance and said, “Right. Lead the way.”

Bruce gave a curt nod. “Of course. After you.”

They both reached for the door handle at the same time, their fingers colliding in an awkward, fumbling dance. For a split second, they froze, locking eyes with a mutual glare.

Seconds dragged on, feeling like hours. Neither man budged. Their hands, now tangled together in a bizarre and clumsy struggle, seemed locked in an absurd standoff. Tony’s fingers began to subtly shift, attempting a stealthy maneuver to slip underneath Bruce’s grip. But Bruce wasn’t having any of it. With a deliberate twist of his wrist, he countered Tony’s advance, blocking the move with a firm slam.

Another minute stretched out, each second heavier than the last.

You couldn’t take it any longer.

“Are you two having a staring contest?”

"..."

"..."

Tony blinked first, cursing softly under his breath. Bruce’s smirk broadened, twice as smug than usual.

“Oh my god. Just move!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands up in frustration. “We’re here to shop, remember?”

The two men released the door handle simultaneously as if startled out of their petty contest. Tony stepped aside with a flourish, giving a dramatic sweep of his arm. “After you, mademoiselle.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

“These are the choices given to you by Mister Stark and Mister Wayne. Social event, oui?” the attendant says, her tone professionally neutral despite the clearly forced, fake French accent. She smooths down your black undershirt, ensuring it's perfectly straight before presenting the options.

She holds up the first suit: “Deep scarlet. Rich, saturated color—like fine wine. A luxurious wool blend. Two-piece. Tapered trousers, invisible stitching. Streamlined silhouette. French cuffs.”

Then she displays the second option: “Now, dark silk. Smooth, so smooth—like velvet in night. Classic sheen, very elegant. Three-piece. Also with tapered trousers, invisible stitching. Slim silhouette. Barrel cuffs.”

With a smile, she adds, “Both have their own magic, non? What shall you choose for the grand affair?”

“Uh,” you gape like the peasant you were, eyes darting between the two suits which seem nearly identical apart from their color. You barely caught onto the details the attendant pointed out.

As you wrestle with your decision, snippets of the conversation between the two men outside drift through the curtain.

“Sometimes, a classic black suit just gets the job done,” Bruce interjected. “It’s timeless and professional, never out of place.”

Tony retorted, “Oh, sure, blending into the background is so exciting. Why not go for red—loud, in-your-face, and impossible to ignore? It’s a damn statement.”

Bruce’s voice grew sharper. “I don’t know if you’re the right guy to make that call, considering the atrocity you dressed her in today,” he said, gesturing toward the Stark Industries merch discarded on the couch in the dressing room.

“Uh, says the guy who thinks monochrome is the pinnacle of fashion. Please, get real asshole. This is a hell of a lot better than your boring black blobs. Grow up.”

“You grow up,” Bruce shot back.

You roll your eyes and spot another suit hung up on a nearby wall—a deep emerald green. “What’s that one?”

The attendant perks up. “Ah, cette tenue! I apologize, it slipped my mind. This one was provided by the young gentleman with you. I should have mentioned it earlier.”

She holds the suit up to your chest, carefully examining the fit and adjusting the sleeve to ensure it drapes just right. 

“Three-piece suit with pattern. Jacket is single-breasted, notch lapels, welt pocket. The trousers are flat-front, slim fit, with sharp crease. The vest has five buttons, V-neckline, tailored fit. Very technical, very structured.”

You nod, satisfied. “This one. I like this.”

“Oh, magnifique! Excellent choice!” 

She quickly helps you into the suit. First, she slides on the vest, adjusting the straps at the back for a snug fit. Next, she drapes the jacket over your shoulders, smoothing out the fabric and aligning the lapels. Finally, she fastens the trousers, making sure the fit is right and the sharp crease is aligned.

You step out from behind the curtains, and every eye in the room locks onto you.

Morgan's face drops. “She chose the puke color.”

"Wow. Thanks. Really feeling the support here," you scoff, adjusting the sleeves. 

Turning to Damian, you raise an eyebrow, and it's only then that he truly registers what he's seeing. His expression softens gradually as he takes you in. The hard lines of his face are still there, but now they seem gentler, softened. 

You give him a small smile—nothing grand, just a subtle curve of your lips. But you know that even the smallest smile from you is enough to unravel him.

He watches, mesmerized, as you twirl slightly in front of the mirror. The suit hugs your figure perfectly, accentuating every curve.

“This was the boyfriend's pick," you say, flicking and straightening the lapels. Morgan's head snaps up. "I picked it because it matches his eyes, and honestly, I couldn't deal with your guys' arguing any longer.”

"Tt," Damian’s lips curl into a smirk, and he gestures for you to come closer. You step to his side, feeling the warmth of his hand as it rests gently over yours. With a subtle twist of your wrist, your fingers intertwine naturally, fitting together like they've always did.

Tony huffs, shaking his head. “Alright, well, whatever makes you happy. You look snug as a bug, kid.”

“Uh. Arachnid. Not a bug,” you correct him.

Bruce blinks in confusion, his brow furrowing as he tries to make sense of the interaction, clearly missing the joke.

He shakes his head and gestures to a waiting attendant, who approaches with a tray holding three boxes. The attendant opens the first box, revealing a necklace that catches the light and glints brightly. They lift it out, its shine almost blinding, and place it carefully on the counter.

“If you'd like,” Bruce smiles, “I’ve also picked out some accessories for you.”

The attendant then moves to the next box, lifting the lid to reveal a set of matching earrings, which they arrange neatly on the counter. They proceed to the third box, opening it to reveal a bracelet that sparkles just as intensely as the necklace. The attendant sets everything out with careful movements, arranging the pieces in a neat row.

You hold the necklace up to the light, blinded. “This is... a lot of sparkle.”

Turning to the attendant, you ask, “What’s the damage?”

“The necklace is priced at $250,000,” they say with a smile that’s more tightrope than genuine. “The earrings are $150,000, and the bracelet is $300,000.”

You blink, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, the numbers swirling in your head.

“What the actual fuck?” you blurt out, carefully setting the necklace back in its box with the reverence of someone handling a live grenade. “That’s… definitely not in my budget.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just money. If the price is too much, I can always—”

Bruce cuts him off with a grunt. “No need. I already have the check ready.”

"What?!" You turn to Bruce, shaking your head. “No! No one is buying me more than the suit! I appreciate the gesture, but this is way too overboard.”

"It's not that much, beloved," Damian hums, reaching for the earrings and holding them up to your face. "The necklace I bought you for your 18th cost twice of these combined."

Your eye twitches in disbelief. “You... you told me it was of ‘reasonable price.’”

“It was.”

“How much did you pay?!”

Damian remains silent, avoiding your eyes.

“Damian. Thomas. Wayne—”

Before you can finish, Damian calls over one of the attendants with a casual wave. “Excuse me? We’ll take all of this.”

The attendant, looking a bit taken aback but eager to please, nodded quickly and began arranging the items. You stared at Damian, your eyes practically burning and searing a hole through his stupid undercut.

“You can’t be serious!” 

Damian simply smirked, leaning closer. “Consider it a small gesture for someone who’s worth every penny.”

As you continued bickering, Morgan’s gaze lingered on the scene, her chest tightening with an unsettling, heavy feeling. She could feel something bitter and heavy rising in her chest, and she turned her eyes away, hoping that if she didn’t see it, she could ignore the way it made her feel, that gnawing ache she wished she could forget.

But then she heard your voice, soft and inviting.

"Morgan?"

It was like a lifeline, pulling her back to the present. She turned to you, forcing herself to meet your gaze.

"Can you tell them that I do not need this?" you asked with a groan, your smile radiating warmth. It was the kind of smile that could light up any room, even as your eyes drifted to the glimmering jewelry with exasperation. “They’re completely insane.”

Morgan forced a small smile of her own, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and shrugged slightly. 

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I think they’re onto something. You’re worth every penny. More than any of this could ever show.”

The words came out easy enough, but underneath, she could feel the bittersweet edge of them, something she kept buried deep where no one could see.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 10:24 PM - The Safehouse, Gotham City.

Shot through the heart and you're to blame Darling, you give love a bad name An angel's smile is what you sell You promised me heaven, then put me through hell

Music played from her speakers. The lab was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft glow of various screens and the occasional flicker of a monitoring light. Morgan sat at her workstation, the faint blue light of the holographic display casting a ghostly glow on her face. She was surrounded by a sea of tools, schematics, and half-finished projects, but her attention was miles away from the work at hand.

The thought of how you looked at Damian earlier haunts her deep into the night. 

Morgan’s fingers tapped absently on the console, her gaze distant and unfocused. She tried to lose herself in her work, hoping the details of her projects would distract her from the ache in her chest. But every time she glanced up at the screen, it felt as if her mind was dragging her back to that moment.

It didn't take a genius to see that she had feelings for you.

Woah, you're a loaded gun, yeah Oh, there's nowhere to run No one can save me, the damage is done

On the screen, the potency of the toxin you were exposed to a day ago was being processed. Ivy's old journal lay open in front of Morgan, serving as a reference for comparison.

As she scanned the data, a troubling pattern began to emerge. The readings were unstable, fluctuating wildly and suggesting incomplete or inconsistent results. Hours melted away as Morgan poured over the data, her eyes darting between the fluctuating graphs and the notes in the journal.

An odd, unknown element kept appearing in the results. It was an anomaly.

"This is not supposed to be here...?" Morgan mumbled, scratching at her head.

The journal’s pages fluttered as she flipped through them, desperately searching for any mention of similar anomalies or clues that might explain the glitch. Ivy’s notes were dense with technical jargon and cryptic observations, but none of it seemed to align with the strange data she was seeing on her screen.

BEEP.

Morgan’s head perked up, her attention snapping back to the screen. The familiar, rhythmic pulse of data had been interrupted by a sudden alert.

Element Detected: 𝑜̥̊⃝𝑠̥̊⃝𝑏̥̊⃝𝑜̥̊⃝𝑟̥̊⃝𝑛̥̊⃝

She squinted at the glitching display. The screen flickered and distorted, displaying an unfamiliar string of characters. The text was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The computer screen continued to flicker violently, lines of code merging into chaotic patterns. Cursing under her breath, Morgan fought to stabilize the screen. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, desperately trying to recalibrate the system.

After a tense few moments, she managed to clear the worst of the glitching. The flickering subsided, and the screen settled into a more manageable state.

Was that someone trying to hack in? The thought crossed her mind with a jolt.

She scrutinized the security logs, reviewed firewall activity, and cross-referenced access records, but found no concrete evidence of a breach. The logs were clear. Everything seemed normal—no unauthorized access, no signs of tampering.

But the unknown element was still there, stubbornly staring back at her from the screen.

Morgan ran her tongue over her teeth, a habit of hers when deep in thought. 

Alright. So. Every sci-fi movie warns against messing with unknown chemicals. And this is definitely one of those “don’t touch” moments. But what’s life without a little risk? Besides, it’s not like she hasn’t faced weird before. 

Problem was… the data on her screen right now was like trying to read a recipe from a cookbook that had been chewed up by a dog—completely useless. If she wanted answers, she’d have to get a closer look.

Morgan quickly set up a new data extraction protocol, isolating the unknown element. The process was slow and tense, but gradually, the substance began to take shape on the screen, its properties becoming clearer with each passing minute.

Once she had successfully isolated the element, she moved on to the next phase: synthesizing it into a serum. With a gloved hand, she carefully heated a glass flask on a burner and began adding the unknown element to the mix, watching as the contents started to react.

The silence was abruptly shattered by a sharp crack that split the air. Morgan’s eyes widened in shock as she saw thee glass flask on the burner shatter into jagged pieces. The once-clear liquid inside had turned into a dark, burned residue, and what was left was a blackened crust coating the inside of the flask.

"Great. Just great," Morgan muttered under her breath. She reached for the shattered glassware, cradling it gingerly in her hand. But as she did, something bizarre began to happen—the flask itself seemed to glitch.

The glass started to flicker and warp as if it were a malfunctioning image. It shimmered and pulsed with an otherworldly light, surface fading in and out of focus, struggling to maintain its form.

"What the fuck?" 

Her eyes stayed glued onto the flask. The constant flickering was starting to give her a headache, a dull throbbing that grew more intense with each passing second. She squinted, hoping to stabilize her vision, but the distortions only seemed to worsen.

Amid her growing confusion, she started to hear faint whispers—strange, disjointed voices that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The whispers were so low she could barely make out their words, but their presence added to the sense of disorientation that was creeping in.

An unexpected impulse tugged at her—a sudden, inexplicable urge to take the serum. Her hand trembled slightly as she considered the syringe lying on the nearby counter, a dark thought creeping into her mind. 

She stared at the flask, her gaze mad.

A part of her wanted to see what would happen if she followed through with the intrusive thought. 

Then, in a sudden, jarring shift, the erratic glitching reached a peak. The flask’s distortion became so intense that Morgan could barely make out its shape. She snapped back to reality, jolted by the sheer intensity of it all. Her senses were overwhelmed, the whispers louder now, almost shouting in her mind.

In shock, her hand lost its grip. The flask slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor, the blackened remnants scattering across the lab.

CRASH!

The sudden noise of breaking glass cut through the disorienting haze, and Morgan’s breath came in ragged gasps as she stared at the mess before her. 

The strange impulse had vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

The glitching that had plagued the flask started to spread outward, expanding like a ripple through the air. Her eyes widened in disbelief as the distortion grew larger, forming a swirling vortex in the center of the lab. 

The portal-like disturbance expanded further, and out of it, a shadowy figure began to emerge. First, it was just a hand, reaching through the glitching void. It grasped at the air, solidifying into a more defined shape. Morgan's heart raced as the figure pulled itself further into the lab.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, as the figure's hand closed around her arm. The touch was cold and otherworldly, sending a shiver down her spine. She struggled against the grip, her heart pounding as she tried to pull away.

With a sudden, violent shove, the figure tossed her back. Morgan crashed into her workstation, slamming painfully into a shelf, sending tools and equipment clattering to the floor. 

Her eyes darted back to the figure, now fully emerging from the glitching portal. 

The intruder was clad in dark green armor, nearly black in the dim light, with a purple shawl draped over their shoulders and a hood shadowing their face. They wore goggles and a mask that concealed their features, lending them a menacing, almost robotic aura. Despite their height and build matching Morgan’s, there was a palpable strength in their movements, an unspoken threat in the way they stood.

The portal behind them flickered and closed, sealing off the strange rift from which they had emerged.

Morgan scrambled to her feet, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She clenched her fists, trying to steady herself as she faced the intruder.

“Who the fuck are you?!” she demanded. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she stood her ground, ready to fight if she had to.

The masked figure remained silent, their gaze—hidden behind those reflective goggles—locked onto Morgan. They slowly tilted their head down, taking in the sight of the shattered remnants scattered across the lab floor. 

Morgan followed their gaze and noticed the scattered pieces of a hoverboard. She recognized it immediately from the fragmented components. The design was eerily similar to the one she had in development herself—a project that had been pushed to the back burner.

The intruder’s attention then shifted to the broken glass and the unknown element still displayed on her screen. A soft click of disapproval escaped from behind the mask as the figure nudged the broken hoverboard aside with a booted foot.

“Shame,” they murmured, their voice low and laced with something almost like regret. “I came a minute too early... You should have taken that serum first. You were supposed to. It would have made this easier for both of us.”

Morgan swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what they meant, but she didn’t want to find out. The figure took another step closer, closing the distance between them.

“Who are you?” Morgan pressed. “And how did you even know about that?”

The figure paused, considering her for a moment before answering. “Who I am isn’t important. What matters is what you could have been—what you were supposed to become.”

Morgan’s mind raced as she tried to make sense of the cryptic words. This wasn’t just about the serum—there was something bigger at play. She took a step back, trying to put more distance between herself and the intruder, but the figure only followed, matching her movements like a shadow.

“Don’t worry,” they said softly, almost mockingly. “I should know better than anyone that you would want answers.”

Morgan’s heart skipped a beat as the figure’s gloved hand slowly reached up to their mask. The tension in the room was suffocating, each second stretching out endlessly. The mask and goggles came loose with a soft click, and as they were removed, Morgan’s breath caught in her throat.

It was her.

Her own face stared back at her, a perfect reflection, yet not. There were differences—subtle but unmistakable. The other Morgan’s eyes held a cold, calculating gleam, their hair was longer and pin-straight compared to her short curls, and their lips curved into a smirk that sent a shiver down Morgan’s spine.

“I'm Morgan Stark,” the doppelgänger said, voice eerily familiar yet laced with something darker, something twisted. “But in my universe, they call me the Green Goblin.”

Morgan felt numb. The words didn’t make sense, and yet they explained everything. 

“What... what do you want?” Morgan’s voice was barely above a whisper, the shock of seeing her own face—so twisted and malevolent—making it hard to think straight.

The Other Morgan—the Green Goblin—tilted her head, studying Morgan with a mix of amusement and pity. “Isn’t it obvious?” she said, taking a step closer. “I’m here to make things right. In my world, I perfected the serum. I became something more, something powerful. But in this universe, you... you were just about to throw it all away.”

Morgan shook her head, trying to process the flood of information. “This... this isn’t possible. How can you—”

“Exist?” the Other Morgan interrupted, a cruel smile curling on her lips. “Multiverse theory, sweetheart. Infinite versions of you, of me, of everyone. Even our beloved Spidey. In my universe, I figured it out. Became a goddamn genius... and a bit of a monster, too. Here though? You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“I don’t care what I—you’ve done in your world!” Morgan’s voice shook with defiance. “You don’t belong here. You won’t get whatever it is you’re after.”

The Other Morgan smirked. “Oh, but I already have. I didn’t come here to take anything. I came to see what I could have been if I hadn’t chosen the path I did. And honestly,” they scoffed, flicking a piece of Morgan’s hair, “I’m disappointed.”

Morgan’s fists clenched at her sides. “Get out,” she spat, her fear giving way to anger. “Get out of my lab, out of my life. Now!”

But they just laughed, a chilling sound that echoed in the small space. “You still don’t get it, do you? I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t come all this way just to walk away empty-handed. If you won’t take that serum, then...”

Before Morgan could react, her doppelgänger lunged toward the remnants of the shattered serum with blinding speed. Morgan scrambled to intercept, but her doppelgänger was faster. In a swift, brutal motion, they slammed Morgan down onto a nearby table, the impact knocking the wind out of her.

Morgan struggled against the hold, but her alternate self was stronger, pinning her down with ease. The twisted grin never left their face as they reached for a syringe. 

Morgan watched the charred solid remnants of the serum begin to twitch and quiver, as if responding to the presence of the syringe. To her horror, the blackened crust slowly liquefied, transforming back into a thick, dark fluid that oozed toward the tip of the needle.

"Shh," the Other Morgan cooed, voice dripping with mock tenderness as they drew the serum up into the syringe. The liquid swirled ominously inside, as if alive with a malevolent intent. “You’ll thank me for this in the future.”

Morgan thrashed, trying to break free, but her alternate self only tightened their grip, leaning in closer.

“Don’t worry,” the Other Morgan whispered, bringing the needle closer to Morgan’s skin. “This is a canon event, sweetheart. This is the part where you become more than just a bystander. This is where you become unstoppable.”

They leaned down, eyes glowing an eerie green. “This is where we kill Robin.”

“No!” Morgan's scream pierced the air as she slammed her knee into her doppelgängers gut, the sudden impact causing them to stumble back.

The Other Morgan staggered backward, clutching their midsection with a pained gasp. Morgan seized the moment, pushing herself off the ground and scrambling for any advantage. Her pulse raced as she darted towards a nearby workbench, grabbing a wrench and holding it defensively.

Scoffing, the Other Morgan recovered quickly, rising to their full height with their long hair cascading over their face, obscuring their features.

"First off, I’m not some fucking homewrecker," Morgan gasped, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as she took a defensive step back, wrench clutched tightly. "And second, you’re insane! Spider’s happy with him! Do you honestly think she’ll fall for you after everything you’ve become?"

“You think you can stop me?” Other Morgan snarled. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

“I know enough,” Morgan said through gritted teeth, trying to steady her trembling hands. “And I’m not going to let you hurt anyone.”

The Other Morgan’s lips curled into a smirk.

With a swift flick of their wrist, they threw a small device onto the floor. It hissed and released a dense cloud of smoke that quickly filled the room. Morgan’s vision blurred as she squinted, trying to make out the figure through the thickening haze.

Suddenly, a sharp, electric crackle pierced the smoke, followed by a powerful jolt that knocked Morgan off her feet. The room spun around her as she struggled to rise, her head throbbing from the shock.

Before she could fully recover, she felt a tightness around her wrist. She looked down to see a watch strapped onto her, its face glowing ominously. As she tried to make sense of it, a swirling portal began to materialize around her, its edges flickering with an eerie green light.

“Why don’t you take a trip to my universe for a bit?” the Other Morgan taunted, their voice dripping with malice. “I’ll handle things here while you’re gone.”

Morgan tried to protest, but the portal’s force was too strong. The edges of her world warped and twisted as she was yanked into the swirling void.

As she disappeared into the vortex, she heard a faint, mocking laugh. 

The portal closed with a swoosh, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

The Other Morgan turned their gaze to the workbench, their eyes locking onto a pair of scissors lying casually on the counter.

“Alright,” they said with a chilling smile, “first, a haircut.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

They say you’ll be bitten by spiders no less than 500 times in your lifetime, and you probably won’t even notice 95% of those bites.

Spiders might not affect most people that much.

Damian, however, would have a different opinion. He’d also like to punch those people in the face

Tonight, as Robin swings through the city, his gaze is locked onto you. You dart between skyscrapers with a grace that seems almost effortless. Your Starktech suit, still in for repairs, has you back in your old black kevlar—sturdy, reliable, and showing signs of wear.

Damian, out with you for what was supposed to be a routine patrol and sweep, is seeing your skills up close for the first time. He watches as you maneuver through the urban jungle with an ease that both impresses and frustrates him.

He finds himself pacing alongside your swings, trying to stay close—not just to keep an eye on you but because he’s half-expecting to be called into action at any moment. Watching you is like witnessing a high-wire act where the safety net has mysteriously vanished. Moments ago, you executed a daring twist and jump that had Damian’s heart lodged firmly in his throat. He was practically holding his breath, bracing himself for the sickening thud of a broken leg—or worse—only to see you land on your feet with a carefree laugh.

But then, without warning, you yelp and take a sharp turn, diving into the open air. The sudden change sends a jolt through Damian, and his heart skips a beat as he watches you fall fast.

“Nightcrawler!” he shouts, his voice barely audible over the rush of wind. His grappling hook fires with a crack, and he rockets toward you, every muscle straining as he fights the pull of gravity.

Just as you’re about to hit the ground, Damian’s gloved hands wrap around your front, pulling you into his arms with a fierce grip. He tucks you close, bracing for impact. You slam against the wall of a nearby building with a jarring thud, Damian’s boots taking the brunt of the landing. The impact shakes him to his core, but he holds you tightly, shielding you from the collision.

Heaving, he immediately tucks a strong arm against your back, holding you against him. “Are you—”

You burst into laughter, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press your cheek against his. “Did you see that? I pulled off a perfect dive!”

Damian’s breath comes in sharp bursts as he steadies you both, his eyes scanning for any signs of injury. “You imbecile! What were you thinking? You could have broken your neck.”

You pout playfully, brushing a stray lock of hair from Damian’s mask. “I was having fun! Come on, I wasn’t actually going to fall.”

Damian shoots you a glare that borders on murderous. "Fun?! Fun isn’t worth risking your life."

His fingers dig into your hips as he continues to hold you tightly against him, his muscles tensed like a bowstring. "And you did fall—nearly landed on your face. If I hadn't been there, you'd be eating through a straw right now."

You tilt your head, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Uh. But you were there.”

Damian narrows his eyes, his tone dripping with frustration. "Do you get some perverse pleasure out of scaring me to death?"

"Maybe," you drawl with a teasing grin.

Even with his anxiety cranked up to eleven, he can’t help but feel a surge of warmth for you. The irritation in his eyes softens, revealing a flicker of affection.

“You talk and do too much,” he grumbles, though his actions speak louder than his words. As he starts to guide both of you up to a nearby rooftop, his grip remains firm and protective. 

He’s climbing with you in his arms, every muscle straining under the effort. You can’t help but whistle at the impressive display of strength, watching as his muscles ripple beneath his suit with each movement. 

“Tsk,” he scoffs as he hauls both of you up onto the rooftop, setting you down gently.

Once you’re safely on solid ground, Damian steps back, creating a respectful distance between you. As he stands against the backdrop of the city lights, his figure is dramatically framed by the glowing skyline. His cape flutters behind him like a dark, billowing flag, enhancing his imposing silhouette. Robin stands tall, masked, and cloaked in shadows—dark and lean.

You grin coyly at him, your arms tucked behind your back as you take a few steps closer. 

“My hero,” you tease playfully, your fingers trailing gently up his cape.

The gesture almost immediately disarms Damian, his irritation momentarily forgotten.

He snatches your hand away from the fabric, his fingers wrapping around yours in a firm grip. “Is this a joke to you? I am in no mood for your games tonight,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair as he turns his gaze to the city skyline. He bends down, squatting on the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below and casting a soft, ambient glow over the scene.

You follow him, bending down to wrap your arms around his shoulders and drape yourself across his back. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his jaw through your mask, the gentle touch warm against the cool night air.

Damian’s shoulders relax slightly under your embrace, and he closes his eyes momentarily, savoring the closeness. For a moment, he considers chastising you, but the feel of your body pressed against his back makes the words die on his lips.

Instead, he lets out a sigh and shifts his position, guiding you so that you slide down his back into his lap, your legs draped on either side of his hips.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you’re not making it easy to stay upset with you.”

“That’s the point,” you whisper, your breath warm and teasing against his skin. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, moving to stand and pulling you up with him. 

You giggle, your fingers trailing down his chest, light and teasing. Your claws graze over the contours of his suit, scratching at the armor that covers his chest and abs. The sensation is electric, sending shivers through both of you.

“Careful,” Damian rumbles, his voice a low growl as he grabs your hands once they reach his waist, his grip firm but not unkind. You’re getting a rise out of him, in more ways than one.

You lean in closer, wickedness dripping from your lips. “When have I ever been careful?”

Damian’s eyes narrow, the heat in his gaze intense as he draws his face inches from yours. "You never are. You are a reckless, impulsive, and downright idiotic woman." 

“Yeah,” you press your chest against his, your voice low and teasing. “I get that a lot.”

"And you just love proving them right, don’t you?" he says, his voice low and laden with both warning and something else.

“Is that a threat, Robin?” you whisper, your voice dripping with challenge. Flicking your wrist up, you web his chest and pull him down. 

He crashes into you, his body pressing against yours. His hands fly to your thighs, gripping the supple flesh there.

A smirk spreads across his face. "Merely a promise."

Without another word, Damian tugs your mask off and closes the distance between you, his lips crashing onto yours in a fierce, heated kiss. His mouth moves with a possessive intensity that sends a shiver down your spine, his tongue teasing yours as he pulls you closer, leaving no space between your bodies.

You feel the low rumble of his moan vibrating through your chest, a sound that only fuels the fire between you. As your hands tangle in his hair, you suddenly notice something that makes you pause—he’s smirking against your lips.

He’s smirking. The fucker is smirking.

Grinning against his lips, you pull back just enough to murmur, “So my Spidey thing turns you on? Or is it the webs?”

"Keep talking like that and I'll have to shut you up," he grunts, his voice rough with desire before he silences you with another kiss, this one deeper, more consuming. His grip tightens as he claims your mouth again, leaving no doubt about the effect you have on him.

He presses you back, and in the heat of the moment, you take a step backward with more force than intended. Your injured ankle lands awkwardly, sending a jolt of pain shooting up your leg. Despite being healed, it still ached every now and then, and this was one of those painful reminders.

You pull away with a sharp hiss, unable to stifle the reaction. 

Damian's concern for you immediately eclipses his previous frustrations. His hands find your hips, steadying you to prevent you from putting too much weight on the injured foot.

“What happened? Did I—”

“It’s just,” you wince, carefully adjusting your stance, “just my ankle. It’ll be fine.”

"I thought you said you were healed," he fusses.

"Guess I thought wrong."

"I wouldn’t have let you out with me tonight if I’d known you were still having trouble. You should have told me it was still bothering you." he scolds.

You frown, your voice softening as you look up at him. "I just... I just wanted to spend time with you. Are you mad?"

Damian’s expression softens with an almost pained look as he carefully gathers you in his arms, lifting the weight off your injured ankle. 

"Mad? No, I'm not mad," he hesitates then, his grip on you tightening slightly. "But I'm worried. I worry about you, and your actions tonight didn’t exactly ease my concerns."

He looks down at your ankle, gently tracing his fingers over the injury. 

“I’m sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t—Last night, if I’d just taken time to ask you—you wouldn’t be hurt in the first place,” he whispers, his voice barely audible as he brings his face close to yours. The apology is raw, and when he mutters it against your lips, his breath hitches in his throat, overwhelmed by the warmth in your eyes.

“You had your reasons; it’s okay,” you say with your usual forgiveness, the kindness in your voice a balm to his aching conscience. 

His fingers gently graze the back of your neck, the touch tender and almost reverent. 

“I should have been more careful,” he murmurs, thick with regret. “I’ve let my anger cloud my judgment.”

“Damian, it’s fine,” you said, running your fingers through his hair and gently swinging your legs. “I trust you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. We all have our moments, and it was just a bad time for both of us. I love you, and I trust you.”

Damian made a soft sound. Up close, in his arms, there was no space between you, and he seemed softer, more touchable.

“I love you too.”

You cupped his face gently as his other arm slid below your head, pulling you even closer. His strong arms enveloped you, holding you in a way that felt perfectly right—moving closer, exchanging breaths, and locking eyes to see everything there was to know about him.

 ༻⊰───⋅ smut begins

Whispering his name, you kissed him again, and he eagerly returned the gesture. 

He guided you into a shadowed corner, his kisses growing more urgent and insistent as he pressed you against a wall. The world around you began to dissolve into a swirling haze. The only sensations that mattered were the feel of your breath mingling with his, the whisper of your voice against his, and the way your hands tugged at his hair. 

You. You. You.

His tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking for entrance, which you granted immediately, opening your mouth and deepening the kiss. His hands roamed over your body, mapping the curves and contours like a blind man seeing the world for the first time.

You raised your knee and pressed it against him, eliciting a groan from Damian, his eyes rolling back into his skull. “Fuck…”

You teased softly, “That good?”

“As always, habibti.”

Damian’s words were swallowed by another kiss as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him even closer, bodies pressing together in an intimate embrace.

His fingers roamed up your back, tracing the curve of your spine with the practiced touch of a man who knows you intimately.

Smirking wolfishly against your lips, Damian slowly dragged down the zipper on the back of your suit. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, amplifying every sensation as he worked his way down.

The heat between you two quickly spiraled into an unstoppable force that surged and twisted. 

His utility belt falls to the ground with a loud clang, the buckle hitting the asphalt. Fingers trembling with impatience, Damian tugs at his suit's zippers, each one loosening with a sharp hiss before he dives back in. 

Every touch, every movement, seemed to ignite a deeper craving within him. Each time you breathed his name, it was like a spark that fueled his losing control, pushing him further into the abyss of his desire.

He wanted more of you—every part of you, every inch of your skin, every breath you took.

He dips his head down, his mouth finding the pulse point on your neck. His tongue flicks out, hot and wet against your skin, as he begins a trail of kisses down your collarbone that sears into your skin. 

"I need to feel you, sweet girl." Damian's words come out in a guttural moan, half-curse, half-plea. 

Your breath hitched in your throat as his mouth found your chest, and you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him.

“Damian,” you gasped, your voice a low moan. “Please.”

A flurry of movements passes, and finally, he's pressing himself into you. Your body welcomes him like it was always meant to be, fitting together perfectly as if he was always meant to be a part of you.

His cape falls over you, enveloping you both in a cocoon of shadows and heat. 

The rhythmic movement of your bodies creates a slow, intense friction between you. The heat between you two was scorching, each touch and caress creating sparks of pleasure that shot through your body. Damian's teeth sank into the soft skin of your neck with a possessive fervor, leaving behind marks that would linger long after the night was over.

He could feel you pressed against him, your warmth melding with his. The taste of you lingered on his lips, the flavor of you lingering with every kiss. The sweet sounds of your pleasure, your moans and gasps, filled and echoed in his ears. The scent of your perfume, intoxicating and familiar, drifted in the air, consuming, overwhelming his senses and pulling him deeper into you.

It was all you. Everything was you.

It comes in waves, each one building and cresting until the final surge pulls you completely out of orbit. Your toes curl, your thighs lock, your heart seems to freeze, and a cry of his name escapes your lips, echoing in the space between you.

“Yes,” Damian pants out. “There you go, habibti. Just like that…” 

He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he follows you through the aftershocks. Gently, he guides you down from your peak, his hips rolling slowly against yours until the rhythm gradually subsides. He murmurs love confessions in Arabic, lips trailing loving kisses over every inch of exposed skin, soothing you as you twitch and tremble in his lap. 

As the aftershocks subside, Damian gently lifts you and tucks you against his chest. 

"You okay?" he asks, soft and filled with concern. He gently massages your lower back, his fingers tracing soothing circles on your skin.

He pulls his cape around you like a blanket, wrapping you in a layer of warmth. Even in the middle of the night on a secluded rooftop, he’s focused on making sure you're cared for and cozy.

Damian adjusts his suit and re-secures his utility belt. Taking a cloth from his belt, he begins to wipe you down, removing any lingering traces of the night’s events. Once you're clean, he carefully tugs your suit back on, smoothing out any wrinkles and zipping it up with steady hands. 

 ༻⊰───⋅ smut ends

“Thank you,” you rasp out, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Damian’s response is tender; he nuzzles his face into your neck, pressing a gentle kiss to your skin. His touch is warm and reassuring. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieves your mask and hands it to you.

You tug it back on, but before you can pull it down completely, Damian leans in and kisses you. Smiling, you kiss him back, the mask only partially covering your face, leaving your lips and the lower part of your cheeks exposed.

!!!

You slowly push Damian back, a sense of alarm creeping into your consciousness.

!!!

A loud thud echoes in the distance.

DANGER.

Before you can process what’s happening, Damian is violently knocked away from you. He’s flung onto the ground with a forceful crash, the impact sending a shockwave through the rooftop. You watch, breathless, as he hits the surface hard, pain etched across his face.

Cursing, you try to move toward him, but a sudden, chilling presence makes you freeze. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the dark, sweeping fabric of a cape fluttering through the air. Your heart skips a beat as you turn, dread coiling in your stomach.

Batman.

For a moment, the world narrows to the figure looming before you, the embodiment of shadow and fear. The distant hum of Gotham fades, leaving only the thudding of your pulse, loud and insistent in your ears. The scattered light from the city below creates jagged contrasts on Batman's armor, casting him in sharp highlight. The black of his suit bleeds seamlessly into the surrounding darkness, making him appear more phantom than man.

He looks like a living nightmare.

Damian lifts his head just in time to see Batman towering over you, his cape billowing ominously in the night breeze. A cold chill runs down Damian's spine as dread settles heavy in his chest. Of all people, his father was the last person he wanted to find him here like this—vulnerable, exposed, and with you.

Reacting on pure instinct, Damian scrambles to his feet, positioning himself firmly between you and the Dark Knight.

"Father." Damian’s voice is low but steady, though the weight of what’s happening lingers in every syllable. His mind races, knowing that Batman doesn’t recognize you in your vigilante form and likely believes he's cheating on you.

To Batman, this looks like betrayal.

Bruce's hurt gaze flickers briefly to Damian before settling on you, his eyes unreadable beneath the shadowed cowl. His voice cuts through the silence like a blade, deep and gravelly. “Step aside, Robin.”

Damian doesn’t budge, his chin lifting in stubborn refusal. “No.”

“I won’t repeat myself,” Bruce warns, his tone colder, more commanding. “Move. Now.”

“You don’t understand,” he snaps back, voice laced with urgency. “It’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t it?” Bruce’s gaze hardens as it shifts back to you, scrutinizing every detail of your vigilante form. He’s searching for something—anything—that might give him a clue to your identity. “Who are you?”

You remain silent, your mind racing to assess the situation. Revealing your true identity isn't an option—not now, not like this. You adjust your stance, preparing yourself mentally for whatever comes next, but Damian's presence in front of you is a steadying comfort.

“She’s with me,” Damian states firmly. “That’s all you need to know.”

But Bruce isn’t swayed. He takes another step forward, his towering form casting a long, ominous shadow over both of you. The authority he exudes is almost suffocating, a force that demands obedience and submission. 

Bruce’s voice drops to a near growl, heavy with warning. “You’re making a mistake.”

Damian doesn’t waver, his stance firm, his resolve unshaken. “Maybe I am. But it’s my mistake to make. I’m not moving. Not until you understand—”

“Understand what?” Bruce’s voice, though controlled, cracks with an edge of hurt. “That you’re risking everything for—” His words catch in his throat, and his eyes, now seething, lock onto you with anger. The unspoken words hang in the air, heavy and accusing, as if he’s struggling to comprehend how Damian could make such a choice. 

“Father,” Damian tries again. “Just listen, please. I’m not—”

But Bruce cuts him off sharply. “I don’t want to hear it, Robin. Stand down. Now.”

Damian grits his teeth, his jaw clenching at the command. “I won’t. You want me to move, you're going to have to make me.”

Bruce growls and his posture shifts, his body tensing as he readies himself for combat, cape swirling with a sudden, sharp movement, the dark fabric creating a menacing silhouette against the night sky. Damian rolls his shoulders.

The silent acknowledgment of the fight to come is all that’s needed. 

The first move comes fast and brutal—a sweeping kick aimed at Damian’s legs. Damian barely manages to sidestep, but the force of the attack sends him stumbling slightly.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Bruce presses his advantage. He lunges forward, delivering a powerful punch to Damian’s jaw. The blow connects with a sickening thud, causing Damian to gasp and stagger backward. He tries to recover, swinging a fist toward his father, but Bruce is already moving, effortlessly deflecting the strike and countering with a sharp elbow to Damian’s ribs.

Before Damian can recover, Bruce is on him again. He grabs Damian by the collar and delivers a powerful knee to his abdomen. The impact sends Damian sprawling, crashing hard onto the rooftop. The concrete shudders beneath him, and he struggles to get to his feet, gasping for breath.

“You’ve forced my hand. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to,” Bruce seethes as he advances. His fists come down in a series of blows, each strike aimed at disabling rather than harming. Damian blocks and dodges where he can, but Bruce's assault is relentless, each hit pushing him further back.

THWIP

A web snares Bruce’s arm, halting his advance. His head swivels toward you, confusion and fury flashing in his eyes beneath the cowl. He struggles against the webbing, but you seize the opportunity to yank him off Damian, pulling him forcefully to the side of the rooftop. The webbing binds him tightly against the edge, restricting his movements.

Without wasting a second, you rush to Damian’s side. His breathing is ragged, masked cracked. blood runs down his lip You kneel beside him, gently pulling him up against you. Your arms wrap around him, providing a protective, comforting embrace.

“Baby, are you okay?” you ask urgently, voice trembling with fear.

Damian rasps out a laugh, his grin weak but defiant. “At least I know he’ll do the right thing if I ever do you wrong.”

SHLICK.

You look up to see Bruce cutting through your webbing with a knife. The webbing disintegrates under the assault, and you curse under your breath. Without your web-shooters, your organic webs are noticeably weaker—a reminder that you'd need to ask Morgan for new ones as soon as possible.

Bruce continued his advance, his gaze fixed on you this time.

You raised a hand, trying to signal a truce, your voice shaky but earnest. “I... I don’t want to fight,” you said, the exhaustion evident in every word. 

“Then take off the mask,” Bruce commanded, his voice cutting through the air with a harsh edge, leaving no room for negotiation.

The demand hung between you, making your heart pound louder. You took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on you. Slowly, you lifted a trembling hand toward your mask, fingers grasping the edge.

But before you could fully uncover your face, Damian's hand shot out, grabbing your arm and yanking it away.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hisses, eyes flashing with desperation. He turns to Bruce, getting back onto his feet.

“Don’t come any closer,” Damian warns as he unsheathes his katana, its blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. “I have the utmost respect for you, Father, but if you take one more step, I will have to engage you properly this time.”

Despite the weight of your decision, there’s no other choice. Your sole aim is to end this confrontation swiftly and with as little harm as possible.

With a sharp breath, you square your shoulders and raise your head.

“Nobody’s going to do anything,” you say firmly as you start to tear off your mask. The fabric pulls away slowly, the cool night air brushing against your exposed skin.

As the mask comes free, you are left bare to the elements, your face now fully visible under the moonlight. You hold Bruce's gaze directly, hoping that this gesture will be enough to de-escalate the standoff.

"It's just me."

 ༻⊰───⋅

ruh oh

mmmmmmmm yes 3-4 chapters left

[jacaeryssworld]

sea salt and snow

pairing(s): cregan stark x fem!manderly!reader

genre: fluff

word count: no clue, just started writing on here & couldn’t bother to transfer it to a google doc/document

warning(s): arranged marriage, heavy on the childhood friends to lovers trope, cregan being a lovesick fool for reader (as he should!), short but sweet! (lowkey hate this & might rewrite it later)

note(s): i need this man so bad 😫

Your Mother loved to remind you that your blood ran thick with sea salt and sand. How the very turbulent ocean outside the castle walls was apart of your very being. Seeped into your system when you were still just a babe in her womb. She continuously reminded you to be proud of the house you came from, of the surname you carry. And you were, very much. Except that was doing nothing for you at the moment as you shivered and shuttered at the numbing cold Winterfell always had. Being of sea and sand brought you no warmth while in the halls of the most freezing castle you’ve ever been in.

The Stark family was a close friend of yours, the history going back since the establishment of Winterfell. So, it wasn’t anything new—the cold that is. Yet every time you went back, you found yourself chittering in your boots and quivering from the cold. But that was something you needed to get used to as you’d be staying in Winterfell for the foreseeable future.

“You’re practically shaking like a leave, darling,” a deep voice chuckled out, scaring you out of your stupor as you jumped.

“Gods, Cregan! You nearly scared the soul out of me!” You exclaimed, hand over your racing heart as you tried to slow it down from the fright.

Cregan Stark laughed, gently apologizing as he took the hand over your heart up to his lips, placing a barely there kiss on the chilled skin.

“Why don’t we go to somewhere more warmer, my lady” he suggested, wrapping your hand around his bicep, gently dragging you down the corridors to the library where he knew new kindle had been added to the burning fire in the fireplace.

You rolled your eyes in kind, huffing as you spoke: “There is no need. I must get used to the cold anyway if I am to stay here for the remainder of my life”.

Cregan and you had been betrothed since you were both ten and three, being friends way before that, frequently traveling to each other’s home to strengthen the bond. But just recently had it been decided that you were to stay there permanently as the wedding was just a few moon cycles away.

“I would like to marry you before you turn into an icicle. Plus, you’ll have time to get used to the snow and cold over time. You do not need to put yourself through this in order to get a head start. You could possibly get hurt,” Cregan responded, rubbing his thumb on the hand that rested on his bicep.

A small smile crept onto your lips, blushing at the fact that he said he’d like to marry you. “Well,” you started, “we must hurry then. I’m afraid if I stay in this cold any longer I will certainly freeze”.

Cregan grinned widely as he tightened his grip on your hand ever to slightly, chuckling at your words before speeding up his pace.

“We can’t have that now can we?” He mused.

“No, we can’t. Plus, I’d haunt the halls of Winterfell for eternity if I froze to death on your watch”.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, my Lady”.

And with that, a woman from salt and sea felt her entire body warm at the man from snow so carefully guided her into the heated library, love ever present in both of their expressions.

[childrenofcain-if]

hey everyone, i’m really sorry for the lack of updates lately. i came to NYC for an internship opportunity this week but got robbed in the cheap ass hostel i was staying. my laptop is gone and so are many of my important documents that i needed for my studies and internship.

thankfully, i did have all my drafts for this story saved on google drive so at least that’s covered. in the meantime, i’ll try to borrow any of my friends’ laptops to continue writing until i can put my patreon up.

thank you all for being so kind and patient, have a nice day.

[qin-qin16]

My computer is possessed?! Oh, wait, it's just my out-coded skeleton boyfriend!

Summary: When some of your work in progress goes missing, you decide to start investigating whether your computer has a virus. That is until you realize that the few remaining works are of one character: Error Sans. cw: comedy, kinitoPET and creepypasta vibes, Error is an asshole and Reader is stressed, gn!reader, dark jokes about suicide, but nothing serious, we have a bit of jealousy Error, writer Reader…  note: I finally wrote down this idea from weeks ago lol and the divider is from @sister-lucifer (Part one) (Part two)

You would never forgive yourself.

Five hours of work. Five. And it all vanished with a simple power outage. The entire neighborhood was in the dark for hours — and when the power finally came back, everyone heard the lengthy stream of insults and curses you hurled at yourself when your computer screen went blank; there were no files saved in the cloud and no trace of everything you had written.

Your body glides over the wheeled chair as you slowly spin in circles, “Eu quero me matar…” You murmur, without any genuine or serious inflection in your words, even though deep down in your mind, there’s a certain desire to end the emptiness that lingers from your anger.

“Three pages… three damn pages…” You run your hand over your face, resting it on your mouth as you feel your eyes sting from the static white of the computer screen. “I can’t believe it.” You finish, still in disbelief over the unexpected blackout.

You know that old saying, “I’ll believe it when I see it”? Well, the problem was right in front of you: a completely empty Word document, except for a few notes saved before everything was lost. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to believe what you were seeing.

“I’m not going to write all that again! I can’t even remember the last thing I wrote!” you rant to no one but the lifeless machine in front of you, running both hands through your hair and tangling it with unnecessary force — leaving only irritation in certain spots on your scalp and strands of hair sticking out in every direction.

Settling into the chair — legs crossed and leaning forward like a shrimp — you start closing all the tabs left open on the computer, not caring at all about what’s saved or not. All you want to do right now is shut off that old piece of junk (that can't even handle an internet outage) and go grab something to eat. Maybe that would help you relax and distract yourself from this mess.

However, the large ERROR 505 flashing on the screen interrupted your ongoing stream of frustration. 

The damn title, accompanied by a series of codes that made no sense to you, was plastered on the last tab of your browser, just waiting to be closed. But even after you clicked the little red box three times — eager to shut the window as quickly as possible — the page stayed open. 

It felt almost as if it were mocking you. Almost…

“Perfect! Just what I needed!” You don’t hesitate to slap the monitor, taking out all your anger on the old machine. “Now even the damn Google isn’t working!” Your grunt is muffled as you bury your face in your hands, holding back the scream that desperately wants to burst from your throat.

“God, if you exist, why are you punishing me like this?” Your murmurs are heard only by the computer as it continues to mock your suffering with the bright white screen — and that damn ERROR 505 displayed at your face.

“Know what? Screw it, I don’t care.” With your hands thrown up in defeat, you finally surrender, tired and out of patience to battle this cursed error.

This is worse than when the Ao3 is down—no, I can't exaggerate like that, you think to yourself as you crouch in your chair searching for the charger’s plug. If this page won’t close on its own, then it’ll have to be forced; nothing beats unplugging the old computer directly from the outlet.

Which turned out to be a challenging task, not only because of your awkward and uncomfortable position in the wheeled chair, but also due to the mess of wires and cables under your desk. You didn’t even know which one belonged to your computer, let alone where the outlet was.

“Maybe it’s best to just yank everything and hope the outlet comes with it.” You go back to your original position, stretching your spine and letting out a quiet grunt as a pop resonates from your back. “I need to stop spending hours sitting in front of the computer.” Your grumble is nothing more than a hollow promise, unlike your spine, which was definitely promising to develop some kind of scoliosis.

“Okay, here we go— what the hell is this?” you exclaim, and even though your voice lacks any emotion — probably exhausted from all the shouting earlier — your jaw drops, matching the widening of your eyes as you see that the once flashy ERROR 505 screen has now changed to a completely different tab.

What had once been a white background filled with bold text was suddenly replaced by your Tumblr homepage... featuring countless fan arts of Error Sans scattered throughout your feed.

It wasn’t unusual for you to search for fan art and fanfics about him; in fact, the number of tags you followed with his name was far too many to count on both hands!

However, today was not one of those days. In fact, you had been trying to set aside your obsession with the glitchy skeleton to focus on other Sanses. Those three pages you lost forever were actually part of a fanfic about Cross x Reader that you had been working on for a few days.

So… why did the page load with this theme that you had been ignoring?

It doesn’t matter, I’ll just close this tab and—oh my God, what a gorgeous fan art! You quickly get distracted by the artwork on your screen, and without hesitation, your finger starts clicking rapidly on the mouse, liking and reblogging as fast as you can.

You must have been very tired not to notice the muffled sound coming from your computer — different from the noises it made when starting up or running a virus scan. No, no, this sounded oddly like a stilted laugh, as if the audio had been chopped into pieces.

But why would you pay attention to that? Computers couldn’t laugh, especially not at your half-closed eyes and the sentences you’d written incorrectly because you were sleepy…

Right?

Tagging the people who wanted to see a fanfic of this:

@snastheskeleton64, @moonpieandfries12345, @lostsoulsofdragon, @mrcatmario, @something-random1-1-blog, @joonebugg, @crunchontoast, @honeybubbletea33, @what-have-i-unleashed, @leafwateraddict, @sweethoneybear, @sleepy-batz

If you want to be tagged in part two, please let me know :D

[nightunite]

In your baron konig au, do you ever see reader noticing his language insecurity and trying to learn his native tongue from his other workers?

Thank you so much for this ask, it gives me a chance to write fluff! It's definitely one of the ways I see them getting closer, because it shows her not just wanting to understand him, but those around her. Most of Konig's staff are from home, either coming over originally with him or when he makes one of his few trips back home.

Fair warning, this is going to contain some Google translate as well as future pieces most likely, native speakers please correct me on what I get wrong!

“Oh, good morning, my lord!” She bends slightly at the waist, a light bow to Konig as she met him where the staircase joined to the upper left wing of the barony. Standing upright at his nod of acknowledgement, her head turns as he swiftly strode down the hall and took in his frazzled state. In one arm he clasped several stacks of documents to his chest, paper developing light creases where his large fingers exerted too much pressure even through the thick paper. In the other he awkwardly gripped some quills, an inkpot, and the stamp bearing his familial crest. Having to go in the same direction, she saw as he almost dropped a quill then bent it with the force of him stopping it falling to the ground. It beat the alternative of him having to stoop all the way to the ground to recover it, she supposes. “Um, my lord?” She calls to him. His feet came to a stop, head turning slightly, eyes as cool as the outside air locking on her, a faint blue like ice water making her breath hitch at how it locks onto her. “May I be of assistance in carrying something for you?” After a few moments of silent staring she almost took back the suggestion out of embarrassment, a massive man of his stature surely does not need help from a maid- “Federn.” She blinks, unsure if she heard correctly. He clears his throat before repeating himself. “Carry quills. And ink.” He held out his hand and she quickly makes up the distance between them (curse his long strides), taking the objects in her hands, fighting the urge to shiver when their fingers brush. Just like the previous times, his hands were so warm and firm.

They walk in silence down the halls, stopping at the front of the library, intricately carved oak doors barring entry. As he turns the handle she swallows, mind flashing back for a moment to her last time in the library in the duchy. With any luck, the memory would continue to fade the longer she worked here, each time she cleaned the room wiping away the bitterness with the dust and incense ash. Though, she thinks, I can’t forget everything that occurred in that place. Just a fortnight prior it had been confirmed that yes, she was indeed carrying a Duke’s child, not that he would ever know. Her saving grace had been that she was not yet showing, the reduction of stress and ability to hold down food courtesy of Annika helping her regain some of the lost weight, no longer wan and sunken inwards. She hadn’t anticipated telling the head maid of her condition, at least not yet, but she hadn’t a choice when she was caught leaning against a wall fighting off a dizzy spell at the end of the day. Good fortune then that much like her employer, her superior was of a better cut, keeping the news tucked to her chest with little more than a chastisement of letting her know of any changes to her condition and an order to have a quick, light meal of gently seasoned soup from the cooks before heading to bed.

She places the writing set down on the table he had chosen to work at before commencing her own tasks of dusting the books and wiping down the wooden furniture, eyes briefly glancing at the papers as he set about placing the stacks in some order that made sense to him. They were written in that foreign language she saw scrawled across the spines of the novels, most of the letters making sense to her but combined in a way that was confusing, lengthy words packed with consonants and vowels, dots pocked sparingly in some places. She wishes she could read them, understand the different stories that came with the Baron from his homeland.

As she works her way along the shelves, she can’t help but take a few peeks at him, immersed in his tasks while hunched over his work in a way that makes her back ache. The air is mostly silent apart from the scratch of a quill and the gentle squeaking of a damp cloth. Shortly after though, a faint humming permeates the study, a tune she had grown familiar with in the month since her arrival. Konig was fond of this tune, singing the melody like he had no clue he was doing it, part of his routine when tackling paperwork. He had told her the name of the tune, accent making quick work of it, though she struggled to repeat it to herself.

Eye Popeeyah, she vaguely recalled, certain it was something like that. Gently wetting a spot on a plush chair, she waits for the tea stain to lift herself as she chances another look at the baron. He never notices when her eyes stray from the upholstery and she wonders if he even feels her eyes on him. He’s a shy man, she’s come to learn, content to keep himself tucked away from others. Perhaps he feels people’s gaze on him even when there is no one to stare, and so he doesn’t register her. Perhaps she is so beneath him that he doesn’t register her presence at all. Certainly not in the same manner as Duke MacTavish, she chews the inside of her cheek as she wrings out the washcloth and wipes the stain away, hands working at the spot even when gone as she unknowingly rests her eyes on him.

No, the Baron is not that kind of man. “Hirsch?” She jumps, jolted from her thoughts, Konig staring seemingly down to the core of her. Her blood pools in her cheeks and she feels her face become hot. She could die of embarrassment at being caught staring, much less at her employer! She can’t even tell what his expression is with his shroud in place, leaving her further off-kilter. “Apologies, my lord! My thoughts ran from me, I’ll get back to work now.” With a ducked head she averts her eyes from both Konig and the large damp patch her mindless scrubbing caused the poor chair. Unfortunately, the next shelf to clean is the one directly behind him, so she grabs her duster and rags and makes her way over. He hunches in further, trying to scoot in to give her room but ultimately there is nowhere for him to go, shoulders pulled up to his ears to make himself smaller. His grip on his quill is tight, and the papers crinkle under his free hand as he writes, more akin to forcing the ink in than letting the quill do the work, and the humming has stopped, replaced with heavy silence only interspersed with more scratching and the occasional grumble. She feels guilt over it, how her presence in his home forces him into these uncomfortable positions. It’s doubtful he wore the hood even at home before she came, and now here he is forced to curl up to avoid them touching.

 Even still, as she makes her way along the shelves, the heat radiating off him permeates her dress, a welcome sensation compared to the bitter winter outside, the frost outside sharp enough to stop the maids from cleaning the windows lest the water freeze on the panes. Not that he or Annika would let any of them go cold, providing them extra bedding and thicker clothes as the cold crept along the floorboards. The rumors from other maids had been correct, that while the Baron might come across as strange and off-putting to some, he took good care of those who worked for him. It makes the guilt inside her grow.

This man has been so kind to her already, and here she is making him feel like an outsider. Forcing him to repeat himself in stilted English for her sake because it’s the only language she knows. He has always held himself in a stern and awkward manner whenever they cross paths, but she sees his discomfort grow when trying to string together conversation with the few visitors to the barony. She wishes she could speak freely with him and ease that stress a little, make him and the other maids not view her as something to be wary of. Just the other day she had come across two of the maids giggling and speaking in hushed whispers, the conversation so quick she couldn’t make out much more than the occasional exclamations and snickers. Once they realized she was there though, they had startled in much the same way as the baron did, standing stiff with wide eyes before carrying on with their tasks. She tried to reassure herself they hadn’t been gossiping about her, there was always a rumor of some drama occurring in town, but it was hard. It reminded her that she had no one she was close to here, no one to confide in about anything she saw that would set tongues wagging and eyes gawking. “What language is this?” She was behind him again, this time gently removing the dust from the tops of the books that hadn’t seen much attention. Konig jumps, spooked by the sudden voice behind him, chair making a sound of protest as his upper back gently bumps into hers. Taking a moment to calm himself, he sets aside the letter with a harsh line of ink over the surface and frowns down at how it continued onto the table. “Was?” He asks, turning to look over his shoulder. She keeps her face turned to the bookshelf, hands fiddling with her rag once more. “The language you all speak. It’s the one from your homeland, yes?” An answering grunt is all she receives. “I wanted to know which one it was. There are so many books here in the library not in English, and I would like to read them once my work is finished. And-and I would like to be able to speak with the other maids, to greet them as they greet one another, or not require you to have to repeat yourself when giving instruction. I don’t want to impose on them or on you, I’ve seen the frustration with having to translate conversations when out in town.” She can’t help herself, having turned around and now locked in a staring match with him, feeling like a mouse surveilled by a wolf, the words tumbling free of her mouth. Her ears feel like they’re burning, hands, twisting the rag around her fingers. “I would ask Felix or Annika, but they’ve so many responsibilities and I would hate to take up their free time. I would use the novels themselves, but I don’t know all of the letters, they look similar but then there are these dots-“ “Umlaut.” He cuts her off, eyes giving a slow blink. “What is it?” “The dots. They are called umlaut.” He explains. “Umlaut.” She tries testing the word in her mouth. When he nods, she can’t help her smile, pleased at getting it right. “Off days?” He asks in his typical manner, and she works to figure out what he’s asking. “Annika has me scheduled off on Wednesdays and Thursdays, my lord.” He nods again, mulling something over. “Come to my office then. I will teach you.” She hears the drag on the “You’re so busy though my lord, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your work-“ A gloved hand gently reaches up, thumb and middle finger pressing lightly on her cheeks to stop her from rambling a second time. “Wednesday and Thursday” He repeats, accent showing on the 'and',  “and the days you clean the office.”

He releases her when she nods, finishing his final document and reorganizing them while she blinks. She would take great care to follow his lessons, she just hopes he will be patient with her. As she prepares to start on the final task of restocking the fireplace and taking cups to the kitchen, she pauses. “My lord?” He stops stacking papers, watching her from the side. “Thank you for this. If I may though, could you teach me one phrase before you go?” She fights the urge to beam when he taps the seat in front of him. (The next morning, she gives in to the urge when she greets the other early morning maids at breakfast with a nervous and stilted “Guten Morgen, wie geht’s?” and is met with excitement and smiles.) Translations: Federn - Quill Hirscht - Deer Guten Morgen, wie geht's - good morning, how are you

[northgazaupdates]

Journalist Hossam Shabat responds to a problematic article about journalists in the west being unable to reach Gaza. Hossam writes,

The biggest problem is not Western journalists being unable to enter, but the fact that Western media doesn't respect and value Palestinian journalists. My colleagues and I risk our lives every day to report on this genocide. No one knows Gaza like we do, and no one understands the complexity of the situation like we do. If you care about what's happening in Gaza, you should amplify Palestinian voices. We don't need Western journalists to tell our stories; we are capable of telling and reporting on our own stories.

Context under the cut:

From the very beginning, Western journalists have neglected the people of Gaza. They focused on how resistance actions have impacted settlers, and mentioned Gaza in only the most reductive of terms. But now, as the scale of atrocities by the IOF finally becomes too great for them to ignore, these same journalists are crafting a new narrative: ‘We didn’t ignore Gaza because we don’t care, or because it was politically convenient to do so. We just couldn’t get there to report on it.’

This is a lie concocted under the weight of ever-fickle Western guilt. They deflect their accountability for creating IOF propaganda by claiming they were kept from reaching the area. However, even more than a lie, it is an insult to Gazan journalists—those still living and those murdered by the occupation.

Gazan journalists often have contacts outside of Gaza who could help them evacuate, but they chose to stay. They chose to stay and document the genocide against their people, and did so at immense personal cost. Montaser Al-Sawaf was injured and lost 50+ family members in a bombing attack, before he was bombed again by the occupation and left to slowly die in the street. Mahmoud Ziad Aliwa and Mohammed Saber Arab are still missing after being kidnapped by the IOF while reporting from Al-Shifa Hospital during the latest siege. Eshak Daour lost his brother just a few days ago.

But as they tried to share their footage and words with the world, they were ignored, in north Gaza especially. The world had no interest in the words of Gazans, but especially if they were Arabic-speaking. Rather than undertake the relatively simple task of finding a translation for Gazan sources, or contacting Gazan journalists directly in English (of which many of them speak at least a little), they were flat-out ignored. Only English-speaking journalists with massive social media followings received any acknowledgment, and even then it was extremely minimal.

The journalists of Gaza have always been there, they have always been speaking out and asking others to simply share their words. The implication that only western journalism counts as “real” journalism is insulting, degrading, imperialistic, unprofessional, dishonest, and cruel.

This blog was created due to uplift the words of north Gazans, which were not and often still are not reaching the rest of the world. We will continue sharing from people in north Gaza, but we ask that you, reader, do so as well. Do what western journalists have refused, and uplift the voices of people fighting for their survival in all of the Gaza Strip.

Many journalists post partly in English, but for those that don’t, Arabic speakers will often leave English translations in comment sections. You can also ask for someone to do a translation in the comment section, and often someone will reply. If they don’t, you can copy and paste Arabic text, or take screenshots and upload them into Google Translate. These are not perfect tools, but they give you some idea of what is being said. It’s better than simply not listening.

[redux-iterum]

how do i outline coherently. i am struggling

I'm going to assume you have an idea of how the story goes already, you just need to actually write it down. Which is the most difficult part of this whole thing, for me, so I feel your pain.

If this is the case: My game plan is to first outline in a way that will be most helpful for me, in order to get it written out at all. Iterum is written more coherently for Lynx's sake, but my original content is an organized mess, which is perfect for me. It doesn't matter if it's scatterbrained - the important thing is that I know what's going on and it makes it easier to outline to completion. You can refine it later. Just get it done.

You know that phrase, "Write drunk, edit sober"? Take that metaphorically. Write like a damn maniac with as little cohesion as is needed, and then come back to it and organize it into something anyone can read, if you care to.

My tactics:

Use bullets like this to write down each story beat and minor event. This makes it easier to rearrange things if I have to in the future.

--------You can also add additional, smaller bullets to each big bullet with as many details as you need to add on for context.

Color code words and characters, especially in big, bulky paragraphs. This makes it easier than just a Ctrl+F on a Google doc - you can scroll down quickly and catch wherever a character is without having to click "next" a bunch.

If blocks of text automatically overwhelm your brain, cut down paragraphs into two or three sentences. (Thank you to @thunder-the-ranger-wolf for helping me with this one recently.)

As you're writing the events, make notes with -dashes- or (parenthesis) or even bullets that will tell you something important that you don't want to forget. Things like "this weapon will be used by Jack later on when he's rushed into the room for safety", or "note that Howard should look tense and anxious in reaction to this conversation", or even just "add a flashback here once the first arc is outlined and I know what details I need to hint at". You'd be amazed at how much shit people (especially me) will forget about that's small but crucial to the story, because they're writing the big events for extended periods.

If you get intimidated by a loooong synopsis that you've been working on for a while and still isn't done, just catch up on the last few paragraphs or single page that you've written and then continue from there. You may repeat events or contradict a previous plotpoint, though, just as a warning. I handle that issue when the outline is done and it's time to refine it; I also like to reread everything frequently on an off day without writing anything new to catch those mistakes.

In the event that the above happens and a plot point is written twice, be aware that whatever choice you make on where to actually place it could drastically change the rest of the plot going forward. If you hate rewriting stuff, that'll be annoying.

Stuck on where to go next? Make a new paragraph with a single sentence that reads, "something happens here", and then move on to the stuff you can more easily write down. My preference is to be a little detailed about it: "something happens here that gets Joy from the cafe to the wrong neighborhood", and then writing about what happens in the wrong neighborhood. It's surprisingly a lot easier to figure out the transitional events like this once you have a specific A and B point to connect.

Have multiple docs to write and rewrite on. You don't have to write in one and then fix it over and over. Just write down what you have and are confident in so far, and move to the next document if ideas change or you're getting frustrated and need to start over. You'd be surprised at how helpful this is. It's like sketching something poorly and then redrawing it in a better and better state with new pages of paper. Hell, you can even trace stuff you liked from the first page and add it into the next version.

In the case of my first webcomic, when I didn't know what the fuck I was doing and events had to be rearranged all the time due to the nature of the storytelling, I resorted to using an art program (in my case, MS Paint) to write very short summaries of story beats and outright organize them in a visual format. I am not kidding about this. I straight up just used my mouse to put plot points here and there, and then change them around if something sounded better over at the beginning instead of the middle. It was shockingly helpful. It looks silly, but if you're an image person instead of a word person (as I am), it's a very easy way to visualize exactly what the fuck's going on in the outline.

Now let's say you complete the outline and it is a cobweb of chaos. Excellent. All you have to do now is write everything down in an outline similar to a Wikipedia summary. Translating "Stan says this -> everyone hears a gunshot" into "Stan angrily declares that he's sick of his mistreatment. Before anyone can respond, a gunshot goes off outside" is surprisingly easy. Is this a bit tedious? Yes. Is it optional? Absolutely. Do I recommend it? Very much so.

I personally like to do it because it's a cleaner, more organized version of the mess I made earlier. It's especially helpful if you're going to have someone go over the outline and critique or question things. My version of a completed outline will have chapters as full paragraphs detailing what happens, like so:

Chapter EIGHT: The morning sun rises and Kel pulls himself out of bed with a hangover. He stumbles to the bathroom and tries to wash up before the headache gets to be too much and he lays down on the floor. Meanwhile, the front door opens and the burglar from the night before (this will be revealed to be Sarah in chapter 19) sneaks into the house. They decide to try and grab more stuff, even with the sound of footsteps and retching in the upstairs rooms being audible. Just as the burglar finds Kel's mother's necklace, Kel comes downstairs and, seeing a stranger in his house, immediately confronts them.

Then on to chapter nine, and so on.

That's all I got for now. Hope this helps!

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if i tell my thesis coordinator, about one of my groupmates lack of comitment?

I want to start saying english is not my first language, and give some over all info. I am writing this on the 28th of November, 2023, a Tuesday. I am a Game Design major.

Ok, so i am doing my thesis work, and for what we thought it was going super well!

We have 5 members in our group, me, the game designer, 2 artist (M and B) and 2 programers (A and P).

As I said I thought things were going fine, we had a dead line for monday, yesterday as I am writing this, and we planned to have everything done by Sunday, with monday being a playtest by 3 people or so.

Both artists had all tasks done by wednesday and friday, and both were helping me with formating the big game design document 194 pages long baby! Wich got done by saturday night. However, I got informed by P that there were some issues with the code for the game, and they were gonna try and fix it by monday afternoon. It comes monday and i try and talk to both programers to get info on the game, and A tells me he can't talk cuse he is to busy and that he needs me to write the conclusion of our thesis paper. I found it weird that he asked me that now, since he said the writing was done on June! I believed that we only had to add some in game screenshots, but I write it the conclusion without any arguments.

Anyway, me and the other 2 artists get in a call to check the prsentation slides, and M says she has something important to talk about. B joins and the truth comes out. M explains that A has been doing another persons thesis coding work, not helping, but doing it entirely! We were super surprised and she asks us to not tell anyone else, and says this has been going on for a while, and she did confront A about it a week back, and he promissed he wasn't gonna work on the other guys project. Turns out he did work on it mutiple times, and even filmed the walktrough of the game for the guy. As I am writing this, A has told her he was working on this today.

Before we continue with this mess, I want to explain how M has found this out. A few months back A did tell her he was helping this other guy out with the code, he is a good programer and this dude is doing the thesis by himself, so she didn't think much of it, but a few weeks back, when she was asking A to implement some assets she had finished, he said he was to busy with Guy's project to do it. At this point she realised how much he was involved, and let me tell you, M knows how to extract information, she now knows A is also being PAID for it, he guy owns 500 bucks to A from what I gathered, besides what has alredy been paid. ANYWAYS let's get back to this mess.

I was so tired I couldn't even really react, and just did what I had to do that day, by this point I gathered we wouldn't be able to do the playtest, and write the thesis conclusion acordingly. Around 10 PM the programers tell me the game still has a few glitches but they have uploaded it to the google drive, and i do a one over and send in the file for avaluation.

I spent today mostly relaxing, reading and watching some videos, but around 7pm i am consumed by the anger and betrayel i couldn't feel yesterday, and I talk to B about what happened

We agreed we had to confront M about the situation, and since me and B were not supposed to know about it, she had to talk to A. She said she alredy did, and told us that A was planing on talking to everyone on the next meeting (tomorrow), however, i argue that P needs to know beforehand, since this situation is horrible and he could lash out if A just dropped this on him, us 3 agree and invite P to the group.

Turns out A has told P about it today, but he was so tired from the past few days, he had no energy to react.

We talked a lot, and we agreed we need to talk to our coordinator about this hole mess, wich is probably gonna happen the following days.

So, WIBTA for airing this mess?

What are these acronyms?

[dandelionjack]

yesterday i started a personal long term activity that i like to call The Condensation Project. because i’m bringing The Cloud back down to earth. well, not quite. but what it does entail, is, prospectively, a physical archive of everything i have in every saved folder on social media (sadly you can’t print videos out, so i mean images and text) and/or screenshots.

i have long thought about the fact that all of our saved content is in fact immensely precarious. a nazi could report your account tomorrow and, because zuck’s team are nazi sympathisers, your whole archive would be just, poof, gone. social networks are ruled by cold-hearted oligarchs, all of them, technocrats who sell your data for profit. i hate the fact that all my favourite art, all my favourite memes and musings and poems and photos and songs and and and, are located on platforms owned by these tyrants, who have the ability to revoke our access to these materials at their whim.

i refuse to continue paying rent with my soul for the ability to look at artworks people haven’t posted anywhere else. so i’ve embarked on the (slow) task of cataloguing all my saved posts on instagram — there’s several thousand of them — saving them to the Compooter, pasting them into a google document, shuffling them around so that the largest possible amount of images can fit on 1 A4 page. google itself is run by the very same type of billionaire, so this is one temporary step on the road to freedom. what i’m going to do is Print Them Out.

by my estimate, it will total about 900 pages. i don’t know how much that will end up costing, but really i’m ready to sacrifice other areas of spending so i can splurge out on this. after printing, i will be cutting out every image individually, and gluing them into scrapbook(s, plural, i’ll probably go through at least 4); writing out every artist’s name next to it, copying out the instagram post’s caption too if it was exceptionally interesting.

i’m a very lazy person and a serial procrastinator so this will probably take me 5 months. after i’m done with the images, i’ll start writing out by hand the saved text-based posts that i want to preserve.

i don’t know much, but i do know one thing: the internet as we know it is going down in the next 3 years, 5ish if we’re lucky. other people can do the work of prepping for floods or droughts or other disasters, i’m preparing for the CULTURAL drought. i can deal with hunkering down in a bunker and eating beans from a can, but i can’t live without art, poetry, history. so that’s what i’m prioritising.

“just read books” okay, yeah, nobody’s discounting that. but not all the information in the world is contained within the pages of a book — a lot of it is up there, drifting in the Cloud, and nowhere else. i’m condensing it.

[hjbender]

I finally got around to emptying out my Google Docs in just another step of un-shittifying my digital writing life. I uploaded my docs to Proton Docs, which has improved so much from the last time I tried it out that it's almost identical to GDocs now. Minus the AI and lack of privacy.

Here's a tutorial if you'd like to do the same.

Moving Your Fics from Google Docs to Proton Docs

You will of course need a Proton account for this. Please note that the instructions below are performed on desktop.

Part One: Getting Your Stuff Off Google

1. Navigate to your Google Drive.

2. Under the big Search bar, you'll see a dropdown menu called Type. Click it and select Documents. This will display all of your documents.

3. Click on one document to highlight it, then hit CTRL + A to Select All.

4. Right click and select Download.

5. Your documents will download into a zip file. Unzip the folder and extract your files to another folder on your computer.

NOTE: Google uses its own file format to handle documents. When you download your documents, they will be Word (.docx) files.

Go through your downloaded documents and make sure they're all there before deleting them from Google. You can delete by selecting all using the method above, right clicking, and hitting Remove.

Part Two: Upload Your Fics to Proton

1. Navigate to your Proton Drive (proton.me/drive). It comes free with your Proton email.

2. On your PC, highlight all the documents that you want to upload and simply drag and drop them into your Proton Drive.

3. You're ready to rock and roll.

NOTE: When you upload your documents to your Proton Drive, they will retain the .docx file type described in the above note. Once you open a .docx file in Proton Docs, a copy will be made of that file. You will see this when you navigate back to your Proton Drive. You may delete the extra .docx file and continue to use the Proton document instead (recommended).

Additional: You can download the Proton Drive app for mobile and enjoy the same cross-device reading and editing capability as Google.

[thatfrenchacademic]

OK so about this "34, unmarried and childless" article about Taylor Swift. Let me tell you about Scam Academia.

TL;DR: some mediocre dude had a half baked opinio nabout Taylor Swift that everyone hated, but like Mother Nature I let nothing go to waste.

Here is the take you have not heard yet, about this opinion: this guy is actually a good case study on how to develop your academic literacy, aka how to recognize a true academic from a scammer who presents themselves as an academic, but is just a crook. In a world of pseudoscience and pretend experts that have enough resources to organize their flat earth conference, let me walk you through the world of Scam Academic, where for a few thousand dollars, you too can claim to be a researcher with a doctorate! Follow me down a rabbit hole that I hate with my whole heart!

Preamble: I have zero skin in the TS game. I don't get the hype, the lore, the obsession with those 2000s bracelet or dissecting every single line or every single song.

But then. Some guy had to write an op-ed stating Taylor Swift was not a good role model for girls ("in the US and beyond"), and it is a terrible take on so many level, but here is the thing. Whiny conservative think-pieces about highly successful women who should get back to the kitchen and think of the children are nothing new. But this one is different.

This one is fucking terribly written. It's just an abysmally written blog post. Genuinely one of the worst thing I have ever read, and I read hundreds of undergrad essays every year for a living. It contradicts its own arguments in every paragraph. It over-explains concepts like it's a high school essay and he's trying to meet the word count. It says "this is a valid question worth asking" but does not actually explain why it is worth asking. It is so, so, so bad.

Conservative writers are usually more the "high brow, drowning you in grandstanding" kind of writers. They are, usually, good technical writers - it's the one thing that helps make their talking point sound legit and palatable. So an abysmally bad conservative writer? Ok, I am intrigued.

The author is one John Mac Ghlionn. I look up the guy on Google and...

Oh.

Oh no, John.

Spewing conservative bullshit at women AND a researcher? You're in my turf now, John. You could have continued to cover UFC Pillow Fight Championships, or alien technology and other riveting subjects, but you had try to connect two brain cells to argue a thing, and slap "researcher" on top of it. Now I'm offended, as a researcher.

1. I am sorry, researcher WHERE?

Ok so if one is a "researcher", it means one conduct "research". and contrary to what backyard conspiracy theorists think, "researcher" is an actual job. It is an actual professional occupation. You get an actual contract, and you are paid actual money. By an actual employer: public (University), private (Think tank, private company), or a mix of both (at Unviersity, but on a privately funded project, for example).

So where does our John Mc Ghlionn work?

Well. Nowhere, as far as I can tell.

John does not list any affiliation. Usually, when they write, academics will state their exact position (Researcher, Doctoral Researcher, Associate Professor, Chief Engineer, Head of Department, Research Director...) and where they work. For example:

That's what it is supposed to look like.

But John? Nope, no affiliation anywhere, on anything he ever published. That's a pretty massive read flag. Research takes ressources: at the very least, time and access to database and documentation, even in social sciences in humanities. You may not need a lab, but you sure as hell need money and full access to JStore at least.

So I thought he was just one of these "I google therefore I research" kind of dude. But then, out of nowhere:

I am sorry. He has a WHAT.

2. I am sorry, a Doctorate from WHERE?

So. One thing to claim to be a researcher when you are just a professional yapper. Another to claim a DIPLOMA.

And not any diploma. A doctorate.

Let's pause. "Doctorate" is actually a really broad umbrella term of all doctoral-level degrees. The most famous (and most prestigious, for better and worse) is the PhD, but a PhD is technically just one of many Research Doctorate of, theoretically, the same level (cue this helpful reddit post). A second category of doctorates are the Applied Doctorates, and while there is Discourse on where they sit vis-a-vis PhD, the easiest is to consider that they are not research-oriented. They are hands-on, practice-oriented degrees. For example: you can practice medicine with an MD. You don't need a PhD. You can still call yourself a doctor, though.

Alright, so which of these does our friend Johnnie has? Or is currently enrolled in? And in which University?

You will notice that John does not go by "John Mac Ghlionn PhD" or even "Dr John Mac Ghlionn", when you just KNOW he is the sort of person that would but that shit everywhere. And no shade here, because I, for one, do put that shit everywhere. Maybe he is just currently enrolled in a program and has not graduated. Fair.

Since John does not list affiliation, I had to switch from academic to internet sleuth, and dig out this article:

But we learn that in 2021, John was a "PhD Scholar" in "Parkmore Institute". "PhD Scholar" is not a title I am sued to, but it's also not raising any red flag: ongoing PhD researchers can be "PhD students", "PhD fellows", "PhD researchers"... It varies from country to country and from institution to institution, so why not "PhD Scholar".

Let's check out the Parkmore Institute.

Ok, they are not a traditional university, but they appear to be more of a postgraduate institution: offering only higher level degrees, not undergrad courses. Once again, not necessarily a red flag. They are usually very heavily research focused, and embrace the "research" side of academia more than the "teaching" side. In Germany, the Max Planck Institutes are research-only institutions who deliver PhDs. They conduct cutting edge research, in part because their researchers rarely have to spend time teaching.

But that is NOT the Parkmore Institute. First of all, let's see what programs they offer:

None of them are legit.

And I mean, none of them are recognize as even Applied/Professional Doctorate by the National Science Foundation (US based). And while a PhD in Human sexuality would be perfectly valid, but I'm going to on a limb and say I have some serious doubts about "Bodymind Healing" as an academic field.

These are not legit academic degrees.

What they are, is an excellent money-making opportunity for anyone working at the Parkmore institute. Students will pay, at the very least:

And 60% of this goes to their " faculty mentor". The Parkmore institute provides no research fund, no desk or office space (they are entirely digital), no access to any resources or library, not even a Zoom account. There is also no mention of any timeline: how long a PhD take to complete? Who knows. 6 months ? A year ? 5 years? What are the requirements to graduate ? Who knows ! And I would need to pay $200 to get in touch with them, so I sure as fuck won't know any time soon!

But let's get back to our friend John. Remember that he stated, in that 2021 publication, he was a "PhD Scholar" at Parkmore ? Well that's a shame because Parkmore does not deliver PhDs. Ain't that a bitch.

ALSO. Parkmore helpfully has page with all their Doctoral Recipients! And guess who is NOT HERE ! That's right, our Johnnie !

How can this be ? Well, three possibilities:

John is still not done with a PhD. After 4 years ? In a crank university where I am pretty sure I can submit the first draft of a litt review and graduate ? Nah

John never completed the thing. Boo, that would mean that John is lying, when he says he has a doctorate. Bad, bad.

John did graduate, and obtained his doctorate in [scrolls back to check] psychosocial studies, and then was not put on the website or was withdrawn some time before today, as Parkmore institute ended their affiliation with him, as per this bit in their application form

A shame, really. If John had been affiliated with the Parkmore Institute, it would give a shred of legitimacy to anything he writes to anyone just skimming.

Now, I would love to get in touch with the Parkmore Institute and ask to see John's doctoral work, which they DO have, since the application for also has this very interesting section:

(definitely very legit, very normal).

But I am not sure how I would even phrase that request without transparently going

"hey, would love to see what bullshit research is being done over there, since one of your graduate decided to go all Handmaid's tale for the last 2 years".

If anyone feels like sending that email, I am begging you to keep me in the loop.

3. Back up, back up, what's up with that article?

Remember the article where he was listed as a "PhD Fellow"?

Well, about that... No. Welcome to the world of predatory publishing, one more cog in the Bullshit Academic ecosystem.

First: not at article. It's a "commentary". Could be worth something ia good journal, but still would not be a piece of research. But that is the least of its sins.

Its sins are being published in a journal called "Sociology and Criminology-Open Access", by a publisher called "Longdom". Longdom publishing has a bunch of journals on a lot o different fields, with the particularly of being predatory; they will publish absolutely anything you send them, as long as you pay their Article Processing Charges:

There are entire lists of Predatory journals on the web, you can find on here and another here , Longdom Publishing is in both.

This is how John can publish this last minute, Redbull-and-weed-induced essay in an actual journal, with an abstract that, I kid you not, finishes with "Please find the paper attached." He slapped together a shitty essay about people in India are poorer and therefore more likely to exhibit psychopathic traits and therefore engage in corruption, purely base on vibes. It does not even deserve be given any consideration, not even to be debunked. There is nothing to be debunked. This would be a failing grade for a 1st year intro class.

CONCLUSION

On the surface, John Mac Ghlionn is the poster boy of failed edgelords who really wish they were Jordan Peterson, but unfortunately are just Doug, the guy for 10th grade who failed the Literature class and decided it was because litterature was too woke today anyway.

Beneath the surface, John is a case study in Scam Academia, and the proof that no matter how bad actual academia is, Scam Academia can always get worse.

A quick checklist to go through whenever someone claims be a researcher, an academic, a fellow, a doctor, a PhD or anything of the sort:

What is their affiliation? Is this a legitimate organization?

Do they have a PhD? Another doctorate degree? From where?

Have they published ? Where is it published?

[ladylokianna]

As I was working this morning, I thought about the wave of hatred that has (again) hit the fandom in which I currently write (at the moment, HotD) in the last few hours, and not only I notice that the number of deactivated accounts is increasing, but also that those who, tired, decide (rightly) that they want to take a break are also increasing.

I wondered why there are people out there who thrive on discrediting, denigrating, bashing others, insisting so much with their nastiness that they are capable to make a person doubt themselves and/or think they have to justify themselves for something they did not do.

I have put myself in the shoes of someone who for months, or years, has invested her energies in something to the point of sharing fanart, floor plans and all the enthusiasm she can muster, only to find herself in need to justify her work to those who make dumb accusations. I wrote (and am really struggling to finish for various reasons) a 44-chapter long fic (not in HotD) that I have open on a Word file fourteen years ago: mine doesn't reach a million words, but 400k do, and for those 400k words I literally put my soul into it like all fanwriters do. Fourteen years of research, of words and phrases translated from other languages. Entire afternoons spent on google searching pages and pages for a detail mentioned maybe only once, trying to bridge linguistic differences, looking for idioms, idiomatic expressions, searching for events, recipes, documenting myself and discovering day after day something that the day before I might not have known. This is what writing is all about. Broadening the mind, trying to improve oneself, that's why I defined writing as something that nourishes. It should be something that unites, that improves not only you, but also others. Instead, when I go on tumblr, I happen to read (justified) outbursts from people who have to defend themselves against bullshit created just to hurt, and I am very sorry to discover that often that bullshit hits the mark and gets the desired result from the dungbags who write it. The advice is always the same: don't like a character, a topic, an OC? Free to do so, but scroll over without feeling entitled to throw shit on the author, and if you really feel the need to do so, put your face to it, take the fucking accountability for your words. I can't tell these people how to react to certain attacks because everyone reacts in their own way, but the only thing I can say is don't stop writing, do it because it wouldn't be right to stop for a bunch of assholes. Whatever you decide to do, whether to continue publishing or not, don't stop writing, don't give in to them.

[officeobject]

Still cannot verify nor deny.

savepalestineinfamily19

7h ago

savepalestineinfamily19 asked:

Imagine waking up every morning to devastation—a world where safety is a dream, and hope feels just out of reach.

Vetted by:

1) gazavetters my number verified on the list is ( #45 )

2) a-shade-of-blue (in my pinned post)

3) 90-ghost (in my pinned post)

4) dlxxv-vetted-donations (in my pinned post)

5)transmutationisms (in my pinned post)

My name is Mohamed Almadhonne, and I am reaching out from Gaza, where my family and I are enduring profound hardship. Our home, once a sanctuary of safety and comfort, has been reduced to rubble. We now face freezing nights and hunger in a makeshift shelter, holding onto hope amidst overwhelming uncertainty.

Each day brings new challenges—fear, loss, and the constant battle for survival. Yet, even in this darkness, I believe in the transformative power of compassion and the generosity of people like you to help us find a path forward.

I am humbly asking for your support. Your donation, no matter the amount, could provide us with essential relief: shelter, food, and a chance to rebuild our lives. If donating is not possible, sharing our story could connect us with others willing to help.

Here is the link to my campaign: https://www.gofundme.com/f/faydxu-help-mohammed. Your kindness could be the light that guides us toward safety and dignity.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your support. Your kindness means more than words can express.

With sincere gratitude,

Mohamed Almadhonne

23% of my long-term goal

11,385€ out of 50,000€

Donations are protected by GOFUNDME

Answer

siraj2024s

8h ago

siraj2024s asked:

🚨If you ignore this, you are dooming my family to death

Please donate to save our lives🙏

I apologize for what I'm about to ask. I have a heavy and weary heart. Unfortunately, the situation became difficult after most of my family members fell ill as a result of the worn-out tents drowning in rainwater, and my family now lives without shelter.

We urgently need to buy a new big tent and rent a shelter for the children and elderly people in my family of 24 people.

I lost part of my family, my home, and everything. I don’t know whether I will survive or die in this war, but I know that your help will contribute to saving my family from death

The campaign is documented in Google Docs el-shab-hussin No. 219

Answer

nourfamilysworld

8h ago

nourfamilysworld asked:

Ĥello

I am mai from Gaza.. 🇵🇸🍉

I hope you are well .

I write to you with a heart full of hope and faith, and I ask for your urgent help. My family is in great danger due to the war, and I am running a fundraising campaign to save them.

Please, can you reblog my campaign post on my account? Every participation can make a difference in my family's life.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for any help you can provide. 🇵🇸🇵🇸

The campaign was documented by @90-ghost

Please help me even with a donation of $10 to save my familyhttps://www.gofundme.com/f/save-nour-and-her-family-from-war-help-them-escape

Answer

savepalestineinfamily19 13h agosavepalestineinfamily19 asked:A Plea for Hope as the Year Ends🕊️🇵🇸As the end of this year approaches, all I can wish for is a moment of peace, even if just for a short while, to bring us back to our homes, to the memories and places that war has destroyed.💔💔We simply wish to end this year with our loved ones🫂🫶, to feel the warmth of our homes that we have lost, even if only for one month. After that, the war may continue if it must. But as people, as families, we need a small pause to feel that we are still alive.Today, we live in a small tent, with no safety or stability. Our little children, my siblings, and even the elders in family, we all dream of a moment of calm that gives us a chance to rebuild our lives—or at least to breathe life away from the sounds of bombs.Your support means hope for us. It means a chance to survive, to find a safe place, and to rebuild the dreams that were shattered. We are asking for your help to raise funds to get through this crisis, to secure our basic needs, and to try to live with dignity.💔🥹Any contribution, no matter how small, makes a big difference. The end of the year is a time of hope and humanity, and with your support, we may have a share of both.Donation link:👇👇👇👇👇https://www.gofundme.com/f/faydxu-help-mohammedThank you to everyone who reads, supports, or even shares this plea.Answer

dianatalb 18h agodianatalb asked:Hi! 👋 We're reaching out with a heartfelt message of hope. My wife, Diana, our two young daughters, and I live in Gaza, where we face daily struggles in an environment filled with conflict 💔. We've just launched a new GoFundMe campaign to help us escape this danger and find a place where our family can live in peace. Your support, even by simply sharing the link, would mean the world to us. Thank you for reading our story, and for any help you can give ❤️🌸.Please take a moment to check it out: [https://gofund.me/4f370b48]Answer

familgazaamal1 20h agofamilgazaamal1 asked:This is Amal and her family. My children are living under bombardment in the war 😭 Please consider them your children and help them 🙏🙏 Stand by my side to save and protect my children. They haven't gone to school for a year 🙏😢😢 Donate to save my children's lives 🍉 🙏🇵🇸 We live in very difficult and desperate circumstances, and what is worst of all is that the fear that haunts me increases day by day. Help me provide them with basic life needs. @gazavetters is verified, my verified number in the list is (#55)Answer

aboodalqedra13 22h agoaboodalqedra13 asked:I ask this with shame: Please donate a small amount that may save my father's life, he needs daily medication worth 55€ and will undergo surgery worth 250€💔, Please don't ignore my message and don't hesitate to help me 🍉‎‏ Please support me I am facing this alone🙏🛑We are now under a severe siege, the price of a bag of flour has reached 1000€The last donation was a while ago😞Answer

saja-gaza01

Please help me and family

https://gofund.me/e82fb539

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #299 )✅️

Not following each other

Hi

My name is saja, I am 19 years old, from Gaza City, I am married and I have a one-year-old child. After more than a year and two months of war, we lost all our possessions, our homes and everything, and we cannot provide anything for our family. Please support my brother’s campaign to help me, my son and my family. Any amount you provide protects us from starvation and enables us to buy clothes for my son to protect him from the cold of winter🙏. Thank you.🥹

Please any donation from you helps me buy clothes for my son to protect him from this cold, even if it is five euros🙏, please I am struggling for my child and my family in light of the cold and famine we have, be merciful to me! 🥹🥲

Yesterday 6:39 PM

[traintrainingmontage]

[March Prompt Event related] HELLO >:3 CONGRATS ON YOUR 150 FOLLOWERS AND ALL THE WORK YOUVE GOT DONE SO FAR, TE!! For my prompt, Godred being visited by his CFR brothers one by one, after they discover that he is, in fact, alive [but not well]

THANK YOU, COLE!! 💖 I've been looking forward to doing this one for quite a while, and now, IT'S TIME!!

The organization that rescued Godred, Toby (the OC), and some of the story beats included herein have been borrowed from Cole (with permission)!

The language that Culdee speaks at the end is Zurich, keeping in line with where he was built, and I had to use Google Translate, so apologies for any incorrect translations!

(CW: Engine injury; mentions of engine death)

(Have an idea for a prompt I should write? Want to see what I've written so far? Details are here!)

Someone fixed Godred, and they want to bring him here.

Such was the terrifying, tantalizing thought curling within the smokeboxes of the eldest four engines of the Culdee Fell Railway once the news had broken that morning. Their Controller, Mr. Alistair Richards, had delivered the announcement in a rather unsteady voice, as though even he couldn't quite believe the contents of the call he'd received, although his disbelief was quite understandable. His grandfather had been the Controller when the... initial decision had been made, and Godred's name had long been scrubbed from all official documentation and tourist pamphlets, leaving it only to linger as a lump in the back of his brothers' throats.

All of the engines had thought about and considered this particular situation for the rest of the day, each of them feeling some kind of way about this particular announcement. Now that night had fallen and they were all back in their sheds, finally alone, it was time to discuss.

As the other six engines began to talk about the recent news, Culdee was silent. He in particular had always had the strongest feelings about Godred. He'd been the one to try and convince his brother of his foolishness. He'd been the one keeping the eldest's name alive though telling others of his demise, only for all the rest of the world to assume he was telling a ghost story or, even worse, making it up.

Now that had been an unpleasant conversation, the one he'd had to have with Skarloey and Rheneas of the Skarloey Railway. Once Duncan and Sir Handel had left, they'd so genuinely complimented him on his "made-up" story. It was the perfect thing to teach their younger engines a thing or two about safety, and no story of theirs could have been nearly as effective. Their faces so earnest, their laughter that of being in on some kind of joke. It had made Culdee want to vomit, should he have had the ability.

Instead, a long-dormant anguish, donning the guise of wrath, had erupted up from his boiler, filling his body from his tubes to his cylinders so quickly that for a moment, Culdee had forgotten how to breathe. The other two engines' good cheer had so quickly fallen away at the stony expression that stole away his smile, at the glint of steel in his once-affable gaze, leaving them both staring at him in wide-eyed confusion. "You think that I made that up?" he'd rumbled in disbelief, volcanic anger and chilly disappointment battling for dominance over each word. "You think that I would sully my brother's name and memories by lying about him? I had not realized that you both thought so little of me."

"No, it's not like that at all!" had come Skarloey's predictably panicked reply, and nearby, Rheneas had been struck silent, eyes overflowing with the clear desire to do damage control but not quite knowing where to start. "We didn't mean anything like that!" Skarloey had continued to plead, a note of desperation in his voice. "We'd heard about the accident, but all we'd heard was that Godred had been scrapped! Not anything about... his parts being... recycled..."

Culdee had taken a deep breath at Skarloey's clumsy attempt at delicacy, but decided to take the other engine at his word. "Very well. But please understand that I did not entrust you all with my brother's story just for it to be reduced to some tale. It is a tragedy, from beginning to his eventual end, and because nobody else will speak of it, I must. Otherwise... everything he died for will have been for naught."

Such a statement had struck the other two engines dumb, and thus, not another word on that particular topic had been shared for the rest of Culdee's visit.

"Culdee... y'alright?" came the quiet rumble of Shane Dooiney beside him, shaking him loose from the decades-old memory.

"Yes," Culdee muttered, willing himself to calm. In a louder voice, he started to address the rest of the shed, all of the other engines quieting themselves and listening closely as their de facto leader spoke. "Listen, everyone. Ernest confirmed that our Controller looked into the claims, and confirmed their authenticity himself. Godred is... in fact... alive."

A strong hush fell over the shed as the engines of the Culdee Fell Railway all shared glances, some of which were rather unsure, while others held deep dread. In the pit of a boiler, in the teeth of a wheel, in the base of a chimney, a certain tension had come to rest.

Culdee took a breath, and continued to speak. "Godred will be escorted here sometime next week. Patrick, Alaric, Eric, I know that you only know of Godred through our stories about him. However, I will ask that you reserve your judgement for when you actually meet him; we don't know what kind of... condition he will be in."

Nervous glances, followed by affirming sounds answered Culdee's instructions, and the No. 4 engine took one more breath before adjourning the meeting. As all of the engines settled into their berths, Culdee couldn't help but share glances with his two older brothers, as well as Shane Dooiney. All of them seemed as though they weren't quite inclined to sleep just yet, thoughts still stirring about the apparent revival of their eldest brother, long thought to have been scrapped.

Ernest had taken up the mantle of eldest ever since Godred's passing, and while Culdee had ended up becoming the leader of their little fleet, Ernest had taken it upon himself to be their representative to the management, not wanting to burden his little brother with more than he had to.

Wilfred's usual good-natured smile was nowhere to be seen; usually, he acted as the moodmaker of the group, and could reliably be counted on to bolster everyone's spirits during their worst days, but this time, he seemed remarkably somber, eyes staring off into years tinted in sepia.

Shane Dooiney, always one to make his thoughts plain, wore a deep scowl, clearly rattled by this turn of events. While he could be grouchy on the best of days, his candor and loyalty to his brothers had always been his best qualities, as well as his distaste for "nonsense and theatrics," and it was clear to see that he was less than thrilled about the return of one who'd caused them all so much grief.

As for Culdee himself... well. He still felt somewhat responsible for Godred's accident, and that feeling was likely to never go away. He also felt responsible for the rest of his brothers, both the older and the younger, given how he'd somehow ended up becoming their leader. However, as always, he would do the best he could do to get them all through the day, and that would simply have to be enough.

As each engine closed his eyes, one by one, all of the mountain engines fell into a fitful slumber. Certainly, Godred's return was something to be excited about, ecstatic even. It wasn't every day that a supposedly already-scrapped engine got a new least on life, much less one in Godred's condition. However, nobody quite wanted to admit that along with the joy they were supposed to feel, a looming trepidation skulked along in its shadow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As promised, the next week, Godred was delivered to the sheds at Kirk Machan for what his new owners had stated would hopefully be something of a warm reunion. All service had been cancelled for the day in order to allow the engines some "peace and privacy with their dear brother," meaning that all they could do was wait. A team of representatives from the group that had rescued Godred, known as PeCos, had already come by to introduce themselves. This particular group was being led by a woman named Melinda and her assistant Toby ("Hi; my name's Toby and I'm the vice-leader of this excursion. No, I wasn't named for the NWR's No. 7."), who gave their greetings and introductions to the Controller and the assembled engines. The team then performed a quick survey of the area before giving the all clear, and now, there was nothing to do but see this through.

All seven engines internally steeled themselves as the flatbed pulled up, a tarp covering what was supposedly their brother. Ernest and Wilfred put on what they hoped were warm, welcoming smiles, as Culdee and Shane Dooiney looked on with carefully neutral facades, and the youngest three couldn't hide their curiosity, tinged with no small amount of nervousness. With them stood their Controller, an expression of grim dignity on his face. Who could know his thoughts, now that he would be coming face to face with what was perhaps one of the most infamous incidents in his family legacy?

All four of the original engines remembered how Godred had looked, from start to finish. How could they not, especially when he'd been dismantled, cannibalized, piece by piece in front of their eyes? When he'd waffled between angry and apologetic, blaming them all one moment and tearfully wailing the next, cursing God and all above before pleading and praying that his salvation might still come. Telling his brothers how much he loved them in one breath and cursing them to fates as horrific as his in the next. However, whether or not any of his wishes were answered was unknown to them as his cries became softer and softer with time—up until his tubes were removed to fix Ernest. With that, Godred, the CFR's No. 1 engine, was silenced forever, his husk unceremoniously dumped in the pile to be taken to the scrap yard the very next day.

The image of such a gruesome, mangled mockery of a steam engine, a fate that no engine deserved, really, had bubbled up to the forefront of the eldest four engines' minds. Thus, they could only brace themselves, hoping and praying that seeing Godred in a supposedly "fixed" form meant that the guilt they felt building up in their borrowed parts would soon alleviate.

With the help of a crane, Godred was placed onto the tracks before them, and the tarp lifted by members of PeCos. Before the engines' eyes, there he stood: it was certainly Godred, and much to his brothers' deep and overwhelming relief, he appeared to be whole, all of his parts intact, with not even a chip on his paint to indicate that he was anything but immaculate. The only slightly odd thing was that his eyes were closed as if he were asleep, but perhaps he'd had a long trip; it seemed that only the Controller actually knew where this organization was based.

In unison, four mountain engines took a deep breath, feeling the pressure they'd carried for many a day now disperse. Finally, it was Wilfred who finally worked up the courage to call out to their brother. "...Godred?"

At once, the eyelids fluttered open to reveal an achingly familiar gaze, which bored itself into each of the assembled engines in the shed, taking in the smiles, the steady gazes, and the looks of curiosity before his eyes began to take in the sheds themselves. Although he hadn't yet spoken, the other engines couldn't hold themselves back any longer.

"Godred! You're back! Thank god!"

"I can't believe it! It's been so long! I thought... well, it doesn't matter. You're alive!"

"Can't believe how lucky you are, getting saved from scrap like that!"

"So this is Godred? After Culdee's story, I thought..."

"Well, what else were you expecting? A zombie?"

"Oooh, that might have been cool..."

"Everyone, quiet." This command had come from none other than Culdee, who was staring at his eldest brother with appraising eyes. Immediately, the chatter around him ceased, all eyes quickly settling upon him before shifting toward Godred, who still had not yet spoken, but was shaking in his frames, looking around the sheds with wide eyes and naked panic on his face. "Ha... haah... haaaah..." His voice was barely intelligible, so quiet that his panting could have been passed off as the laughter of the wind, but this was no laughing matter; from every angle, it appeared as though Godred was having a panic attack.

"Godred..." one of the PeCos members began, and reached out to touch him, just as Culdee yelled "NO!"

Yet, despite his warning, it came a moment too late; the touch was enough to push Godred over the edge, and with wild, unfocused eyes that clearly weren't seeing the present, Godred forced himself backwards, away from all assembled.

Unfortunately, when he'd been unloaded, his brake had apparently not been applied, because the jerking motion that Godred made was more than enough to send him careening backwards, off the track, and sending him skittering back down the bend toward where their rails met the NWR's main line.

"GODRED!" the PeCos members shrieked, and they hurried over to the prone engine, with Toby shouting orders as the others scampered to comply. The other engines could only watch on dumbly, not entirely sure how to parse what had just happened; even the Controller appeared to be at a complete loss for words.

Suddenly, biting through the silence as surely as a pinion against a track, one solid, steady command rang out amongst the cacophonous quiet. "Sir. Please steam me up. We won't be going far."

Mr. Alistair Richards' eyes swung towards Culdee, who was staring back at him with steep determination, and amidst the rest of the confusion, it comforted the Controller somewhat to know that at least someone had a plan amidst this... this farce.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After about an hour, it became abundantly clear that Godred was in no condition to be either moved or touched, given the way his crazed gaze landed on anybody who dared approach. Not a word had escaped his lips, but his discomfort was clear enough to be understood by all assembled. Toby, the vice-leader of the visiting PeCos team, was roundly scolding his subordinates, particularly the poor soul who'd made the mistake of touching Godred during his panic attack and another who hadn't secured the brake properly, and was clearly trying to get the situation under control while Melinda, who was supposedly leading this team, simply looked overwhelmed.

With such a mess on their doorstep, Culdee was steamed up by the Controller himself and driven down a short ways to the site of the wreckage. After taking in all there was to see, the No. 4 locked eyes with Melinda. "Excuse me, could you please tell me what's going on? You said that my brother was coming to visit for a warm reunion, but now he's in this poor state. Please explain."

Culdee's tone was polite, but his eyes were stone cold, and Melinda seemed to shudder as she looked up at the engine and his Controller. "Well, you see... ever since we finished his repairs, Godred has been... less than communicative. We've tried everything we could think of, but after nothing appeared to work, it was suggested that we organize a visit here, to his old railway, to help him open up more. However, it seems that—"

"It seems that you miscalculated," Mr. Richards cut in, his words pretending politeness although his tone was ice-cold. "I would think that for billing yourselves as an engine rescue organization, you would do your research before exposing an engine so clearly in need of help to a place that was a source of such great trauma to him."

Melinda had no ready retort, and so could only bite her lip and nod her head at the criticism. "I understand. We will take full responsibility—"

"Of course you will," the Controller once again interrupted. "What shall we do now, Culdee?"

"..."

After a moment, the No. 4 sighed. "Please bring me closer to him."

The Controller silently obliged, with Melinda and the other PeCos members getting out of the way as Culdee trundled steadily forward.

Once Culdee was about as close to Godred as he could get, the CFR's No. 4 licked his lips and began to speak.

"Godred, ghöred Sie mich?" [Godred, can you hear me?]

One moment passed, then another. Godred continued to pant on the ground, but his eyes seemed to slowly blink back into clarity at the words.

"Ich bin's. Din chliine Brüeder." [It's me. Your little brother.]

"...Culdee..."

The reply was scratchy, forced out through a voice raspy with almost a century of disuse, and the listeners were barely able to make out that he'd said a word at all. However, for the first time since his rescue and overhaul, Godred, the CFR's former No. 1 engine, had spoken.

Culdee's eyes widened with delight, and for the first time that day, a small smile found its way to his face.

"Ja, da bisch du. Ich han gwüsst das es schaffsch. Du hesch dini Stimm wieder." [Yes, there you are. I knew you could do it. You have your voice back.]

"...Ich scho?" [...I do?]

"Ja. Ändlich chani dini Stimm wieder ghöre. Es isch so lang här..." [Yes. I can finally hear your voice again. It's been so long...]

There was a long silence for a moment, Godred's eyes fixed solely on Culdee and his gentle, sweet voice, before, to the amazement and sorrow of the onlookers, tears slipped out, running freely down the downed engine's cheeks. Those eyes, once so full of ego, had been broken, mellowed out by time and circumstance, to be softer now. It was a look Culdee wasn't used to seeing on such a proud face.

"Äxgüsi. Es tuet mer so leid. Bitte verzeihed Sie mir. [I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.]

"Ich het sölle zuelose. Ich hetts müesse wüsse." [I should have listened. I should have known.]

Culdee's eyes fluttered closed at the admission, trying to stifle the tears welling up behind his own eyes. After all these years of wondering what he could have, should have, done differently, of blaming himself for pushing too hard, and for not pushing enough, the simple acknowledgement so neatly cut through the cluttered emotions entwined around his heart. All at once, he'd been freed, from just a few simple words.

"Ich bin nur froh, dass du no läbsch." [It's alright. I'm just happy that you're alive.] Culdee replied sincerely, his smile growing slightly wider than before. In front of him, Godred's sobs continued, although they seemed to be tapering off, his gaze never leaving Culdee's as the No. 4 stared at him with a gentle expression.

"Es tuet mer Leid, dass ich so hässig uf eu gsi bin. Es isch nie eui Schuld gsi." [I'm sorry that I was so angry at you all. It was never your fault.]

"Muesch so viel Schmerz gha ha. Mached Sie sich kei sorge." [You must have been in so much pain. Don't worry about it.]

"..."

There was another beat of silence as Godred seemed to process all that Culdee had said, no longer shaking as the worst of his panic attack finally seemed to pass. As Godred's breaths evened out, his voice, despite still being in such poor condition, seemed to be a little stronger as well.

"Segeds mer. Bin ich eu allne nützlich gsi?" [Tell me. Was I useful to you all?]

At such a question, Culdee couldn't help but regard his brother with eyes warm with appreciation, mixed with what could only be heartbreak.

"Meh, als du jemals wüsse chöntsch." [More than you could ever know.]

Godred must have seen the pain in Culdee's face, but he didn't ask for clarification. Instead, he just continued to stare before a tiny smile crossed his face.

"Dänn langets ja." [That's good, then.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After another hour of discussion between the two brothers, Culdee finally turned to Melinda and Toby, who'd finished cleaning up as best they could. "It seems that my brother is ready to go back now," Culdee announced to the two, and both of them nodded, grateful smiles on their faces as they directed the crane to lift Godred from his position. "But please... let there not be a repeat of this."

"We won't let this happen again," Toby nodded solemnly, shooting a pointed look at Melinda. It seemed that someone might not be staying at PeCos much longer. "We'll keep you updated on his progress, and thanks to you, we have a much better idea of treatment options moving forward."

"That's good to hear," Culdee smiled, watching on as Godred was carefully transferred to the flatbed once again. "This place is no longer his home. I sincerely hope that he can be happier with you all."

As the PeCos staff worked to get him settled, Godred's eyes didn't leave Culdee, and Culdee's eyes didn't leave Godred.

"Chönnte mir..." [Could we...] Godred croaked, his expression hesitant, but he left the thought unfinished. Culdee, however, already knew what he wanted to say.

"Mir chönd rede, wenn immer Sie wend. Ich bin da." [We can talk whenever you would like. I'll be here.]

Thus, Godred was safely transported back to his new home. As the weeks passed, several calls came in to the CFR from PeCos headquarters, all asking for Numbers 2 through 5. Ernest's calm, steady voice told their brother about all of the interesting passengers he'd met and fun gossip he'd heard along the line. Wilfred performed his most recent rendition of his catchiest mountain-climbing songs, which earned him a round of applause from his many listeners. Shane Dooiney grumped about the weather, the trucks, and ridiculous passenger demands. Even the newer engines got their turn, introducing themselves to Godred and telling him about their most famous exploits.

For Culdee himself, however, he actually had very little to say. Instead, the CFR's No. 4 was perfectly happy to listen as his brother spoke about PeCos and his brand new life, smiling all the while.