#Jazz After Dark

[demonic0angel]

Health Insurance (click for clarity)

I have a headcanon that Maddie and Jack did not have health insurance or insurance at all tbh, so Jazz really enjoyed the benefits of marriage.

So basically, in this idea, Dick and Jazz marry (bc Dick needed custody of Damian but he’s a single 20-something year old man, while Jazz was getting hounded by the Ghost Zone/her parents idk) but never fall in love. The two of them make a deal to get married and then parent Damian together, but then Dick finds out that they’re falling in love with each other’s siblings so he’s like “let’s divorce”.

It goes well and they both split things evenly or equally and it’s a very peaceful, amicable divorce.

Until they get to the custody of Damian. And then all hell breaks loose.

One of the dirtiest, most underhanded, and vicious custody wars ensue. In the end, they get split custody of Damian between Gotham and Blüdhaven. (He’s weirdly happy with it bc they fought so hard for him and they didn’t involve him at all except for courtesy questions).

Part two

Image description below:

Panel 1 has Dick’s solemn face as he’s looking away.

Dick: Jazz… we need to talk. I know that you’re in love with Jason…

Panel 2 has Dick’s side profile while we see Jazz stare at him in shock, holding a spilling teacup as she’s dripping tea.

Dick: *still looking sad* And I’m also in love with your brother Dan, so I think we should divorce.

Panel 3 is the both of them across from each other, in a very simplistic style. Jazz still looks vaguely shocked and Dick still looks sad.

Dick: I know that we both care for each other, but we’re in love with different people.

Panel 4 has Jazz finally snapping back to reality, as Dick continues talking.

Dick: It’ll be an amicable divorce, so I think that—

Panel 5 has Jazz standing up with a BAM! and knocking her teacup when she slams her hands on the table. Dick looks startled.

Dick: !

Panel 6 has a close up of Jazz’s panicked expression as she’s shouting.

Jazz: BUT WHAT ABOUT THE HEALTH INSURANCE?!

Edit: I changed the pictures to add the right font and a ring on Jazz’s finger.

[comicalcarnival]

with TFCon toronto this coming weekend, I suppose I should post all the plushies I made for the event this time! This time I had MUCH more prep time, thankfully 😂

[sing-me-under]

Look. Look. I still like Batfam. I think it’s fun and interesting and I like fandoms where the fans are actively engaging with each other…. I also think they need their own goddamn tag and needs to stop intruding into the rest of DC and even just straight up comics Batfam. Fanon Batfam just needs to be rebranded and be its own thing because if it is not its own thing, then I suffer trying to find literally anything DC that is not Batfam-centric. Y’all are fucking insufferable and need to keep your echo chamber contained.

Let me read fanfics based on the canon characterizations.

[prima-after-dawn]

ngl I'd definitely spoil Jazz rotten. Orion, sentinel, D-16? They're great but my Jazz and Prowl? Oh I'd want to pull them from their little mining world they know and keep them like pretty assistants...however they're spikes or valves would never know peace.

Jazz and Prowl go so well together! They’re so pretty and I love the dichotomy of their personalities.

Prowl all shy and flustered when you compliment him or grab his aft, while Jazz would be a total flirt who camps out under your desk to surprise you~

[cheeseplants]

The Ecstasy of Eden: 4 & 5

Good Omens fic: Chap 4 & 5 Four of five times they used sex pollen, and one time they didn't

Excerpt

“The music is good, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, his face as bright as the morning sun. Crowley’s eyes dropped to his lips, moist from whiskey, he noticed a small dot of cream on the edge of his mouth.

“You have -” Crowley leaned forward without thinking, and ran his thumb to catch it. Aziraphale’s cheeks turned pink, and his eyes stretched wide.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s small pink tongue dipped out, and brushed the edge of Crowley’s thumb; a volt of electricity zapped his hand, he pulled away stunned.

“Eclair,” Aziraphale smiled, licking the corner of his lip to fish the rest of the cream off. Crowley’s fingers clenched hard against his thigh.

He looked so beautiful. Why did he always have to look so damn beautiful?

“Right, mm, yeah.” He stared forward, not daring himself to gaze any longer.

The band stopped, and the air stilled; Aziraphale glanced up and caught Crowley’s eyes through his dark glasses. The air crackled with static electricity, and Crowley’s knees bounced, unable to stop it, he knocked into Aziraphale.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled, he began to move it away.

A hand caught it.

---

Things are happening in a seedy jazz club in London.

It's a double chap drop this week for reasons.

CW: Sex pollen, dub con

Rating: Explicit

Start here

Read Chap 4 & 5 here.

We're nearly at the end. Thanks to: @adverbian, @voluptatiscausa, @malachitegrey again for the High Sex Pollen Event! And to my lovely betas: @fuzzygoblin , and @happynachohologram.

@goodomensafterdark

[maiadraiz]

For the record, Krossan you need to see this similarities 😲

WARNING SOME A LITTLE SPOILERS:

POST ‐ A GLITCH IN TIME KROSS FANART (Before ● the revival of AGIT) ●

☆credits to @ghtghtghost ☆Art by @krossan

THOSE PICTURES ARE BOTH SIMILAR, OH MY GOSHHHH!!!!!! I can't believed it Krossan you nailed it, you predicted that future especially Jazz hugging Dark Danny in teenage form before the the revival of Danny Phantom in graphic novel until now the time of the AGIT, the fan of this makes a video (left picture) where make her ideas about dark danny in teenage form got been reunited with his sister in alternate timeline (after his defeat and fused into a clone teen of Danny) and the fan art of Krossan (right picture) where Dan (in teenage form) hug his sister, well about that opinion in the right picture by Kross she make that fanart in one year ago, without the notice that your fanart is gonna being unexpected in your future .

[raayllum]

Was thinking it over that Callum giving up info/doing dark magic to save Rayla in 5x08 is indeed the equivalent of her leaving in Through the Moon (“As long as we love each other, as long as we protect each other” “I was trying to protect him” / “I knew I had to be strong alone” + Callum not telling her about what he did / “All that talk about how love makes you stronger, but the second that elf girl in pain, you completely lost yourself” “I have to be strong, no matter what, and if you said even one word to me, I wouldn’t - couldn’t be”). 

And Rayla is still set up to be the one to save Callum from brainwashing/his imposed ‘destiny’ in S6, probably tying together her arc regarding sacrifice and her well, refusing to sacrifice Callum even for the good of the world. Which means also having to save her - from death, from Aaravos, and subsequently risking the world for her as well - is still on the goddamn fucking table I am Losing my mind

[autumngirliesblog]

I want a dark-haired, curly-haired boyfriend who sounds like a song from "Cigarette After Sex," with a soft, enveloping, and almost ethereal energy. He'd be like the kind of person who makes you feel like you're floating in a dream, someone with whom everything feels slow, intimate, and deeply emotional, with a warm, silent, yet intense presence. He doesn't need to make grand gestures to show how he feels: in the way he looks at you, the way he absentmindedly caresses your hand, or the way he stays awake with you in silence, sharing space without needing to fill the air with words. A melancholic but beautiful love, like remembering a perfect night where everything fell into place effortlessly. He smells of woody perfume, old vinyl records, and rumpled sheets. He's someone who makes you feel desired effortlessly, who turns the everyday into something cinematic. A boyfriend with an old soul, who fits perfectly with my autumnal and nostalgic essence. Someone who enjoys the small details, like walking under old streetlights, sipping coffee in historic places, and aimlessly getting lost in cobblestone streets. He'd be the kind of guy who reads old books with worn pages, has a vinyl collection, and prefers writing letters instead of texting. His presence would be calm but intense, like a "Cigarette After Sex" song playing in the background on a rainy night. He'd dress in a classic, effortless style, perhaps with a long coat, scarf, and boots worn from walking around the city. His voice would be soft, with a melancholic but enveloping tone, as if each word held a special weight. With him, the nights would have a different kind of magic. He'd be the kind of guy who takes you to hidden bars with live jazz, who stares at you as if deciphering every corner of your soul, who makes you feel like the world stops when you're together. And, most importantly, someone who understands your love for the nostalgic, for the symbolic, for loves that seem straight out of an old movie. Someone who, effortlessly, would make you feel like the protagonist of an unforgettable story.

[demonic0angel]

Different Reactions (click for clarity)

Meanwhile….

Both Elinor and Marillyn (my Anger Management and Bad Humor’s OC child) look a lotttt like their fathers… Dan is dumbfounded, while Jazz is delighted by this.

Image descriptions and inspirations below:

Comic 1’s first panel has a close up of Jazz looking down. She has her hair down and looks exhausted.

Jazz: Nine months inside of my belly… (Nueve meses dentro de mi vientre...)

Panel 2 has Jazz looking more chibi with a blank stare.

J: And you… (y tu…)

Panel 3 has an image of the baby she just gave birth to, who looks remarkably like Jason. Jason’s face is featured above the baby.

J: You dare to be the exact copy of your father?! (¡¿Te atreves a ser la copia exacta de tu padre?!)

Panel 4 has her cuddling her baby, hearts all around her as she gushes.

J: You’re perfect…! (Eres perfecta...!)

——

Comic 2’s 1st panel has Dan also in a hospital bed, holding a bundled up baby to himself. He looks stressed and his hair is also down.

Dan: Nine months in my womb making me suffer…

Panel 2 has Dan holding up the baby to the air, which lets the viewer see a teary-eyed Dick beaming at the foot of the bed. Both he and the baby look almost exactly alike with beaming smiles. Dick is visibly glowing.

D: And she looks like her stupid DAD!!

Inspiration for Jazz is a Spanish quote/audio that I found on TikTok.

Dan’s inspiration is this:

[ooglywooglies]

i feel like i liked swing when i was a teenager but hipsters sorta ruined it for me, i kinda like regular jazz sometimes i was strangely big into smooth jazz specifically as a kid. i liked music that sounded like shopping music. then i got sick of it and got really into funk and have pretty much never moved on from funk, funk rules tbh

[jazzdailyblog]

Unveiling the Brilliance of George Coleman: A Jazz Icon

Introduction: George Coleman, a legendary saxophonist and composer, has left an indelible mark on the world of jazz. With a career spanning over six decades, Coleman’s innovative approach to music and his virtuosic saxophone playing have earned him a place among the jazz greats. Early Life and Career Beginnings: Born eighty-nine years ago today on March 8, 1935, in Memphis, Tennessee, Coleman…

[metal-dortmund]

The Unchained Djangos@Zahl was du willst, Kulturzentrum Balou Brackel, 23.02.2024

Ein super Format in Dortmund-Brackel möchte ich hier gerne empfehlen, denn mit "Zahl was du willst" gibt es eine Reihe mit guten Bands und Künstlern, die für eingeworfenes Geld in Spendendosen spielen. An diesem Abend war es sehr exquisit, denn "The Unchained Djangos" spielten Songs aus Tarantino-Filmen. Dabei waren auch keine Nichtskönner auf der Bühne, sondern man riss förmlich das Publikum mit. Das erste Set endete nach etwa 40 Minuten und es wurde ein Querschnitt von Songs aus Filmen wie "Kill Bill", "Django Unchained" oder "Pulp Fiction" dargeboten. Highlight war noch ein gesanglich unterstützer Song mit Laura Gebauer vom Trio Randale, die auch noch für zwei weitere Songs, u.a. einer geilen Fassung von "After Dark" aus "From Dusk Till Dawn", herangezogen wurde. Von Surf Rock, Jazzelementen und Funk kam hier jeder auf seine Kosten. Dazu tolle Soli des Trompeters Dimitri Telmanov und Wim Wollner am Saxophon, den ich wohl auch noch von der Police-Coverband Regatta de Blanc kenne und die demnächst auch dort spielen. Das doch sehr reife Publikum war durchaus begeistert und ich wunderte mich fast, dass nicht auch junge Menschen zu sowas hingehen. Eine hübsche rothaarige Frau lud mich auf ein Bier ein und es gab nochmal 40 Minuten mit Zugabe. Großartig. "Chick Habit" mit Lauras Gesang wurde dann als Zugabe nochmal vorgetragen, weil die Leute nicht genug bekommen haben und es gab Standing Ovations.

[dullahandyke]

ough i want a cd-rw so bad all i have are cd-rs.... i wanna be able to have a cd i can slowly add to w all the background study music i keep looping

[ugly-cat-sweater]

[bugshideaway]

— i love my look in these shots ♡

[maskedbyghost]

Part 2 of fuck buddies with Simon (now with extra emotional damage)

You didn’t text him, you didn’t call, you didn’t chase.

But you did send one final message.

“This is the last time, Simon. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to be someone you only need when you’re lonely or angry or tired. I wanted you, not just your time or your hands or your body. You don’t have to say anything—I’m just letting you know I’m done. Please don’t come back. I won’t open the door.”

Then you blocked him.

Phone, socials, everything. And not in some dramatic, screaming, flinging-plates kind of way.

And for the first few days, nothing happened. No messages, no banging on the door, and no surprise visits in the middle of the night. Just silence.

But on Simon’s end?

Hell broke loose.

He didn’t even notice the message right away. He was halfway through watching a game when he opened his phone and saw it sitting there, timestamped four hours ago. He read it once, then again, and then stared at it like maybe if he glared hard enough, the words would disappear.

But they didn’t.

He tried to reply, of course. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for longer than he’d admit. But when he hit send, the message didn’t go through.

His jaw clicked tight. Something cold and ugly twisted low in his chest. He tossed his phone onto the couch and paced. He thought about showing up at your place but didn’t. Not yet. Not when he didn’t even know what he was going to say.

It hit him, slowly. That you weren’t bluffing. That you meant it this time.

That he fucked it. Bad...

A month later

You’re sitting across from a guy who actually listens when you talk. He laughs at your jokes, asks you questions. He looks at you like he’s interested—not just in your body, but in your thoughts, opinions, and favorite takeout order.

It’s... weird. Not bad weird. Just different. Good, even.

You're at a quiet restaurant, corner booth, tucked into a little space with candlelight and soft jazz playing overhead. You’re just reaching for your drink when you hear it.

The click of a safety being flipped off, before your date goes still.

“Don’t move,” a voice says, low and dark behind him.

You know that voice.

Your blood runs cold before you even look at him.

Simon stands there, one hand is braced on the back of your date’s chair. The other? Holding a gun pointed directly at the side of the poor guy’s head.

“Simon—what the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, scrambling out of the booth.

“I just wanna talk,” he says, voice way too calm for someone with a loaded weapon in hand.

Your date is sweating, hands raised. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble—”

“Did I ask you what you wanted?” Simon snaps. Then he smiles. Smiles. “You’re gonna get up and leave. Right now. No questions. Go.”

The guy doesn’t argue. He bolts so fast he almost trips over a chair.

You stand there, staring at Simon like you’re seeing him for the first time. And in a way, you are.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you ask, shoving him back. “Are you insane?”

“I said I just wanted to talk,” he mutters, sliding into the booth like he didn’t just commit a felony in front of three tables.

“Jesus, Simon. You scared the hell out of him. You scared me. You don’t just pull a gun on someone because you’re feeling jealous!”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, lying through his teeth.

“Get out.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You don’t get to show up here like this. You don’t get to throw a tantrum just because I moved on. You made it clear how you felt—or didn’t feel. Remember that?”

Simon’s hands are curled into fists on the table. He looks like he’s about to explode. But instead of yelling, he just leans forward, jaw clenched so hard.

“I fucked up,” he says. “I know I did.”

“Yeah,” you say coldly. “You really did.”

-

Aftar that, he doesn’t text you. After all, he is still blocked, so he can't.

So he writes notes. Slips them under your door, even though you never respond.

"I miss you." "I keep thinking about what you said. You're right. I treated you like shit. I don’t know how to fix it, but I want to try." "Still can’t sleep. I keep rolling over expecting you to be there. You're not."

You don’t write back.

Then the gifts start showing up. A bouquet of roses, your favorite. A playlist on a USB drive. A book you mentioned once, two years ago, that he somehow remembered.

He shows up to your building sometimes. Just sits on the steps, waiting, but not in a creepy way—he knows to keep his distance. But he’s there. Rain, cold, whatever. He waits.

One night, you come home late, and he stands when he sees you. “I’ll go if you want,” he says quietly. “Just... let me know you’re okay.”

You don’t say anything. Just unlock the door and go inside.

He doesn’t leave for another hour.

Two months in.

He catches you on your way to work.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, walking beside you like he belongs there. “Just... give me a chance to make it right. Let me earn it.”

You stop walking. Look at him.

He looks rough. The beard’s thicker, the eyes are darker, and the weight of regret sits heavy on his shoulders.

“You can’t fix this with flowers and sad eyes,” you say. “I needed you. And you made me feel like a mistake.”

“I know,” he says, voice cracking. “I know I don’t deserve another shot. But I’m still gonna try. Every day. Until you tell me to stop.”

“And what if I never change my mind?”

“Then I’ll still keep showing up.”

He means it.

You can see it in the way he looks at you now—not hungry, not possessive. Just wrecked. Like he lost something irreplaceable and knows it.

You don’t let him follow you to work.

But for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel as angry. Not because he’s forgiven. Not even close. But because he finally looks like he’s suffering the way you did.

Three months.

You’re out with friends when he shows up again. This time, unarmed thankfully.

You’re tipsy, laughing, leaning into someone else’s shoulder—some other guy’s—and Simon sees it before you do. You turn and there he is, standing just far enough to not make a scene, but close enough to make your heart drop.

You think he’s going to come over. Ruin the night. Scare the guy off again.

He doesn’t.

He just nods at you. One short, respectful tilt of his head. Then he walks away.

No words, nor begging, trying to guilt you into anything.

And that gets to you more than the thousand apologies he could’ve offered.

Four months.

It’s your birthday.

You don’t tell anyone. You keep it lowkey on purpose, like if no one says anything, you can just pretend it’s any other day. You don’t want the reminders. You don’t want the well-meaning texts from people who don’t know what you’ve been dealing with. You definitely don’t want to wonder whether or not Simon remembers.

But he does.

You find out when you get home and there’s a small package sitting at your door. No note. No name. Just your initials written on the wrapping in the handwriting you know better than your own.

You think about throwing it away. You almost do, but curiosity wins, and inside the plain brown paper is a little black box.

You open it and your breath catches.

It’s that necklace you once pointed at in a store window downtown—months ago, maybe even a year. A tiny silver ghost on a chain. You made some stupid joke about how it looked like him: “emotionally unavailable, disappears without warning, weirdly endearing.”

He didn’t laugh at the time. Just rolled his eyes and muttered something like “you’re annoying” under his breath.

You never mentioned it again, but he remembered.

You stare at it for a long time. You don’t cry, don’t smile either. You just sit there on your hallway floor, turning the necklace over in your hands until your legs go numb.

Then you put it back in the box and tuck it in the drawer by your bed.

You don’t wear it, but you decided to keep it.

And the next day, for the first time in months, you catch yourself wondering how he’s doing. Like maybe he’s not just doing this to win, maybe he means it.

Still, you don’t reach out.

Not yet...

Five months.

He finally knocks.

It’s late. Not obscenely so, but enough that you’re in sweats and no bra, and part of you is tempted to pretend you’re not home.

But something in you says open the door.

So you do.

Simon looks like hell. Wet from rain, hair flat to his skull, hands shoved into his jacket like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you.

“I wrote it down,” he says, holding out a thick envelope. “Everything I wanted to say. Everything I should’ve said before.”

You stare at it like it might burn you. “Why now?”

His throat bobs. “Because I thought giving you space would be enough. But space doesn’t mean silence. It doesn’t mean I stop showing you I care. I just... I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.”

“And now you do?” you ask, arching a brow.

“No,” he says. “But I’m learning. And I’ll keep learning, with or without a second chance.”

You take the envelope. You don’t invite him in. But you do say, “Good night, Simon,” soft and tired.

And he smiles, just barely.

You read the letter that night. You weren’t going to, but you do.

It’s messy. Honest. Full of crossed-out lines and little notes scribbled in the margins. He writes like he talks—short sentences, straight to the point—but you can feel how badly he wants you to understand.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel disposable. That’s not what you are. That’s not what you ever were.”

“I never knew how to show you I gave a fuck. That’s on me.”

“I kept thinking if I didn’t say anything, you wouldn’t expect anything. But you did. And I should’ve met you there.”

“I think about your laugh. I hear it sometimes when I’m dead tired. It makes me hate myself.”

“I’m not asking you to come back. But if you ever do, I swear I’ll never leave you wondering again.”

You fall asleep with the letter in your hands, crumpled a little at the edges.

You don’t message him the next day.

But the next week?

You text one word.

“Coffee?”

PART 3

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do we still hate him guys??

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay