#I love my bird jack
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the-art-ghost · 1 month ago
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AW I LOVE THIS!!!🩵🩵
I have nicknames for people's LJs mainly when because I love drawing them all together, either after the artist, a trait, or just whatever comes to my mind.
Sorry if any of this is ooc btw.
Ft LJs!!: @the-art-ghost @ellzilla @sweetpayaso @xxsweetoothxx @froggybrainz @creeps-and-pasta @zucchinitart @authormeat
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moranapologist · 20 days ago
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first Monday without jack and joker I've lost hearing in my left eye and sight in my right ear my eyes feel hazy and I have trouble breathing
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prince-liest · 10 months ago
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Oh, fuck on a stick, I had about 30 seconds during which I thought I might be capable of reading other people's Hazbin fic, and so I sorted the radiostatic tag by kudos, and that's how I found out that tWO OF MY 666 FICS are on the ship's front page?!
Me: Oh, this fandom is so active even in my own little corner of it! How nice it is, that so many people take the time to leave comments!
"My own little corner": [located in the cross-section of a six-lane interstate, fucking apparently, and yet here I am wondering where all the traffic is coming from!]
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n1kklzton · 7 months ago
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Since rewatching dsaf ive come to realize how many similarity’s it has with fable smp especially davesport and wetbirds (i can elabroate and maybe i will)
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The Rot™
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The Rot™ is your friend, The Rot™ keeps the ecosystem rolling, forfeit all your possessions to The Rot™ for it will take it anyway no matter how much you resist, The Rot™ owns all.
... I am very very sleep deprived
I like fungi a lot, they're fun, hehe
Oh and don't eat the bunni fungi, the bungi, or you will go on a trip so bad you'll see colours only the eldridge monstrosities can see, I am specifically looking at a certain someone. Don't. Eat. The Rot.. ™
But on a hopefully more understandable not that doesn't sound like I myself ate The Rot™ I do like this design for the feral side of daves soul a lot, he got consumed by the rot in the suit so he becomes The Rot™ when his body gets burnt to ashes, yayie, plus I love fungi bunny characters, and I wanted to draw one, double yayie!
Also here's a funny and totally not foreboding me me below with an eyestrain warning
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Gee do I love The Rot™
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skeletonzimms · 1 year ago
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sometimes i forget jack zimmermann is kinda based on sidney crosby and then i see a panel like this
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and he’s doing the sidney crosby baby bird face!!!
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circus-blades · 2 years ago
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bbb (big bird boyfriend)
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tofangirlonly · 21 days ago
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do you particularly have a favorite jeremy jordan character? or one you’d like to perhaps see more of?
-🎅
I am terribly unhelpful at favorites 🙈
unless the answer can be Jeremy Jordan in which case it is almost definitely Jeremy Jordan but since all of these are Jeremy Jordan....welllll.
I usually consider Jack, Clyde, and Barrie to be my core musical JJ trio.
They all have the nostalgia of being huge parts of the initial deep dive of my early JJ days and there's something really special about that. 🥹
(Winn and tl5y (especially The Schmuel Song) are also in that category but if I don't stop myself I will list pretty much all of him all over again which is the same reason I'm not looking at my gifs for this ✨self control✨)
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lllsaslll · 2 years ago
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The Thunderbird Cape
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June 30th, 1973 at Atlanta's Omni Coliseum: Just before the first show of the day, someone told Elvis that a five year old Robbie Barnes was attending the show and that he would be dressed up like him in his own lil' jumpsuit. During the show Elvis asked to turn the spotlight on the boy and at the end of the concert he gave Robbie the cape off the Thunderbird suit he was wearing that night. The Thunderbird's cape is regarded as one of the heaviest and most expensive of all of Elvis' jumpsuits. And in addition, J.D. Sumner mumbled to Elvis, "Elvis, give the boy your belt too!" and naturally Elvis did.
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puppyeared · 2 years ago
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uhh. uhhhhh
#realistically i knw that if i went thru with making animatics for all of these songs I think my hand would fall off BUT. i have brainrot#half of these songs are either here bc of the vibe or because i listened to the lyrics and read analyses and put 2 much effort than i had t#ALSO LISTEN. LISTEN BODYBAG IS EXACTLY EVERYTHING I IMAGINE WHENEVER I THINK OF WUKONG AND MACAQUES RELATIONSHIP OK#two birds and baby hotline is also kind of self explanatory. although most of the jack stauber songs are mostly for vibe#bitter water is a very specific flavor of pining / unhealthy outlook. kind of has like an insatiable vibe to it but idk how to name it#i want soap to be a healing song but maybe im just being optimistic. im here for the vibes although i feel like if swk and macaque were#actually to make up i think they would go into it kicking and screaming. and im frustrated because i cant find a song to match that#except maybe bodybag which AGAIN. THEY ARE SO FUCKING STUPID THATS HOW THEYRE GONNA HEALL FLYING BARK PLS#what if it doesnt end well also feels like a doomed narrative to me. like if you think about it from how their relationship might have st#started (and im probably taking from how everyone romanticizes their relationship as something really innocent or sweet at the start which#i am also not immune to that). but knowing them it is also a very good possibility thats not the case at all. what it is i dont know#primadonna also strikes me as a swk song but like msotly because he serves cunt. on that note I like to imagine rose colored boy as swk to#MK.BECAUSEEE i love how MK brings out the best in people AND AND AND!! 5000 year old immortal who has seen some shit come on people 'and i#have taken my glasses off' COME ON LOOK ATIT. you could also argue that could be macaque to MK and it would make sense#Spotify#Lego Monkie kid#lmk#yapping#playlist#monkie kid
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the-acid-pear · 6 months ago
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Okay so here's a fun fact for y'all: I have a pretty solid design for Oswald in my head (like, outside the suit, right?) which was heavily inspired by a Ozzy/Matt fic I read (there's like 3 so, the least memey one) but here's the thing: I think I like, fucking misunderstood entirely what the author was going for, so while it's inspired it's also Nothing Like That, which I find to be quite funny.
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ratgingi · 2 years ago
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dialtown oc based on my bird :-] lil bit of info on her under cut
her names is kiki, but shes usually called kiwi as a nickname (and sometimes kiwis . or both, kiwikiwis) she has a lot of trouble with volume regulation and little to no filter, so shes often shouting the first thing that comes to mind without really thinking about it first. shes also pretty easily excitable shes pretty sweet and cuddly when she warms up to people but requires a good bit of patience and takes some time to get to where she actually trusts a person. when someone she doesnt know comes around she becomes very verbally and physically defensive of people she cares about, but once she trusts them she becomes Super affectionate, to a point which could be a bit overwhelming for some she loves to sing and is pretty good at it, even if she does get a little excited and do it too loud sometimes she works at the petstore with twerps and outis, the three are all good friends despite having vastly different personalities shes the coworker who appears in his route (twerpy appears in the other one the petstores in), and when you meet her she instantly starts trying to figure out what the player is doing with him and threatens that if they act out of line she'll start biting (you can ask her with what mouth and shell just respond that you can fuck around and shell figure it out) shes Really good at comforting people and likes to try and improve her friends moods any time she notices they arent doing well. she doesnt really wait for an invite to do so, shell start trying to cheer you up if she notices your behavior is even Slightly off bc shes very observant and memorizes how people normally act to a t
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pyrussprite · 5 months ago
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yALL. FUCKIN. YALL. https://alonetone.com/cedarhillrefugees/playlists/turn-back-turn-back/mose-melton i'm thrashing, i'm shrieking into my hat you don't understand i thought this album was never coming out and i find out 6 years later???
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solxamber · 12 days ago
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How to Handle Your Diva || Vil Schoenheit
You’re the unofficial Vil Schoenheit handler, a role you assumed when you started dating him. Whether it’s calming his temper or redirecting his wrath, you’ve become the only one capable of keeping poor midguided souls from biting the dust.
aka the 7 times you save someone from getting poisoned or worse.
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Instance 1: Chaos Duo
The serene backdrop of NRC’s gardens frames Vil Schoenheit like a painting come to life. Dressed in flowing silks and adorned with the perfect balance of sunlight and shadow, he’s mid-pose when—
“Yo, Vil! Say cheese!”
Ace and Deuce leap into the frame, pulling the most exaggerated faces imaginable. Deuce’s eyes are practically crossed, and Ace looks like he’s mid-sneeze. The photographer audibly chokes on his spit.
Vil freezes. The air goes cold. The birds stop singing. Somewhere in the distance, a withering rose drops a petal.
“What,” Vil says, so quiet it’s terrifying, “was that?”
“It was Ace’s idea!” Deuce blurts immediately, shoving Ace under the metaphorical bus.
“Thanks a lot, traitor!” Ace snaps back.
Vil’s eyes narrow. “You,” he hisses, voice dripping with venom, “have the audacity to ruin my shoot?”
By the time you arrive, the photographer is hiding behind a bush, and Ace and Deuce are sweating under Vil’s glare. The two freshmen look like they’re seconds away from turning into frogs—or corpses.
“Vil, sweetie,” you interrupt, stepping between them and the storm cloud forming above his head, “what’s going on?”
“These plebeians,” Vil says, gesturing at Ace and Deuce like they’re bacteria under a microscope, “thought it would be funny to sabotage my art!”
“They’re idiots,” you agree, shooting the freshmen a glare. “But let’s think about this. What if... this makes your shoot even better?”
Vil arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Better?”
“Yeah!” you say, channeling all your persuasive powers. “When people see this, they’ll notice how your beauty shines even in the presence of—” you gesture vaguely at Ace and Deuce, “—mediocrity.”
“Mediocrity?” Ace repeats indignantly.
“Shut up,” you snap before turning back to Vil. “Think about it. They’ll see your grace, your poise, and how you completely outshine everyone around you. It’s contrast, Vil. Art loves contrast.”
Vil strokes his chin, considering. “You may have a point...”
“Totally! And, like, who would take them seriously anyway? Look at Deuce’s face. He looks like a confused pigeon.”
“Hey!” Deuce protests, but Ace is already nodding.
“Yeah, yeah! Vil, this just makes you look even cooler! Like, people will see this and be like, ‘Wow, he’s untouchable, even next to these losers.’”
Vil finally exhales, his wrath ebbing. “Very well,” he says, smoothing his silks. “I’ll allow it. But only because the juxtaposition highlights my perfection.”
Ace and Deuce sag in relief, clearly missing the word “juxtaposition.”
Later, Trey finds you in the hallway. “I heard what happened,” he says, looking both exasperated and grateful. “Thank you for stopping Vil from poisoning them. Again.”
You shrug. “All in a day’s work.”
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Instance 2: Just Leona.
The group is gathered in the cafeteria, the usual buzz of conversation swirling around. Vil sits at the head of the table, eating his meticulously prepared salad—a work of art with perfect symmetry, vibrant greens, and an edible flower garnish.
Leona slouches in his chair nearby, tearing into a steak with all the grace of a feral lion. He pauses mid-bite, glances at Vil's plate, and snorts loud enough to turn heads.
"What's that, Schoenheit? Rabbit food?"
The air grows thick. Vil’s fork stops mid-air, his gaze snapping to Leona like a hawk spotting prey. "Excuse me?" he says, in that icy tone that sends chills down spines.
Leona smirks, undeterred. "You heard me. All those leaves and petals—looks like something I’d feed to the herbivores back home."
There’s a collective oh no from everyone nearby. Jack visibly stiffens, eyes darting between the two like he’s watching a live-action disaster. You’re pretty sure Grim just whispered, “This is gonna be good,” from somewhere behind you.
"It’s called maintaining one’s figure," Vil snaps, placing his fork down with calculated grace. “You wouldn’t understand, considering your diet seems to consist entirely of undercooked meat and mediocrity.”
Leona leans back, looking as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “At least I eat like a king. Meanwhile, you’re over there grazing like the royal gardener.”
The tension escalates. Vil’s hand twitches toward his fork, and you’re suddenly very sure he’s planning to plant it somewhere deeply unfortunate on Leona.
Time to intervene.
“Vil,” you cut in smoothly, leaning closer to him, “can I just say, you look amazing today? Honestly, I don’t think anyone else could pull off a salad with such elegance.”
Vil blinks, momentarily startled, before his lips curve into a faintly smug smile. “Well,” he says, primly dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “I do have a certain flair for refinement. It’s not something just anyone can achieve.”
“No, it’s not,” you say firmly, throwing Leona a warning glance. “And anyone who doesn’t see that is clearly just... jealous.”
Leona snorts again but doesn’t push further, clearly uninterested in escalating now that Vil’s focus is on being praised rather than plotting homicide.
Jack gives you a subtle, grateful nod, visibly relieved that he won’t have to referee another dorm-versus-dorm war.
As Vil returns to his salad with renewed dignity, you sit back with a sigh, silently adding prevented cafeteria murder to your list of daily accomplishments.
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Instance 3: Theatre Club Madness
It starts, as all things do, with Floyd and his unique brand of chaos. This time, it’s a priceless antique vase from Pomefiore’s lounge that met its tragic end because Floyd “wanted to see if it could fly.”
Spoiler: it couldn’t.
Vil, who witnessed the entire ordeal, was seconds away from summoning a storm of consequences when Floyd, in a rare flash of survival instinct, promised to repay the debt.
“I’ll help with your little drama thing,” Floyd had said with a grin too wide to trust.
That promise didn’t even make it a full day.
By the time Azul appears in Ramshackle, wringing his hands, you already know something’s gone terribly wrong.
“Vil asked Floyd to star in some action scenes for his theater production,” Azul says, clearly on edge. “But Floyd... Well, he’s Floyd.”
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Let me guess. He skipped?”
“Skipped, vanished, and laughed about it,” Azul confirms. “Vil is furious. I fear he might—”
“Poison the Lounge’s water?” you finish for him.
Azul nods gravely.
Which is how you find yourself in Pomefiore’s theater, holding a script titled The Tragic Tale of Honor and Glory and wearing an outfit that feels heavier than your life choices.
Vil sits in the audience, arms crossed, as you nervously adjust the overly ornate shoulder pads. “Darling, I adore you,” he says smoothly, “but if you ruin my vision, we will have words.”
“Right,” you mutter. “No pressure or anything.”
Rook, of course, is thrilled. “What a magnifique turn of events! A real-life romance brought to life on stage!” he says, twirling a prop sword before handing it to you.
You glance at the script and immediately regret every decision that’s led you here. Floyd’s role isn’t just action-heavy—it’s absurd. You’re supposed to fend off imaginary enemies, deliver heartfelt speeches, and somehow “leap gracefully” across a prop chasm.
“Are we sure this isn’t a punishment?” you whisper to Rook.
“Every great artist suffers for their craft!” he replies, as unhinged as ever.
Rehearsals are... an experience. Vil critiques your sword stance, your dramatic pauses, and even the way you hold the fake shield. “You’re not a barbarian,” he snaps at one point. “This is a knightly role. Show some dignity!”
The only thing keeping you sane is the occasional glimpse of Vil’s smile when you nail a scene. He’s still your Vil—meticulous, demanding, and, beneath it all, proud of you.
By the end of the day, you’re exhausted, but no one’s been poisoned, and Vil is satisfied.
“Darling,” he says as you collapse into a chair, “you might just be a natural.”
You groan in response, but secretly, you’re glad. If starring in a play keeps the peace and earns you a proud smile from your perfectionist boyfriend, it’s worth every ridiculous leap and over-the-top speech.
You're not letting Floyd off the hook though, he now owes you a blood debt.
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Instance 4: Runway Disaster
It happens in slow motion. Kalim, with his usual sunshine energy, bounds over to greet Vil during a fitting for his latest custom runway outfit. In one hand, he holds a crystal goblet of bright red juice.
“Kalim, no—” Jamil tries to intervene, but he’s too late.
One excited gesture later, the goblet tilts. The juice spills. And Vil’s pristine white couture ensemble is suddenly dyed a tragic, splotchy crimson.
For a moment, the room is deathly silent. Kalim freezes, his smile faltering as Vil’s expression shifts from shock to something that resembles a villainous Disney queen summoning her final form.
“Oh no,” Jamil mutters, stepping back like a man who knows better than to get involved in an impending disaster.
Vil’s fingers twitch, and actual poison gas starts to swirl faintly around him.
“You…” he begins, voice deadly calm, eyes narrowed at Kalim, who looks like he’s considering whether running or apologizing is the better survival tactic.
Before Vil can unleash his fury (or toxins), you jump in, grabbing his arm like a brave but foolish hero.
“Wait! Think of the headlines,” you blurt. “The great Vil Schoenheit doesn’t panic when disaster strikes. He innovates. He adapts. He turns accidents into opportunities!”
Vil pauses, glancing at you with an arched brow. “Go on.”
“This isn’t a catastrophe—it’s a creative challenge,” you say, channeling your best salesperson energy. “You can redesign the outfit on the fly, show off your genius in real time, and prove why you’re the best.”
Jamil, who’s still lurking near the door, lets out a faint groan. “Don’t drag me into this—”
“Perfect!” you cut him off, pointing dramatically. “Jamil, help us. You’re good with details. Kalim, you’re... great at handing over fabric?”
“I am?” Kalim perks up, always happy to help, even when he’s the source of the problem.
Vil exhales sharply but lowers his hands, the faint poison clouds dissipating. He turns to you, his lips twitching upward in something resembling reluctant approval. “At least someone here recognizes talent when they see it.”
Half an hour later, Jamil is threading needles with the speed of a man who just wants this ordeal to end, Kalim is cheerfully sorting through fabric swatches, and Vil is in full designer mode, issuing commands and adjusting details.
You’re stuck holding a pin cushion and occasionally offering words of encouragement, but hey, no one’s been poisoned, and Vil’s outfit is somehow looking even better than before.
When it’s finished, Vil studies the revamped ensemble with a critical eye, then turns to you.
“Not bad,” he says, which, coming from Vil, is practically a standing ovation.
Kalim beams. “This was fun! Let’s spill juice more often!”
Jamil groans audibly, and Vil rolls his eyes, muttering something about how his brilliance is wasted on “uncultured chaos.” But when he glances at you, there’s a soft glimmer of gratitude.
Maybe you won’t have to stop a literal poison attack every day, but you’re definitely earning your stripes as the official Vil Schoenheit Disaster Manager™.
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Instance 5: Epel, why?
Epel’s first mistake is thinking he can sneak a greasy burger into the Pomefiore lounge. His second mistake is sitting right in front of Vil to eat it.
The moment Vil spots the offensive food item, his entire posture stiffens. Slowly, he sets down the teacup he was holding, a faint air of menace radiating from him.
“Epel,” Vil says, voice dangerously calm, “are you seriously eating... that in my presence?”
Epel freezes mid-bite, the burger hovering inches from his mouth. “Uh, I mean... it’s just a quick snack—”
“It’s processed garbage,” Vil snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Do you even know what’s in it? Chemicals, preservatives, and enough grease to clog your arteries by the time you’re twenty-five!”
You can almost see the poison aura starting to swirl, and your instincts kick in. There’s only one way to de-escalate this. Compliments. Lots of them.
“You know, Vil,” you interject brightly, sidling closer to him, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely flawless your skin looks today. Did you do something different? A new serum, maybe?”
Vil blinks, momentarily thrown off. “I did switch to a more concentrated vitamin C serum this morning.”
“Wow,” you gush, “it’s really working. You’re practically glowing! Honestly, you look like you just stepped off the cover of a magazine.”
Vil preens slightly, his focus shifting from Epel to himself. Epel catches your subtle hand signal—Run, you fool, run while you still can!—and starts to edge toward the door, burger clutched tightly in his hands.
Rook, who has been lurking silently nearby as usual, suddenly claps his hands together, eyes sparkling. “Ah, mon cher ami, how touching! Such devotion, such cleverness, to save our dear Epel from the wrath of Monsieur Vil! Truly, a love as radiant as the sun itself!”
Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, then at you, clearly aware of what you’ve just pulled. For a second, you think he might ignore your distraction entirely and summon some ancient Pomefiore curse to turn Epel into a cautionary tale.
But then he sighs and shakes his head. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, though there’s a faint, reluctant smile on his lips.
Later, as Rook waxes poetic about your “unwavering dedication,” Vil leans in close and murmurs, “I hope you know that if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have let this slide.”
“I know,” you say, grinning.
“And you owe me a handmade, organic, non-processed dinner tonight,” he adds, though his tone is more affectionate than demanding.
Fair enough. You’ve just saved Epel from doom and earned yourself a little more of Vil’s soft spot in the process. Not a bad trade-off.
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Instance 6: Housewarden meeting
It all starts when Idia mutters the fatal words under his breath at the housewarden meeting.
“Skincare’s just a corporate scam for gullible people, anyway.”
The air goes still. A deathly quiet spreads across the room, save for the faint thump of a pen dropping somewhere in the background. You look up in horror, eyes darting to Vil, who has frozen mid-reading. Slowly, methodically, Vil sets the paper down with the poise of a storm brewing on the horizon.
“Excuse me?” Vil’s voice is icy, his gaze locking onto Idia with the precision of a predator that has just spotted its prey.
Idia, realizing his monumental mistake, turns pale. His flaming hair flickers nervously. “Uh—uh—wait, no, I didn’t mean—uh, you know, for other people, not you! Definitely not you, You’re obviously an exception—uh, outlier—uh—uhhhhh...”
You can see it in Vil’s eyes: hexes. Hexes upon hexes. Idia’s social credit is about to go into the negatives, and it’s up to you to stop this trainwreck before it derails completely.
“Vil, darling,” you say quickly, sliding up beside him and placing a calming hand on his arm, “why waste your brilliance on people who clearly don’t understand skincare? They’re the ones missing out. Why not show them how effective it really is instead?”
Vil’s brow raises, his attention turning to you. “Show them?”
You nod earnestly. “Absolutely. A real-world demonstration. I’ll be your model. You can prove to the entire campus how flawless your methods are by working your magic on me.”
Idia, still rooted to his chair, looks at you with wide, desperate eyes, mouthing, Thank you, oh my god.
Vil considers this for a moment, the dangerous glint in his eyes dimming slightly. “Hm. That does have potential. It’s true that nothing speaks louder than results...” He narrows his gaze at you. “But don’t think this will be easy. You’re going to follow my instructions exactly.”
“Of course,” you say, internally praying you don’t end up with a ten-step skincare routine involving rare herbs and unicorn tears.
Three hours later, you’re sitting in Vil’s dorm room with half your face slathered in a gold-infused sheet mask, while he critiques the lighting for your before-and-after photos. Idia has not only escaped with his life but is actively hiding in Ignihyde, no doubt sobbing into his console for letting this happen.
The next morning, Ortho drops off a neatly wrapped package with a note:
"Thank you for keeping Big Brother from turning into a toad. This is our thank you. Please use it wisely. - Ortho"
Inside is a supply of snacks that Vil would never allow, soda and a very generous gift card.
At least your skin has never looked better
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Instance 7: Fashion Show Debate
It happens during the final stages of Vil’s meticulously planned fashion show rehearsal in Pomefiore’s grand hall. The decorators are frantically running around, while Vil oversees every detail with the precision of a hawk. It’s flawless—until Sebek’s voice booms through the air like a thunderclap.
“FASHION IS A POINTLESS PURSUIT WHEN COMPARED TO THE NOBLE ART OF SWORDSMANSHIP!”
Every head swivels toward Sebek, who stands tall, arms crossed, utterly convinced of his own wisdom. He continues, undeterred by the growing silence. “Who cares what you wear when you’re on the battlefield?! True strength lies not in silks and satins, but in the heart of a warrior!”
Vil freezes mid-step, his clipboard trembling in his hand. Slowly, he turns, and you swear you see the faintest shimmer of poison green pooling in his eyes. His glare could cut through steel.
“Excuse me?” Vil says, each syllable sharp and measured.
Sebek, being Sebek, barrels on, entirely oblivious to the danger he’s wading into. “Clothing is irrelevant when facing an opponent of true skill! A warrior’s resolve is their most valuable armor!”
Lilia, lounging nearby, starts wheezing with laughter, clearly finding the whole ordeal the height of entertainment. “Oh, this is delightful. Do go on, Sebek!”
You, however, sense disaster brewing. The tension in Vil’s jaw could snap diamonds, and Sebek’s volume seems to be increasing with every word. If this isn’t diffused soon, you’re going to witness Sebek walking the runway in a cursed tutu and heels.
Thinking quickly, you stride over to Sebek and place a firm hand over his mouth. “Sebek, remember the gargoyle incident?” you say in a low voice.
Sebek freezes, his face going pale. You lean in closer for effect.
“You know,” you continue casually, “the time you spent twenty minutes praising a gargoyle in the castle courtyard because you thought it was Malleus in the dark? Magnificent presence were your exact words, I believe?”
Sebek’s eyes widen in pure panic.
“When you finally realized your mistake,” you add, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you begged me to swear on my life that I wouldn’t tell Malleus. Do you think he’d laugh? I think he’d laugh.”
Sebek emits a muffled noise beneath your hand, his entire posture deflating. He waves his arms frantically in surrender. You let go, and he turns stiffly to Vil, bowing his head. “My apologies. I spoke out of turn.”
Vil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow but seems satisfied with the reluctant apology. “As you should be. Now, be silent, or I’ll personally ensure you end in heels forever.”
Crisis averted, you glance at Lilia, who gives you an approving wink. Sebek, meanwhile, retreats to the shadows, muttering under his breath about unfair tactics and treacherous secrets.
As the models resume their walk, Vil brushes past you with a quiet, “Good work, darling. Though I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have minded seeing him in heels.”
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It’s one of those rare, quiet evenings where the world outside seems to hum in stillness. You’re sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, savoring the precious downtime. The soft creak of the floorboards is your only warning before Vil’s hands are gently pulling you into his arms.
Startled, you set your phone aside and look up at him. “What’s up?”
Vil doesn’t answer immediately. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms encircling you as if shielding you from the entire universe. His expression is unusually soft, his gaze tracing over your features like he’s memorizing every detail.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, his voice quieter than you’re used to. “You do so much for me. More than I deserve sometimes.”
You blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about? You deserve the world, Vil.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he looks away for a moment. “I know I’m... a little demanding.”
You snort, which earns you a mock glare. “Okay, fine, maybe a little more than a little." You laugh “But it’s not like I mind.”
“You should. Most people would,” he counters, but his tone is softer now, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve been working so hard to keep up with me, to make me happy, even when I’m being a diva.”
That makes you laugh, and the sound seems to melt the last of his hesitation. You cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his flawless skin. “Vil, it’s not hard work. It’s a labor of love.”
His eyes widen just a fraction, and then his smile blooms—gentle, radiant, and so genuinely Vil. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, but the affection in his voice betrays him.
“And yet you love me anyway,” you quip, grinning.
Vil huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you into a proper embrace. “Hopelessly.”
You stay like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the world outside forgotten. It’s just you and Vil, caught in a moment that feels like love personified—sweet, steady, and infinite.
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(this is kinda a spiritual successor to the how to tame your dragon malleus fic)
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sweetteainthesummerx · 6 months ago
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⋆·˚ ༘ * oh, my, my, my ⋆·˚ ༘ *
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nhl masterlist !
pairings: quinn hughes x childhood friend!reader, jack hughes x platonic best friend!reader, quinn x artist!reader
warnings: angst and comfort, fluff
summary: you and quinn throughout the years, and how you fall in love <3
song: mary's song (oh my my my) by taylor swift
word count: 4.4 k
notes: I love lake quinn sm :)
★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★
our daddies used to joke about the two of us, growing up and falling in love, our mamas smiled, and rolled their eyes
"oh, she's so tiny!" ellen cooes, cradling the little bundle of pink, "and she has your eyes, birdie."
your mother smiles at the nickname her college friend had given her freshman year, when a bird had pooped on her head during a girl's night out.
it stuck (literally), and almost 10 years later, as her best friend holds her babygirl, she's reminded of everything they'd been through together.
"congrats, man. the first girl in the family!" jim slaps your dad on the shoulder, the two men smiling at their wives.
"oh, she's just precious." you yawn, and all of the adults are reduced to an awwing mess.
quinn toddles over, chubby toddler legs still unsure. he lands on his butt half a foot away from ellen, who lifts him up with the hand that wasn't holding you.
"look, quinny."
quinn reaches out a finger towards you, and jim is about to chide him when your tiny little fist locks around it. his wide eyes widen even more. you gurgle happily at him, and for the first time in a while, he goes completely still, enraptured by the baby in front of him.
"oh." your father whispers.
"well, that's your son-in-law now," jim laughs.
"hey, don't count out jack! they're closer in age, after all."
your mom rolls her eyes, as ellen snorts, "let's not pre-write our kid's futures before they're five, please."
..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..
i was seven and you were nine, i looked at you like the stars that shine
"y'know, birdie," ellen starts, "the boys might be right."
"no, they cannot eat four pb and j's and then go to the carnival-"
"no, not the little ones!", ellen laughs, "our husbands. they might be right."
"oh, that? the whole son-in-law thing?" your mom grins, as she watches luke chase after you with a worm.
the two women are silent and thoughtful as you - screaming at the top of your lungs - duck behind quinn, who sternly tells off his little brother. your sticky hands lace with his, naturally, albeit a bit awkward the way only kids can be.
you absolutely adore quinn. he's your protector, the one you turn to more often than not. jack is your best friend, and you remind her of that often. luke is your baby brother, the one you coddle and fuss over.
and the boys adore you just as much; jack plays pirates with you all day, Luke follows you like a puppy, and quinn...
he's staked a claim on you that makes your mom laugh, but worry a little when your older and you inevitably find someone who isn't him.
it never occurred to her that he might be the one.
"oh my god." your mom says as your dad walks in with jim.
"ha! see? I know I put money on my son for good reason." jim says gleefully, and quickly pipes down at ellen's dirty look.
"jack is also your son, man." your dad shakes his head.
"seriously? you guys made bets on the future love lives of your prepubescent kids?"
"birdie, it's just a joke!"
he eats his words as quinn leads you through the door. you're in tears, a nasty scrape on your knee. he's got your hand cradled in his.
ellen and your mom fawn over it, how brave you were, but all you could remember is how quinn held your hand the whole time.
..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..
take me back when our world was one block wide, i dared you to kiss me and ran when you tried
when you're ten, you almost have your first kiss.
you're going through a phase, really, when all you would wear were your overall jean shorts, a big t-shirt and your red converses. you have little pen drawings all over your shoes and shorts.
now, when you look at the photos from back then, you cringe a little at how lanky and young you look.
you're with the boys at one of the neighbouring lake houses, a couple of other girls and a few guys too.
everyone there lived on the same block, so it was odd that you hadn't all hung out together before.
quinn can tell you're uncomfortable around the other guys, who are loud and frankly very obnoxious. even his 12-year-old self can tell.
he tells you that you can all leave and go get ice cream near the boardwalk, but you refuse. you're 10 already, you can handle a few new strangers.
somehow, spin the bottle is brought up and you find yourself sitting cross-legged as one of the older girls - who's kind and much more grown than you - tellsdyou how to spin the bottle.
your hands shake and the backs of your knees are slick with sweat, but you spin anyways. you want to seem cool and older too.
you watch the root beer bottled patter as it turns, the ting, ting sound dissonant with your thumping heart.
it lands on quinn.
your quinn who knows all of the words to the spider man movies, who gives the last popsicle to you and lets you tuck your feet under his thighs when you get cold.
this is a disaster, you think, because you don't know how to kiss! are you supposed to use your tongue? you almost gag at the thought.
quinn can see your very apparent panic, and the only thing on his mind was to make it of away.
he wants to hold your hand, but when you turned nine you had decided that boys had cooties, so you refused to touch him or his brothers.
"...we don't have to," he offers, scratching his neck. one of the boys boo, and you flush.
you shook your head, "i want to."
he smiles, shy and boyish and your heart goes into overdrive.
his face matches yours in colour as he scoots forward awkwardly, cupping your face the way he'd seen his dad do to his mom.
as he leans forward, you burst into tears. if you kiss him, and he's disgusted by your kissing skills - or lack thereof - he wouldn't be your quinn anymore.
you run out embarrassed, leaving quinn's hand outstretched and the older girl from earlier confused and worried.
you think that you had ruined it all, but later that night when quinn offers to take you to get ice cream and lets you get two scoops, you know nothing can tear the two of you apart.
..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..
take me back to the creek beds we turned up, two A.M. riding in your truck and all I need is you next to me
the year quinn turned 16, he gets his boating and drivers license.
when the first real day of summer - he doesn't count the days until he sees you and the lake house again - starts and he finds you making eggs and bacon in the kitchen, he gives you an offer.
"hey, chickie." he tugs playfully at the string of your apron. jim had given you that nickname because of your mom's. chickie, like a baby bird. jack liked to call you chicklet, and Luke followed suit.
the adults think you've outgrown that name, and only call you chickie sporadically.
it's become special for you and quinn, sacred even,
"hi, quinny." you answer in the same tone, swatting him with the spatula in your hand.
"give me a piece of bacon and i'll take you out onto the water. i'll even let you drive a bit when we're far out." he murmurs as you turn the stove off.
"really?" you squeal, and he winces jokingly.
"yes, yes! finally!" you throw yourself at him, letting the older boy catch you around the waist. he grins into your hair, his cheek muscles unused by the seasons without you.
"okay, kid. pipe down. where's my bacon?" he grumbles, but he smiles when you turn around to fix him a whole plate.
you forget in all of your excitement that he doesn't even like bacon.
it's pathetic, really, but he missed you. he still does even though you're less than a foot away from him, salting your scrambled eggs.
he finishes his food faster than you do, and leaves to set up the boat with your promises that you would hurry.
he's excited; he hasn't seen you since christmas, and then, he had to share you with jack and luke and his parents too.
that year, you and jack had become decidedly closer, and quinn knows he has to establish that boat time was for you and him only.
so when jack and luke both follow you onto the boat, whooping and screaming, he's pissed.
and on top of that, he has to drive the boat while you and jack banter and threaten to shove each other off of the moving vessel.
it wasn't fair: you're his person. you guys did gas station runs together, you always looked at him with sad puppy eyes when you were cold.
he'd always grumbled and give you his sweatshirt when you refused to bring a jacket and ended up shivering. you always begged to braid his hair when the sun was at it's highest and there was nothing to do.
so yeah, excuse him if he was mad that your time together was interrupted by jack and luke of all people.
so when you walk up to him, hair messy and wearing nothing but your bathing suit and one of his old hockey jerseys, he tries his best to ignore you.
"quinny!" you exclaim, nudging his shoulder, and once more when he doesn't answer.
he glances quickly at you, but one look is enough to make his chest squeeze in that way that it started to do since last summer.
you had always been beautiful, but you were starting to be seriously gorgeous.
your hair is windblown, skin tanned and freckled with eyes bright from the sheer novelty of it being summer again.
you'd started to fill out more; the tiny bikinis you - and he - loved made something hot tug in his lower stomach.
tucking your hand into the crook of his elbow in the way that always makes him soften like butter, "I thought you were gonna let me drive!"
"ask jack to teach you," he snarks, and regrets it immediately at the hurt on your face.
his chest tightens, like someone has taken the hurt on your features and shoved it between his rib cage so he couldn't breathe.
the two of you don't talk for the rest of the day.
quinn feels like an asshole, and he really doesn't like how you refuse to sit in your normal spot next to him during movie night, instead opting to tuck yourself between the edge of the couch and luke.
and the salt on the wound was when you don't laugh at the stupid jokes he makes for you, especially.
his mom asks him what he had done when he goes to get more popcorn in the kitchen.
"what? why did you automatically assume I didn't something?" he asked, offended.
"because, that girl sticks to you like a magnet," ellen smooths his temple, "and because no one makes you smile and talk like she does. you've been silent all day."
the next night, he shows up at the door of your room in the lake house your two families shared.
he knocks, and pokes his head in, "chickie?
you're at your table, drawing again like you always were.
he keeps the little sketch of him you made last summer in his wallet, tucked under the picture of all of the hughes boys and you.
you ignore him, and he flops on your bed. the floral sheets your mom bought when you were 11 smells like you. he tries not to be creepy and inhale - at least too noticeably.
"gas station run?" he asks.
you finally spare him a glance, "quinny, it's past one o'clock, and it'll take at least 20 minuted to get there."
"please? I really want chips."
you sigh, ever the martyr, and agree. neither of you mention how the hughes stock up enough snacks to last at least 2 months the beginning of every summer.
the battle of who cracks first kept on, until finally, on the way back from the gas station, quinn sighs, "I'm sorry.
you frown, clearly not impressed, "I don't even know why you're sorry."
"god, this is embarrassing-"
"quintin, i swear-"
"i wanted the boat ride to be just us two!" he exclaims loudly.
there was a beat of silence, only the chirp of crickets that crept in the tall grass you could hear through the open windows of jim's truck.
the light on the radio shined, 1:59 AM.
"what?" you ask, a little confused and very much flustered.
"i missed you, chickie, and jack is always monopolizing your time! you're my person and-"
"are you jealous?"
"what?"
"oh my god, you are! you're jealous!"
"no!" he splutters, grateful that it's pitch black outside, because he can feel his ears heating up.
you laugh, tugging at one of his curls, as he grumbles something about not letting you eat any of his salt and vinegar chips.
"quinny?" you ask a little while later, when he's pulling back into the drive way, "y'know that you're my person too, right?"
you look soft and sleepy, under the light of the car, in one of his hoodies and sleep shorts.
he swears he turns into liquid in the drivers seat.
..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..
well, i was sixteen when suddenly, i wasn't that little girl you used to see
"I wouldn't worry about that, chicklet." jack throws his arm around you, and you roll your eyes at the many girls starting to glare at you.
"I don't know what you're talking about." except you do.
there's a girl flirting with quinn, and she's pretty. she's got tattoos on her arms, and she's tall, almost tall at him.
you take a break from the self-deprecating comparison between yourself and her to admire quinn for one second.
he's gotten so tall and broad, all the signs of boyhood gone, except when he smiles that special smile for you. the one when his eyes get all squinty and he bares all of his pretty teeth.
your heart twists, because he hasn't smiled at you like that all summer.
you don't know what you did wrong. maybe he's outgrowing you. he'll be a college man next fall, and you're still in high school.
he's got the whole world in front of him, and well, you couldn't blame him if he didn't want to settle for you.
you realize your feelings for him the beginning of the summer.
or you uncover them, because if you're honest, they've always been there.
and right now, you're wearing your heart on your sleeve, because he looks so handsome in a tight black t-shirt and shorts, a backwards cap on his curls.
his biceps look huge, and between the teenage hormones and the two shots in your system, you want to climb him like a tree.
the more romantic side of you wished you had your charcoal and parchment, so you can copy down his likeness for when your old and greying and you can't remember how he looks illuminated by the moon and bonfire.
"yeah, sure. you're clueless." jack snorts, and he makes his way to the drink table at the party you're at.
you pass by Luke, who's preoccupied by a girl way too old for him, and go sit closer to the fire.
you're mad.
you're mad because you've dressed up real cute, in a tiny black tube top and denim shorts.
you're mad because your hair is curled the way quinn likes it.
you know that for a fact because every time it looks like that, he comes up behind you to wind his fingers through a strand. it was a hassle, and he won't even look at you.
"what's a pretty girl like you doing alone?"
it's a boy with mussed, brown hair and a nice smile.
he's cute. peter, or pierre, he introduces himself. he reminds you a bit of the boyfriend you had first semester of sophomore year.
you've had boyfriends, and quinn has had his relationships, but summer was sacred.
that's why you felt ill when you flirted with him, not because quinn was a mere 20 feet away, starting to glance over and frown.
quinn has always been a jealous motherfucker; you'd give it 5 minutes before he comes over.
you try not to gloat when he comes over in 2.
"hey, chickie. time to go." he tells you, taking you cup and winding an arm around your waist.
you roll your eyes, pushing him off, "no, I'm good here,"
quinn crosses his arms and puffs out his chest, biceps flexing in front of you.
the boy smiles - you've already forgotten his name, something p - and shrugs at quinn.
he's mad now, you can tell, but you wrap you're fingers around the other boy's elbow to egg him on.
"oh, for- that's it. c'mon."
suddenly, your feet are swept out from under you, and you're thrown over his shoulder.
you frown, realizing that you're in the air.
"hey!" you protest weakly as people turn to look at you. quinn continues his trudge all the way to where he's parked his dad's truck and dumps you on the hood like you weigh nothing.
"what are you doing?" he asks, eyes dark, "that guy is no good-"
"no! what are you doing?" all of your frustration pools in your throat, and embarrassing tears are starting to prick at your eyes.
"you won't even look at me all summer, you're flirting with some girl and you get mad at me? you're being such-"
he shakes his head, looking as exasperated as you feel.
"do you know how hard it is-" he breathes out shakily, "how difficult it is to control myself around you?"
"what?" you ask, heart beating in your ears, "what?"
"i have been in love with you since i was 12, chickie." his tone is begging, and so are his eyes.
he looks pained, and you want to relieve it so, so badly. but he still won't touch you. he's hovering away from you, like he has for the past month.
"i love you, and you see me nothing more than a brother, like how you see jack. and it hurts, here," he rubs the heel of his palm between his ribs, "to know that you'll never want me the same way."
"quinn-"
"no, let me talk. I've spent the past 6 years pining after you. I've tried to move on, but all...nothing compares to you. I want you so bad, chickie, but..." he turns from you, head in his hands.
now, if you weren't like 3 beers and 2 shots deep, you would realize that he can't really go anywhere because you're quite literally on the top of his car.
but drunk you is clearly a dumbass, because you think he's trying to leave. so you tell him what's actually on your mind.
"i love you!" you blurt out.
he turns slowly, "what?"
"i love you too. i thought you didn't want me because you're leaving for college, but i want you so bad, please-"
the next thing you know, he's between your legs, so warm and solid, pulling you in by your cheek like during that spin the bottle game 6 years ago.
you let him kiss you for real this time, you let him push up your shorts to feel more of your skin, you let him lick into your mouth.
he pulls away, and you whine, tugging him in again.
he laughs, which makes you laugh in turn, and you slide down the hood as you giggle. he catches you, because he always does.
"i love you." you tell him, and he flushes, nuzzling into your neck.
"say it again," he demands, just because he can.
"i love you, my quinny." you coo, and he wants to crawl into your skin and settle there forever.
"i love you too, chickie."
..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..
oh, my, my, my
"told you so." Jim tells the rest of the parents.
the four of them - the weirdos - are on the second floor, leaning on the bannister as you make breakfast with quinn.
well, you make breakfast and he's distracting you.
he's got his arms wrapped around your shoulders from the back, and the two of you waddle like a pair of penguins around the kitchen gathering ingredients for pancakes.
you're giggling, and he's got a half-smile on his face.
you look so happy together than ellen and your mom are ignoring jim's gloating.
they are even kind enough to ignore the exchange of money between the two men, after all, your dad had bet on jack and lost.
"i can't wait for their wedding."
"hold on, now!"
..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..
a few years had gone and come around, we were sitting at our favorite spot in town and you looked at me, got down on one knee
you're on Quinn's lap, content and warm. the two of you had gotten up to watch the sunrise, first day of the summer at the lake house.
it's nice to have everyone in one place again, the two of you coming from vancouver, the boys from new jersey.
the past couple of years had been hard; a year or two long distance, until you went to study architecture at UBC after quinn had been drafted.
this year, 24 and 22, you finally get some rest and the promise of settling down more.
quinn's captain, and you have a good job that lets you work remote and do what you love.
and more importantly, the two of you are always together.
"babe?" quinn asks, running a hand down your arms, "c'mon, let's go to the dock?"
you don't protest, just happy to be at your childhood lake house.
he leads you there, like he always does.
"pretty." you stare out at the water, orange and pink sky meeting in the still horizon.
"yeah." quinn gives you a smile, rare for anyone else.
but he has always smiled for you, and you greedily hoard them in your memories.
"got something to show you," he pulls his wallet out, the two pictures in the clear flaps catch your eye.
one is a polaroid of you and your boys. quinn is 15, jack is 14, you're 13 and luke is 11. all of you are lanky and awkward, wrapped around each other and grinning ear to ear.
the other is also a polaroid, taken by ellen a year or two ago, when all of your parents came to visit your Vancouver apartment.
quinn's arm is around your shoulders and you're clinging to his side, one hand curled around his waist and the other on his chest. you're smiling at the camera, and quinn is smiling at you.
"cute," you tell him, but he digs a finger into the little pocket.
"fuck," he swears when whatever he's looking for doesn't come out.
"here, let me," you offer. you retrieve a piece of thick parchment with your smaller hands.
it's a sketch of quinn you did when you were in your early teens.
it's not great, you have to admit. the lines aren't smooth like how you sketch now, but the ink and paper is in pristine condition.
"quinn...you kept this?" you ask softly, oddly emotional.
when you look at him, he has a weird look on his face. he scratches his neck.
you stare at each other for a moment, the familiarity of your love almost stifling in the cool morning air.
and then he drops down on one knee.
you start crying, immediately.
that sets him off, and the two of you are blubbering as he tries to get through the speech he wrote in his notes 7 months ago after he got the ring and you were in the shower.
he tells you he loves you, how he's never going to leave you, that you're going to build a life together, just like how you've done everything together since you were kids.
you believe him, because your quinn is nothing if not earnest and steady.
you let him slip the simple ring onto your finger, and he lifts you up into strong arms to kiss you.
you're so deliriously happy that your teeth clash with his in a smiling kiss.
your families cheers from the porch, and you laugh, watery and heart full.
jack runs up first, swinging you around and clapping his hand down on quinn's shoulder.
Luke kisses your cheek and hugs his older brother, as ellen and your mom hug you together.
jim wraps his arms around you, pressing his lips to your forehead, "thanks for helping me win the bet, chickie." you chuckle, reaching for your dad next.
..•���°°°°••....••°°°°••..
take me back to the time when we walked down the aisle, our whole town came and our mamas cried, you said I do and I did too
the wedding takes place a year later, in a small winery near the house, because ellen and your mom refused to let you have the wedding on the dock.
this was your compromise, because it's a small affair.
your dad walks you down the aisle to quinn. you're smiling, like there's a hanger in your mouth because you're just so happy.
he cries when he sees you, and so do the other hughes boys.
you hear your mom and ellen, tears meeting shaky smiles on their faces.
your own college friend, your birdie, fixes your veil and holds your bouquet.
sweet promises are exchanged in your vows, and when you have your first kiss as mr. and mrs. hughes, all of your loved ones cheer.
quinn sweeps you off your feet and bridal carries you to a change room so you can switch into your reception dress.
he sees you later as jack, who volunteered to be the mc, announces you guys as mr. and mrs. hughes.
quinn's eyes are hot and dark as he sees your smooth skin under white lace, and whispers something into the shell of your ear that makes you pink.
you dance together, with his brothers and his dad, with your own too.
but the last dance is saved for the two of you.
"i can't wait to grow old with you, chickie." he whispers romantically.
"you'd make such a cute old man," you tell him, and he rolls his eyes.
you laugh, and so does he.
forever sounds real good to you.
★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★
© sweetteainthesummerx.tumblr. all rights reserved. unauthorized copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or any works as your own is strictly prohibited.
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somnoir · 20 days ago
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Bats and Phantoms - Part 1
Prompt: All the Phantom/Fenton Siblings end up with one of the Bats and Birds. It's just that neither of the two families know that their partner is related to their siblings' partners.
Danny and Red Hood
Going to Gotham for university was a planned decision, mind you. It was one of their many contingency plans in case the reveal went wrong. Thankfully, it didn't but his parents were still trying to change their views on ghosts for the sake of their children. Last he heard from his parents, Jack and Maddie Fenton were practically harassing every ghost they could find on culture, history, and etiquette. (He's gotten one too many complains from Box Ghost and Poindexter.) Plus the mess that was the situationship between the Fenton Couple and Vlad Fucking Masters. (Dante was about to kill himself again for that).
Gotham had enough ambient ectoplasm for him to be stable. Everything was very normal. Absolutely...
If not for the fact that Danny loathed clowns. When a clown decided to try and attack Danny, what does he do?
He did what every self respecting Fenton would do when faced with something he absolutely hates. He came at him swinging, aiming for the face.
And maybe he put a little too much power into the punch and the next thing he knew, a body was flung against a wall and breaking it on impact. Danny stares at the toppled wall and—HOLY SHIT HE JUST KILLED THE JOKER.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—BATMAN WAS GOING TO KICK HIM OUR OF GOTHAM!
But this was the Joker... The last time that crazy fucker got out of Arkham, he threatened to blow up an orphanage. Okay, he could do this. Gotham Harbor it is.
And in typical Fenton fashion, his luck was shittier than ever.
"What the fuck..."
Danny whipped around, freezing in place when he came face to face with the Red Hood. The fucking revenant of Gotham that the city spirit seemed to really favor. Fuck.
"It's not what it looks like! I mean—It is—But, like..." He swallowed thickly, trying to offer a smile but he flinches away when Red Hood snapped his head from the corpse then too Danny.
"That's the fucking Joker!" The Red Hood was pointing a gun at the corpse now, voice distorted and everything.
Yeah. Well. Shit. Danny gulped, finally deciding that since he was already half dead, he might as well clean up. Not like the Red Hood could kill him—I mean, he could, but Danny wasn't going to die by a bullet.
"You—" The gun was now pointed at him.
"It's not my fault he decided to fucking jump me!" Danny immediately argued, grabbing the clown by the legs and dragging him forward before he winced at the trail of blood. "It's a clown! A fucking clown!"
He yelped when the crime lord slapped his hands away from the corpse, "The fuck is wrong with you? Don't fucking touch the corpse unless you want that shit to traced to you." The Red Hood grunted, shaking his head. He sounded... He kinda sounded giddy, in all honesty. Why the fuck was the Red Hood teaching Danny how to get away with murder?
"What were you even going to do with the body?"
Danny cringed away. To tell the truth or not? Such a difficult question... Okay, he's pretty sure most of the Bats were like detectives and lying to this one might get him shot.
"Gotham Harbor?" He squeaked out.
Danny was met with silence and the man built like a fucking fridge (but he's so damn sure that Dan was still the tallest person he knew) didn't move a bit. Then his shoulders shook. And then he was laughing. Fucking shit, the Red Hood was laughing because Danny was going to dump a body in the harbor.
What was Jazz going to say?!
(Meanwhile, Jason Todd finds a strange boy that makes him feel strange, warm—the same boy had killed his worst nightmare. He might just have fallen in love right then and there.)
Part 2 | Masterpost
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