#The crossover you never knew you needed but will only make any sense if you actually watched Quantum Leap

[3pirouette]

Fic: The Infinity Leap (1/1)

Title: The Infinity Leap

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Spoilers: Through Endgame, Basic Quantum Leap Orginal Series knowledge required. 

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Word Count: 

Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :) 

Story Summary: Dr. Sam Beckett leaps into Agent Peggy Carter to write a wrong, but in the end, he may just end up righting two of them. 

Story A/N: This story assumes 3 things: 1. Season 2 of Agent Carter never happened 2. The MCU up though Endgame is otherwise intact and 3. The reader has basic knowledge of Quantum Leap. Quite Frankly, this is really more of a Quantum Leap episode than anything, so I know there’s gonna be like… 5 people interested? But for those of you interested, I hope you really, really enjoy this. 

Also, I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a subscriber to the Outlander/Doctor Who version of time travel that makes the events of Infinity War possible in the Main MCU timeline. Seems Quantum Leap rules also fit into that. 

This story is set in 2000, about 5 years after the last “leap” we see in the series, and assumes they get to continue the Quantum Leap program for several years. 

I had hoped to really get this to a full length story, but it’s been sitting on my hard drive for a LONG time. In the end, I’m pretty happy with it, even if it isn’t exactly what I set out to write. 

For Steggy Week 2023, Day 3: AU’s and Crossovers @steggyfanevents

~*~

Peggy Carter blinked. 

Before she’d blinked, she’d been in the conference room, sipping the dregs of the morning coffee as Thompson addressed the room with his usual narcissistic flare. 

After she blinked, she was in a white room she’d never seen before, in a white unitard she’d never worn before, and she didn’t feel a thing. 

~*~

Sam took a slow breath as the tingling dissipated and did his best to keep a neutral facial expression. He kept his eyes on the man talking, hoping to feign interest. It was always hard stepping into a person when there was something happening, when people expected him to be able to contribute. 

He slowly brought his hands under the table and down his stomach: a suit jacket. That seemed to track for the way the rest of the room was dressed, but he felt that funny feeling where his chest was too tight and his neck wasn’t constricted enough. A little lower with his hands and he confirmed what he’d been afraid of: a skirt. He was a woman. Again. 

He wiggled his toes and rolled his ankles; at least the heels were sensible. Was he the secretary? He hated being someone’s secretary. 

“So that’s it,” the man at the front said sharply, turning to hook his thumbs in his suspenders. “Any questions?”

Sam stayed quiet, hoping to get through the meeting without having to say a word. He looked down at the folder in front of him and immediately tossed the idea of “secretary” out the door. Secretaries didn’t usually have folders marked “eyes only” and “top secret.”

“Even you, Carter?” The man looked directly at Sam, and he looked up, locking gazes. “No thoughts or suggestions?”

Sam knew that tone, recognized it for the goad that it was and wished he could fire back. He almost did, as the man seemed to expect something from him, but he didn’t know what was going on, and didn’t want to change anything before he knew what he was really here to change. “No. Not right now,” he replied, shooting what he hoped was just enough of a smile laced with just enough sarcasm that the man would believe it. 

“Yeah, fine. Right.” He turned back to the rest of the men around the table, seemingly upset he wasn’t going to get to spar with him. “You have your assignments.” He waved his hand and everyone stood to leave. 

Sam did the same, gathering the papers and coffee in front of him, standing slowly to get used to the feeling of the heels on his feet. 

A man with a crutch stopped next to him, whispering even though they were the only people left in the room. “I thought you were ready to give him hell about that plan?”

Sam shrugged, juggling the folder for a second. “Well, I decided it wasn’t the right time.”

The man sighed, stepping forward and through the door. “One of these days he’s going to listen to you, Peggy.” 

Sam nodded, slowly following him out to the bullpen of desks. Peggy. Peggy… Carter. He scanned the nameplates and found a Margaret Carter in the back and made his way to the desk. The one thing that was on his side was that everyone seemed engrossed in their own work. Sam sat at the desk and kicked the heels off underneath, wiggling his toes as he looked at the clean desktop. He pulled open drawers and sifted through the papers there, finding little to go on. 

He heard the woosh of the imaging room door open behind him and picked out a pad and pulled a pen to his fingers as Al’s voice drifted over him in the noisy room. “Let me tell you, Sam, this is going to be a tough one, that lady in there- she isn’t spilling a thing! We had a hell of a time finding you, and even then, it was a wing and a prayer. Ziggy’s been malfunctioning ever since you leaped, insisting you’re in the 40’s.” He spun, frustrated. “We don’t even have a name.” Sam smiled to himself and tapped the nameplate on the front of the desk, just like he was thinking.

Al moved around in front of him, meandering to look at the name plate. “Margaret Carter…” He huffed, typing it into his handlink. “Well, that’s more than we’ve gotten all morning.” Al leaned back, looking Sam over. “Wow, Sam, you’re…”

Sam looked up, annoyance on his face, but he said nothing. 

Al let his hands wave in the air for a moment and sighed. “Yeah, you’re a ‘she’ for sure.” He snapped his mouth closed, for the first time realizing where they were. He looked over the clothes, the decorations on the walls, the telephone on the desk. “This looks a little…” He stepped over to the desk across from Sam where a newspaper was lying next to an Agent drinking his coffee. Al leaned over, eyebrows raising. “April 16, 1948.” He looked at the handlink as it beeped at him. “Ok, fine. You were right.”

Sam looked up, surprised, but put his head down and wrote furiously on the pad before him. “1948?”

Al looked at Sam’s note. “I mean, it’s not unheard of- you have leapt out of your lifetime before… not a lot but…” Al shrugged, then looked up at his handlink as it beeped and blinked in his hand. “This can’t be right.”

“What?” Sam wrote. 

Al huffed. “Ziggy is saying that this woman is classified.” Sam’s look asked the question he couldn’t say out loud. “Well, I don’t know!” Al waved his arms, one disappearing through the man seated in front of them as the hologram interreacted with the world around them. “I don’t know how a whole, entire person can be classified. I’m gonna…” He huffed again and pointed to where Sam suspected the door to the imaging chamber was. “We’ll get it sorted. In the mean time, just…” Al shrugged, disappearing into the air. 

Sam sighed, crossing out the notes on the paper until they couldn’t be seen. “Oh, boy.”

~*~

Peggy gaped at the woman across from her. “This is, frankly, the worst interrogation I’ve ever been a part of,” she leaned back and crossed her arms, fighting to keep her breathing even. She was trying to come up with a clue as to where she was or why she was taken, but the woman across from her was giving Peggy as little as Peggy was providing. 

The woman sighed gently. “I’ve told you, this isn’t an interrogation. I asked your name.”

She laughed, shaking her head and sitting back into the couch more. “You’ve kidnapped me and you don’t even know my name?” Peggy looked her up and down. She was probably poisoned. Maybe gas. She couldn’t believe they’d managed to get her out of the SSR building without anyone noticing or putting up a fight she didn’t remember. It must have been gas. She wondered how many others they had. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“Miss,” the young, dark- skinned woman continued, closing the notepad she had in front of her. “If you don’t cooperate, we can’t help you.”

“You’ve refused to tell me who you are or why I’m here, and you don’t even know who I am. I believe we’re done speaking.” Peggy’s mind was racing, but she was somewhat relieved to see the woman slip her pad in her pocket and stand. 

~*~

Al stood at the entrance to the Starbright Project, waiting patiently. He was sure Sam needed him in some way, that he’d been gone too long now, but surely a few hours wouldn’t hurt.

He hoped. 

The black SUVs stopped in front of him, and out stepped a man in a black suit with unnecessary sunglasses as it was nearly night. He turned, and helped a stately woman out of the back. She was old, older than Al, with fine lines around her mouth and an expertly twisted hairstyle. She moved toward Al with purpose, the man following just a step behind. 

The woman stopped right in front of him, and the man that followed stepped next to them. “Admiral Al Calavichi?”

“That’s me,” Al gave a short salute. “And you are…”

The man nodded, then held out his hand. “Agent Coulson, and this is Former Shield Director Margaret Carter.”

“Admiral,” she started, in a soft English tone that let Al know exactly who she was, “I believe we have a lot to talk about.”

~*~

Sam was following the flow of people out of the building, thankful for the idea of a general quitting time. He turned his ankle more than once on the pumps, stumbling out of the elevator just as the sound of the imaging chamber set his teeth on edge. He turned his head, but couldn’t say anything in the crush of people. His eyes said it all: where have you been?

“I know, I know!” Al waved his hands, following Sam as he made his way through the building. “I was sidetracked by… well, you’re not going to believe it.”

Sam raised his eyebrows and stopped, hoping for a payphone but settling for the little door to the side labeled “women.” He slipped into the bathroom and checked each stall before locking the door behind him, Al floating through. 

“You’ve been gone all day!” Sam accused, dropping his briefcase on the floor. 

“Like I said: sidetracked.” Al shrugged, barely able to hide his excitement. 

Sam leaned on the sink, exhausted. “Well, it better be good, because tht bull pen was hell. Those guys, this time…” He shook his head and caught his hat as it fell into his hands. “’Coffee, Peggy. Can you take notes, Peggy? File these, would ya, Peg?’” He made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “Leaping into women has given me such a different appreciation for them.” 

“I have an appreciation for them.” Al pulled the cigar from between his teeth, his eyes unfocusing as he thought back to earlier that day, “And the one that got me sidetracked. When I tell you she was a knock-out! A ten! A real silver fox. I mean—”

“Al!” Sam turned, rolling his ankle and kicking off the heels. “You left me here all day to see a woman?”

“No, actually, I was visited by the head of one of the countries most prestigious intelligence organizations.” He shrugged, a light smile on his face, “who just so happens to be, well…” He smiled and raised his eyebrows. 

Sam stared at his reflection, truly seeing Peggy for the first time, mumbling at his friend. “Let’s go, will you?” 

Sam’s whisper of desperation stopped the man mid rude gesture and he shrugged. “Anyway, big to-do on arrival, she comes into my office, leaves her goon outside, and starts in on the story.”

Sam tried to straighten his hat in the mirror, feeling nothing of the complex hair style under his hands. “What story?”

“Turns out, you’ve lept into Agent Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter. She was a Great American Hero, Sam.” Al’s eyes sparkled. “During World War Two she was a code breaker with the SOE then a spy with the SSR. She was Captain America’s liaison to the agency and tracked Hydra through Europe with the Howling Commandos!”

Sam looked blankly at him, then turned to look at the soft-boned woman in the mirror that stared back at him. It didn’t make sense to him that a woman with that kind of resume was relegated to getting coffee and filing paperwork. “Must be the Swiss Cheese… none of that means much to me.” 

“She’s one of the best spies who ever lived,” Al threw up his hand and paced the small bathroom. “But that’s why literally her entire life was classified.”

“Classified?” Sam barked out a laugh, pacing the small bathroom. “What do you mean, classified? We have the highest clearance of any—”

Al lifted his eyebrows, punching more buttons. “Not from SHIELD.”

“SHIELD?” Sam ran his hand over his face, shaking his head. “Why did she show up?”

“Any search for her in a government database gets flagged.” Al shrugged. “She said when she saw it was Starbright, she knew she had to come.”

“She remembers?” Sam asked, astounded. 

“She can’t. Well, shouldn’t.” He dropped the handlink down and pushed his cigar back between his lips. “She didn’t say if she did or not.”

“But, if she remembers, that means what I’ve needed to change—”

“Is already changed?” Al twisted his face up and shook his head. “No. No, no, no. That’s not how…” He shrugged and sagged. “I was going to say that’s not how this works, but every time I think we have a handle on it, something surprises me.”

Sam looked at the door, knowing it was only a matter of time before someone else was going to try to get into the bathroom. “So then, did she tell you want I’m here to do?”

“No,” All huffed, twiddling the cigar. “but…”

“But?”

He changed the subject. “But Ziggy thinks you’re here to stop an assassination.” 

Sam perked up. He wasn’t sure how he could make something like that happen, especially if an actual spy like Peggy hadn’t been able to. “Assassination? Of who?”

“Angie Martinelli.” Al tapped the handlink and started reading off the facts. “Angie Martinelli was a broadway actress. She and Peggy are roomates, living at the Manhattan home of one Howard Stark.”

Sam rolled his eyes, leaning back into the sink. “Now that name I remember.”

“Imagine if Tony Stark had bankrolled us…” Al mused for a moment, eyes bright. He stopped and sighed. “Missed out. Anyway,” He hit the keys again, waiting for the next bit of information to pop up. “Tomorrow afternoon, Angie will be found in her bedroom, half naked with her throat slit. It’s only after the fact that it was discovered she was hiding that someone had been stalking her, meeting her at the stage door, sending her threatening letters…”

Sam leaned back on the sink, “Is that what Peggy told you?”

“No.” All sighed and shrugged. “She made me explain Project Quantum Leap, in detail, and then nodded.”

“Nodded?” Sam asked, confused. “That’s it?”

“Once she knew what it was all about, she asked what we knew about where you were, and then she came up with the same idea Ziggy did- Angie.”

“I don’t like you running around telling other agencies about-“

“You tell SHIELD what ever they ask for, Sam. You know that.” Al, paused and  shrugged. “Knew that. Anyway,” He shifted, walking through the sinks as he paced. “She said that missing that Angie was in danger was something she never forgave herself for, and if we could fix it, well…”

“Well, what?”

“She just kinda stopped and looked sad. Asked if we had any way of targeting where you went.” Al frowned. “ I told her no and then she looked up at me and said the damndest thing.” 

“What?”

Al, knit his brow, shaking his head. “She said, ‘I suppose you should save her, then, who knows if his chance will ever come.”

“His who?” Sam asked as the door rattled. 

“Dunno,” Al shrugged, watching Sam pull his shoes on and grab his briefcase. “She and her goon left.”

“Look, just get me to her apartment and we’ll take it from there, ok?” Sam smiled, opening the door to the face a bewildered young woman. 

“Everything ok in there?” She asked, looking Sam over. 

“Fine, just…” he paused, smiling, “Classified.”

Sam rushed past her, headed out to save a life. 

~*~

Angie stood with her hands on her hips. “What do you mean I’m not going in today?”

Sam matched her pose, the standoff tense in the living area of the Stark apartment they shared. Angie had barely been home, and Sam had only been able to track her down with Al’s help half the time. “I mean, you need to stay home tonight. Both of us do.”

Angie walked right up to him, got in his face the way that only best friends or siblings do. “You’re gonna get me fired, Peg.”

“Call in sick,” Sam held his ground, placing his hands on her shoulders. 

“To Broadway?” Angie rolled her eyes and started pacing back and forth. “What in the world could be so important that-“

Sam had one card to pull, and he hoped his plan would be right. Peggy, in the original time line, had missed that Angie was being stalked. Probably, he’d thought more times than he could count as he tried to track the girl down, because she was never around. But Angie knew some of what Peggy did for a living, even if she didn’t know all of it, and he was banking on their bond of friendship being enough cause for Angie’s trust. “Why didn’t you tell me about what’s going on?”

It was enough to get her to stop in her tracks, back to Sam. Her shoulders tightened. “Tell you want?”

“You’re being stalked.”

Angie tried to brush it off with a laugh. “What? Like corn?”

Sam shook his head. It wasn’t a term that was familiar yet. “Who's harassing you?”

“I don’t even know the guy.” Angie looked down at her feet, shaking her head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing and you know it,” Sam moved closer to her, lifting her chin to him. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Tell me.”

~*~

Sam was supposed to be on a stake out, the very one he’d heard planned out as he lept into Peggy Carter. He took his own advice and called himself in sick, and now sat with a very disgruntled, and somewhat anxious, Angie, Peggy’s gun sitting next to him on the table as he read. 

“Nobody’s coming,” Angie muttered, focusing on the script in her hands. 

“You trying to convince me or convince yourself?” Sam asked, looking up from the newspaper in his hands. 

“You,” Angie shot back, weakly. 

They went back to reading, radio playing softly in the background, when after a few minutes Sam’s head popped up. It was the sound of scratching. Quiet, but there. 

Angie watched as he pulled the gun into his hand, slowly standing. Sam hushed her with a finger at his lips. 

The imaging chandler door opened, Al popping through. “Sam, it looks like any time between about a half hour ago and-“ He stopped, watching Sam slip through the dark apartment. “Oh, shoot, it’s happening now, isn’t it?”

Sam nodded, Angie following close behind as he swept through each bedroom, Al walking through walls and calling out as he cleared each room ahead. 

“You really think someone-“

“Shh,” Sam quieted Angie again. “Stay close, ok?”

She cringed to his hips, following along like the caboose of a train. “You’re the one with the gun, I ain’t going nowhere.”

“Sam!” All called, two rooms ahead. “Here, in the Pantry. One guy coming up the dumbwaiter!” 

Sam moved swiftly, Angie following. On Al’s cue, he pushed through the door to the kitchen, hitting the intruder in the face with the door and knocking him back. Angie’s screams mingled with the swing music pouring from the radio as Sam jumped on him, landing a solid right hook before tumbling him to the ground, unconscious. 

Between Al’s supportive cries, Angie’s screams, and the music, Sam could barely focus as he reached for the handcuffs in Peggy’s pocket. “Angie, go call the police.”

“Aren’t you-“

Sam shook his head, sitting heavily on the man. “We need the regular police, not the SSR.”

Angie ran out of the room while All finally focused. “Good job, Sam! According to Ziggy,” he paused, tapping the handlink gently before giving it a final hard knock, “Angie lives a long life and has a fabulous career.”

“She get fired for calling in sick?”

All frowned. “Yeah, but it won’t matter. She gets picked up to be a series regular for a radio serial in a few months, then breaks into the movies.” 

“Peggy?” Sam asks, slipping to the side of the intruder and sitting on the floor, one hand on him in case he woke up. “She still get to be Director of SHIELD?”

Al knocks his handlink again and it beeps. He smiles and nods. “Yup. Looks like the little information we had didn’t change, so-“ He pause,d listening to a voice only Al could hear back on the other side of the hologram. “What letter?” He waited again, and Sam watched, confused. “There is no letter!”

“Letter?” Sam asked quietly, knowing they only had a few seconds before Angie came back or their assailant came to. 

Al shook his head. “Gushy is telling me there’s a letter in my office and it’s been there since Carter entered the waiting room for me to open, top secret, high priority. There’s no letter in my office.”

Sam tilted his head. “There wasn’t a letter in your office.”

Al opened his mouth to argue, but then it hit him. There hadn’t been a letter before Sam changed history. 

Now there was. 

“I’m gonna go read that letter.” 

Al disappeared through the imaging chamber door just as Angie came back. “They’re on their way…” Her voice died out as she got a glimpse of the face of the man on the floor. 

“You know him?”

Angie nodded, eyes wide. “That’s our stage manager! You mean to say he’s the one…”

~*~

Al tried to hold on to the feeling that there was no letter. He knew as soon as he stepped outside of the Imaging chamber, whatever had changed in history would feel like reality to him. 

He needed to read it, to try to compare it with what he could remember. 

He strode through Project Starbright’s halls without saying a word to anyone, holding his hand up to stop people from talking with him. Once in his office, he din’t even bother sitting to open the Manila envelope marked “eyes only, top secret.”

Admiral Calavichi, 

If you’re reading this, that means the day has come when my younger self has shown up in your lovely white waiting room. I have been told that this is how this must happen, that to stray from this would be to mess with forces beyond all of our comprehension, and so though I have not given you any reason to trust me, I must ask that you do as I say. 

If we do this right, all will stay exactly as it is, for it has already happened, and always will happen this way. Do not ask me how, for I have no understanding of it myself. What I do have is a deep desire for things to be as they are, and not as they could be. 

Dr. Beckett has leaped into my younger self. You will find no record of me, as little exists. At that time I was Agent Margaret Carter of the SSR, a spy. I remember nothing of that time when I sat in your waiting room. Whatever right Dr. Beckett put wrong, I have no memory of, and cannot help you with this, but I know that he succeeded, or will succeed. 

And when that is over, you must give Sam a message. You must tell him exactly this: He must go to the research level and wait. When he sees him, tell him to go home. Tell him, I’ve said to come home. 1952, to be exact. 

The “him” I refer to must remain a mystery, but rest assured both you and Sam will know exactly who when the time comes, as Sam told him that much. He’ll be confused, but accepting, as time travel is not unknown to him. 

You must deliver your message. It’s the only chance we’ll have to right this wrong. 

Al looked for another page, for something that made sense, but there was nothing except Director Carter’s signature and a date: 1953. 

~*~

Sam looked up from his desk in the SSR bullpen as Al stepped into the room, right through a desk and two men passing. 

It was always jarring to see his friend moved through like a ghost. 

Sam pulled over a pad and wrote, “Why haven’t I leaped yet?”

“Because I gotta show you this.” Al hovered the letter from Director Carter over the pad so Sam could read it. He waited as he watched his eyes go back and forth, Sam mouthing him over and over. 

He leaned down, scribbling, “Who do you think ‘him’ is?”

Al shrugged. “No way to tell. We got bupkis on most of her life.” Al sighed. “You know where research is?”

Sam started to answer, but Al felt his heart drop as the blue lightning started to envelop him. 

Sam was leaping. 

There was no time to go to the research level. 

There was no time to right one more wrong. 

~*~

Sam took the long moment to let the blood rush to his fingers and toes, to feel the energy that crackled through him just a second ago dissipate. He took a deep breath and let his eyes see and his body feel. 

Heels. Again. 

Pants. A sensible pants suit. 

He looked down in the small office at the papers in his hands. They were marked classified with a symbol that suddenly seemed very familiar. He looked up, searching for the answer he already knew. He picked up the nameplate on the desk and smiled. 

“Director Carter,” he mumbled to himself, smiling before placing it back. “Glad to see they finally listened to you.”

He sat in the chair behind him, looking over the documents on the table to try to get a clue as to why he was there when the phone on the desk rang. “He-hello?” He stuttered out. 

“Director Carter?” A male voice confidently replied, “You asked me to call when I detected that energy spike?”

“I did?” he asked, then caught himself and cleared his throat. “I did. Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know how you knew it was going to happen, but just now we got an alert from the research subbasement. Do you want me to send someout out?”

He felt fear and excitement run through him, the letter Al had shown him clear in his mind. “No, no. I’ll go.”

“Are you sure?”

He sat back, surprised after all this time they were still questioning her. “You think I can’t handle myself?”

“No, not at- I was just.”

“Thank you for the report, that will be all.” Sam hung up the phone and popped from his chair as the door to the imaging chamber opened. 

“Sam—” Al started excitedly. 

“I know.” Sam pointed to the plaque on the desk. “Can you get me to… the research subbasement?” he asked, carefully trying to remember the name. 

“Yeah. Start moving and we’ll see what…” He tapped the hand link then pounded it against his palm as they moved out of the office. “I’m guessing down.”

Sam started through the base, trying to feign confidence as Al called out lefts and rights to bring him to a set of elevators. Once in, he hit the button and waited for Al to talk, he couldn’t say anything with the other people in there. 

“So, you’re Peggy Carter again, Director do SHIELD, this time. It’s April 16th, 1970 and you’re in a SHIELD research facility at Camp Lehigh in New Jersey.” The elevator stopped, and the pair of scientist stepped off, leaving Sam and Al to descend to the lowest research level. 

“And I gotta tell someone… to go home?” Sam asked. “I remembered the research level but-“

“Him was all she told us. You’re gonna know him when you see him.” Al emphasized the vagueness with his cigar, pointing it towards the doors. Al sighed, “You gotta tell him Peggy says to go home to 1952.”

“Which means he’s got to be another time traveler?” Sam asked, anxious as the elevator dinged. 

He stepped out, Al following. “I’d assume, but you know what that makes out of you and me.” Al shoved the cigar in his mouth, wandering through rows of machines. “There’s nobody here, Sam.”

“There was some kind of energy spike,” Sam whispered, clearing the space one row of desks and shelves at a time. “Something has-“

“It oh.”

Sam stopped in his tracks, “What ut oh?”

Sam could see Al, frozen with his hands up, staring at a a corner he couldn’t see into. “He can see me, Sam.”

“Who?”

He pulled the cigar from his mouth, astounded. “Remember when she said you’ll know him when you see him?”

Sam slipped quietly up beside Al until he saw a figure hiding in the dark, red and white flight suit, nothing that belonged in this time, or any time Sam had ever been a part of, lifting and lowering a shimmering visor on his helmet, eyes wide with surprise and confusion. What stood out, though, was the shield on his arm. Even with his Swiss Cheese brain, Sam would have known that shield anywhere. 

“Captain America,” he whispered out, in awe. 

“Captain Freaking America,” Al echoed, in nearly as much shock. “She wants us to right that wrong.”

“I can hear you, too.” He let the visor stay down, his face partially hidden but the futuristic helmet. “You seem to know who I am,” Steve started, intensely. “So how about you tell me who the two of you are, and start explaining why you’re impersonating Director Carter.”

Sam smiled. “Oh, boy.”

End A/N: So, there wasn’t a place to PUT this, but the theory in my head goes that Without the visor to the suit up, Steve sees Peggy. However, with the nanotech visor up, which is partially powered by Pym particles and has been affected by traveling through the Quantum Realm, Steve can see Sam as he really is and see and hear Al. I had hoped to work that into the story, but I really liked the idea of ending on an “oh boy” for all my QL fans. 

[markrosewater]

Hey Mark, I just wanted to say you've always seemed like a really cool guy. I've played magic for over 4/5ths of my life, since the early 2000s when I was only five years old, I even met most of my long time friends through it. But I think I finally feel alienated enough by it to drop it entirely.

I always enjoyed every aspect of this game, from the deckbuilding, to the flavor, to the color pie and the possibilities it presented. I loved the fantasy of it, of planeswalkers and wizards, dragons and castles.

Universes Beyond really was the end of it, all the way back then. When i heard the announcements I was terrified, I knew where it would lead even then. I loved the world of Magic, and it feels silly to say about a card game but I truly felt immersed in the world when I played, even with the different planes, everything cohered to an internal set of rules that seemed unbreakable.

For a while I continued, our local scene created a variant format that banned Universes Beyond cards so I was able to ignore them, but then came Neon Dynasty. It felt strange to me, like it was breaking what I had come to expect out of the game. Most people disagreed, said it was still Magic enough, but I wondered just how far it would be pushed before Magic lost any identity of its own, anything that separated it from Fortnite or any other crossover soup known entirely for the things it borrows rather than the things it is.

When I saw the first spoilers for Duskmourn, I think that was the straw that broke the camel's back. When I play at the table with my friends, I enjoy the fact that all the cards feel like part of one larger universe. And when I see cards with televisions and smartphones in them, with modern clothing and internet references, I just can't fit them together in my mind. It seems like a cool world, much like a lot of the crossovers are cool worlds, but I play Magic for well... Magic. If I wanted to play Fallout or Warhammer 40k, or watch Insidious or Walking Dead, then I would. But when I play Magic, I want to see magic.

And it's canon, just as canon as Innistrad or Alara. We can't excise it like we can Universes Beyond, and if we can't, then what's even the point of trying to "protect the tone" with those bans? What tone are we protecting, that's already been shattered from within?

More and more it feels like the game just isn't for me, doesn't want the kind of player that feels strongly about cohesion and immersion. And that's fine, it doesn't have to cater to me, and the current approach seems to bring in more people than it drives away. But it still just makes me sad, on a deep personal level, to give up on what has been such a major part of my life.

In all likelihood, I'm an outlier, and you could easily say that Magic getting even broader in what it covers is only a positive thing. Take my critiques only as the lamentations of a single person. But when you can put anything in a piece of media, when there's no unifying idea of what is and isn't possible, then it just starts to feel meaningless.

I'm sorry, I know you'll probably never read this, I mostly just needed to get it off my chest- and you're the closest thing to a human face Magic the Gathering has. Thank you for all the work you've put into it over the years, and I'm sorry that I can't enjoy it anymore.

Thanks for writing. From a big picture, Magic excels at creating variety and does poorly at consistency. The core idea of a trading card game is we make lots and lots of pieces you can play with and then you, the player, customize your game as you see fit. History has shown us, the wider we spread the potential of what Magic can be, the more people find something they enjoy and are attracted to the game.

Think of it this way. Each player has a different sense of what Magic is to them. There's no cutoff point where we make the majority of players happy. In fact, for many players, it's the ever-expanding quality to the game that they enjoy most.

This does mean though that we might make choices that don't connect with what you personally enjoy, and I respect that. If Magic isn't providing what you want out of it, that's okay. My only recommendation is don't get rid of your cards. Many Magic players rotate in and out of the game, and the number one complaint I hear from players who rotate back in is them having gotten rid of everything when they rotated out.

Magic might not be what you need right now, but maybe a few years from now you've changed in ways which makes it something you will enjoy. Or maybe Magic will evolve in a way that speaks to you. The only constant I know is you and Magic will both change. Just leave yourself the possibility of reconnecting.

Thanks for playing all these years, and I hope to see you again.

[the-heros-sidekick]

❝ went looking for a creation myth, ended up with a pair of cracked lips. ❞

He feels it first at the back of his neck. A buzzing, like the crackling of electricity underneath his skin, reverberating against the hollow of his skull. Something is knocking, making its presence known: A particular kind of evil that had snuck into Stiles’ mind once already, stealing away control over his body. Condemning him to sit back, trapped in his own mind, rendering him powerless. Doomed to watch in horror as his  blood-stained hands wielded sharpened blades against those he loved. They’d gotten him out, though nearly at the cost of his own life—a sacrifice Stiles had been more than willing to make, so long as no one else would get hurt because of him. And yet something must have stayed behind, lodged into the membrane of his skull like a shard of glass. For the longest time he’d managed to keep the horrors contained to only haunt him in the dead of night, leaving him sleep deprived and wrung out, every nerve ending scraped thin. But now, even the light of day no longer offers refuge for Stiles to feel safe. Long gone is the once obnoxiously loud, carefree kid—left in its stead is a man carrying himself with caution, treading quietly across the space between other people’s reality and what lies beyond. He knows there are demons out there listening, waiting for an opportunity to exploit any sign of weakness—a door left slightly ajar, perhaps, much like the door to Stiles’ mind they’d never managed to close. The feeling of impending doom crescendos and Stiles, feeling sick to his stomach with fear, clings desperately to the words he repeats to himself like a mantra. "Nothing gets in unless you let it.” But the words turn to ash in his mouth, memories of past experiences proving him a liar. 

an exploration of Teen Wolf's 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐊𝐈 who, after leaving Beacon Hills behind, settled down in New York where he's now considered the FBIs golden boy ― crafted for @fakevz. following canon events of the show with additional headcanons. low activity & very crossover friendly. minors dni. this blog operates in english only. est. 2014 ♗ ©

𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐈𝐍: loss of innocence ⊹ comedic sidekick ⊹ overcoming demonic possession ⊹ a morally gray world ⊹ undying loyalty ⊹ survivor's guilt ⊹ agent of chaos ⊹ deflecting with humor

✧  𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 ✧ 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 ✧ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒

I think I've loved you since I met you. I just mistook it for curiosity.

Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I felt this unquenchable need to know you.I blamed it on ulterior motives, justified it because I needed something from you, because you held the answers I was looking for, because no one else was able to help but you. Looking back on it now though, I'm starting to think that maybe some part of me knew right from the start, that first night I stumbled upon you in the woods, what took me years to see: Maybe my heart recognized that it was going to love you right away, and I spent the years to come catching up with what it knew right from the start. That it was always going to be you. How could it ever have been anyone else? Through mayhem and bloodshed, through fear and loss, through grief and sleepless nights, you were the one constant that remained. When I lost sight of everything--first myself, then reality, then hope--you were the one guiding my way like a beacon, or a north star. If I've ever known peace, it's in all the moments that your hand has touched mine and that your arms have held me tirelessly, putting your body like a shield between me and every inkling of danger. Of all the late-night wonderings of trying to make sense of the last decade (and failing), what remains is this singular thought: At least it was you. At least it was me. At least it was us, together. I'd bear it all a million times over if it meant I got to hold your hand at the end of it all. You are the moment of quiet at the end of a long day, you are breathless laughter, you're the patch of sunlight filtering in through the window that I stand in to warm myself. You are everything good in this world and living proof that there is hope despite it all, and I love you beyond measure.

[gilbirda]

Friendly neighborhood vigilante. Chapter 28

BatmanxDP crossover. JasonxJazz

[Read on AO3] [Read on FF.net]

Based on this post

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Danny landed on the rooftop without making any sound. There was soft thud and air displacement when Batman landed next to him, but Danny ignored him.

They have kept it civil because they really wanted to get this done before he was called back to the Realms, but Danny wasn’t very keen on seeing the old man’s face right now.

After all, he hurt his sister.

Jason was very open about Bruce’s involvement in the whole debacle, and explained as well who exactly was Barbara in this equation and how he could find her. Danny had given the other man a hard time during the unplanned shovel talk, but he could easily tell Jason was as pissed as he was for Bruce’s treatment of Jazz, and he respected that.

He was still on probation for the whole “making her cry and making her spill her secrets at gunpoint” business, but for now the guy was making up for it very well. The shine in his eyes as he explained in detail what exactly Danny should and could do for payback was exactly what Danny needed to feel encouraged to start an impromptu prank war on Batman, which he promptly decided to do.

Jazz arrived after work and found them still in the Batburger, plotting machinations that she disapproved of at first, but quickly caved and added her two cents with her observations about Bruce.

Jazz wasn’t a stranger to prank wars. She was a Fenton after all.

Terrorizing the old man had been fun and a great way to blow off some steam, which he desperately needed. He had slipped with his chat with Jason, and he was fearing he went too far with the whole eldritch thing, but the guy was just fine and not traumatized so it couldn’t have been that bad.

He still refused to talk to Batman if he could help it. Weird thing, the man didn’t seem surprised by the development.

Good.

He should be very aware he did something very wrong and was on thin ice.

His only saving grace was new intel Jazz shared at the Batburger — she had struck a deal with Bruce, and apparently the man was going to help her launch her reform programs that the management at Arkham kept shutting down. Of course his sister saw this as an opportunity for her work, but if it made her happy, he was fine with it.

He was still going to mess with the man for a bit longer, though, even when they were on their way to meet The Spirit.

They didn’t have a set destination, but Danny instinctively followed the flow of ectoplasm to where it was the most concentrated, and where he knew she’d be a bit more stable to have this kind of interaction.

Gotham Spirit wasn’t like your regular ghost — she was born after a dream, an idea, a concept. She had never been human and existed in every brick and every tree and every person within the city. Manifesting as a one singular form took a lot of power and ability, something that an entity as old and experienced as Gotham certainly had, but required a lot of ectoplasm.

Danny watched Red Hood land on the other side of the rooftop with his sister in his arms. He scoffed. Jazz hadn’t looked apologetic when she told him she wanted to make the trip with her boyfriend instead of flying with him as usual.

Sure. Let her live her dreams of being swept away by her knight in shining tights or whatever. By the way her face had a slight blush up to her ears, she was enjoying every minute of this.

Danny scoffed and looked away, watching Batman instead. The man was openly staring at the couple being disgustingly cute with that neutral expression of his. Batman was liminal just enough that Danny could sense the underlying sadness he had every time he looked at Jason.

He didn’t know the full story, but had guessed from context that both had a complex relationship he didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole, thank you very much.

Batman made a grunt type of sound and finally looked away from the other. Danny glanced and found them kissing, Jazz grabbing Jason’s jacket to pull him down and he had a hand on her waist.

“When do you think The Spirit will show up?”

Danny could see the attempt to distract himself away from the happy couple, but he felt a little evil and pretended he didn’t hear him, turning to look at the city skyline.

Gotham was a beautiful city — not exactly his taste, but he could appreciate the charm of such an urban metropolis with grotesques on every other rooftop and overall dark aesthetics. Sam would love the place, for sure. Maybe he should bring her the next time he comes over for a visit.

Batman grunted again, displeased with being ignored.

Good.

“Tomorrow—”

Whatever the man wanted to call his attention for was forgotten the second a colony of bats appeared out of nowhere, screeching and screaming as they rushed in towards Jazz and Jason’s direction.

Danny knew they weren’t dealing with normal animals when the bats ripped Jazz away from her boyfriend and threw her over the edge of the rooftop.

“Jazz!” Jason screamed, running after the cloud of darkness that took the woman.

Danny flew to see what was going on, finding his sister suspended mid-air, already drawing her staff and trying to fight off the bats off her body that were biting and scratching the skin that wasn’t covered by her armor.

“HOW COULD YOU!” A disembodied voice growled, distorted with rage and tell-tale static undertones that ghosts usually had.

Gotham, the Spirit, had arrived.

“I HAD ONE RULE!”

Oh boy.

The dark cloud carried Jazz towards a nearby building, through the wall and again upwards towards the sky, landing on the roof. It was a good thing that Jazz's physical abilities were enhanced with her armor on, because blasting through brick walls really, really hurt. He knew from experience.

The Bats immediately grappled closer to the fight, but didn’t dare intervene just yet — the murderous colony of bats seemingly multiplied and flew in a storm around Jazz, making it impossible to get closer or help the woman without risking injury.

Jazz shook her head to clear the debris from her face and hair as much as she could, and started flipping her staff around in practiced moves. She knew how to move with a staff, it was her main weapon after all, so she didn’t find a lot of trouble with at least keeping the worst of it out of her personal bubble.

“Do something!”

Danny’s head whipped away from the fight. “Like what!” He shouted back at Jason.

“I don’t know! You are the King! Stop this!”

Jazz screamed in pain, and they turned to watch as the bats finally overwhelmed her, sinking their teeth on her skin and taking flight with her, body and all. Her staff was useless in the air, and the higher they flew, the more she risked falling and hurting herself.

“Danny!” Jason growled, demanding answers.

The young King wished he could do what he was asked. It was his sister fighting for her life right there, but—

“I can’t.”

“What!”

“I can’t intervene! Could be perceived as a power move and make things worse.”

“Power move? What the fuck are you talking about? It's trying to kill her!”

Did they have time to discuss the intricacies of ghost politics, haunt protocol and unspoken rules of courtesy? No, they didn’t.

“Just trust me, dude!”

Also, technically, Gotham was within her rights here. Jazz broke a promise made with a ghost more ancient than her. She was not supposed to get close to the city’s beloved crime fighters.

Jazz activated the electrical tip of her staff and shocked the cloud of bats surrounding her. She screamed, probably because she shocked herself in the process, but it served its purpose — the electrocuted bats finally let go of her and started nosediving back down, freeing her.

She didn’t waste time and repositioned her body to dive back as well, her long red hair flapping wildly on her back, eyes fixed on her objective, hands tensed around her staff.

They watched the colony recover mid descent, flying back up to meet her halfway. Jazz placed one arm forward, activating the ghost shield of her arm guards, using the opportunity to cushion her fall back to the rooftop. She landed safely and flipped backwards a good distance away from the bats to regain her breath.

“Get over here!” The voice screamed again, less distorted and more human-like.

Black smoke manifested around the bats as the cloud changed course, preparing to rush towards Jazz. She was ready for them. She had put away her collapsed staff back on her waist and lifted both arms, making a bigger shield that hopefully could withstand the onslaught of the very pissed off ancient Spirit.

When they made contact they heard Jazz gasp as she was pushed back from the sheer force of impact, but she held her ground. Her legs trembled a little bit, and one collapsed until she had one knee on the ground.

Finally, it was too much and the woman was launched again over the edge, but this time something else caught her fall.

Batman’s cape was gigantic, and Danny could understand how it became a symbol for the city. It was like Jazz had been enveloped in the night itself and nothing could go through the protecting barrier as she was carried into safety by the vigilante.

The cloud of smoke and screeching bats followed, but froze the moment they realized who exactly had their arms around their target.

The moment Jazz was on her own feet she drew her weapon again, breathing hard and glaring at the murderous cloud.

“My Knight.” The voice whispered, static gone, rage gone.

Jason had rushed towards Jazz’s side and started checking her wounds, but stopped to watch as the bats and the smoke started to coalesce into human form. It was reminiscent of the visual effect when the Bats manifested from the shadows, as if the void itself suddenly had eyes, then a shape and at last a three dimensional form.

“My Son.” Gotham, the Spirit, breathed with newly formed lips.

“Holy shit.” Jason murmured under his breath.

Danny watched as both Batman and Red Hood froze in the presence of the personification of their beloved city. It was the woman of the painting back at the Manor, Danny confirmed, so it must be the face of Bruce’s mom. She was wearing a long deep black cocktail dress, darker than a moonless sky, that hung down to her feet and blended with the shadows she was formed from, almost as if she remained tethered to the essence of the city even with her humanoid manifestation.

What was the name of Bruce’s mother? Martha? Yeah, Danny was sure the name was Martha.

He was still going to call her Spirit or Gotham, just in case. Anything else could lead to confusion.

The Spirit approached the masked vigilante and touched his face with a delicate pale hand, face contorting in what could be called a maternal worried expression.

Batman didn’t move, frozen in place, letting the strange and yet familiar woman touch him.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but hesitated, and then the moment was gone.

The Spirit withdrew her hand and turned to glare at Jazz, ignoring everyone else standing on the rooftop.

“You promised.” She growled with a static-y edge to her voice.

Jazz had regained her breath. “I know. I’m sorry.” She collapsed her staff and slowly put it on the holder at her hip.

“Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

Jason responded for Jazz, stepping forward to place his body between the angry ghost and his girlfriend. Danny thought it was cute.

The Spirit’s face softened at the gesture, floating closer to the pair. “My Knight.” She didn’t stop even when Jason tensed at her approach. “Would you protect her from me?”

He stood still even if it was clear he didn’t want that woman touching him. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, just a domino mask, so he was caressed on one cheek just like Bruce has been.

“Yes. Without question.”

The Spirit purred, considering. The shadows at her feet trembled and morphed as she thought, rivulets of pure darkness floating up until they dissolved like smoke.

“Very well.” Danny breathed in relief. “But you can’t expect me to be happy with you and the young King flaunting your power like this is your own haunt, girl.”

Jazz cleared her throat. “Actually, we wanted to talk about that topic.”

Gotham’s form shook and her shape blurred for a moment, her mouth curving in an impossible smile. “You dare make demands?”

“Not… Not demands,” Jazz tried to laugh the tension off. It didn’t work. “We wanted to discuss the possibility of letting me— letting us operate freely in the city—”

“HOW DARE YOU!”

The human form exploded in a cloud of bats, but this time they didn’t hurt anybody, they just flew around the group, screeching.

“If you could give me a minute—”

“You come into my city and dare—!”

“Listen to me.”

“ — prance around like it belongs to you!”

Danny and Jazz shared a look.

Jason stepped closer to Jazz, watching the flying cloud of murderous bats.

“B, do something. She likes you.”

Batman didn’t hesitate and moved closer to the pair, positioning on the other side of the young woman. Jazz ended up protected, sandwiched between the two vigilantes.

“There’s a threat coming.” The Dark Knight said. The bats slowed down, listening. “And only these two can help us. Hear what they have to say.”

The colony screeched one more time before they gathered again into the shape of Martha Wayne. She stood there observing the Princess, unblinking and unmoving, with one hand on the pearl necklace resting on her chest.

“A threat?”

“You don’t know them. They call themselves the Ghost Investigation Ward, and are after anyone that has been death touched.” The Spirit’s eyes sharpened, glowing with power. “Yes. Anyone. Including your Knights.”

“I can stop them.”

Danny intervened. “Vlad Plasmius may show up as well.”

The smoke cracked like a bonfire, and a strong smell of burning rubber and chemicals filled their noses.

“Plasmius?”

“You know him?”

She turned towards Danny, her eyes glowing red and dangerous. “I know of him. I don’t want that… man,” she twisted her mouth in distaste, “in my city.”

The siblings looked at each other and nodded. “We’ll deal with him. If—”

“No.”

“No?”

She floated away, the horrible smell followed her. “I don’t want any of you in my city either. You have caused enough harm as it is. Leave.”

She made a dismissive gesture and turned away, deeming the conversation over.

“What?” Danny heard Jason whisper.

“I’m sorry, my Lady, but I just can’t accept that.” Jazz stepped forward.

The burned rubber smell was back. Gotham looked over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

“You have done enough. Leave.” This time, the word had an added Command to it. Jazz stumbled but held her ground. This made the Spirit fully turn around to face her.

“No.”

The Spirit’s eyes glowed brighter as she stared down the Princess.

“Leave. My. City.”

“I won’t leave this city—” Jazz lifted her staff just in time to parry some kind of projectile Gotham threw at her. It vanished in a cloud of dark smoke that smelled like car exhaust. “I won’t leave this city, and I won’t leave its people. What’s coming is dangerous and we want to help you.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes you do! How can I stand by and watch how they take all the death-touched that are under your protection? How can you?”

“I can protect them.”

“Can you?”

The Spirit didn’t like her comment, her body starting to lose its shape again. But didn’t respond.

“Let me help you protect them. You know I can. You know who I am.” She stepped closer to the Spirit, eyes fixed on the powerful ghost, unflinching. The fiery tips of her mask ignited with determination, fire extending to make a perfect circle of flames above her head. “You know I can protect what matters the most to us.”

Gotham’s red eyes briefly found the quiet figures of the vigilantes behind Jazz, who were watching the exchange with bated breath. Maybe they understood the importance of the situation, the gravity of what was happening. Openly challenging an ancient ghost like Gotham, in her own haunt, was a highly frowned upon offense. If the Spirit wanted to smite Jazz there was nothing Danny could do.

He watched his sister, stomping down the impulse to jump in and protect her. He had seen her square up against big threats, against a whole army, but he wasn’t used to seeing her dive headfirst into a fight she couldn’t win.

She really wanted to stay, huh.

Danny looked at Jason, the reason why they were in this mess in the first place. That man better understood how much his sister was risking with this confrontation.

“You are a child.” Danny cringed at the condescending tone. By ghost standards, it was technically true. He knew Jazz hated it almost as much as he did.

But she wasn’t fazed.

Jazz did a flourish with her staff and slammed it against the concrete roof, releasing a wave of power, her power, amplified by the magical properties of her armor. Danny and Gotham were unaffected, but he saw the vigilantes take a slight step back.

Huh. Interesting.

“I am Crown Princess Jasmine. I’ve protected the Keep against invading forces for seven days and seven nights straight. I’ve battled alongside the Ancient Pandora, and trained by the Amazons residing in the Infinite Realms.” She slammed her staff again, another wave of raw power coursing through the city skyline. Her hair was lifted by the stream of energy, flowing around her body like a fiery halo. “I’m not a mere child, my Lady, and I’m ready to risk my own life, my own blood, to protect this city. I will stay.” She marched closer, extending her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Gotham made a face, barely giving Jazz’s hand a spared glance. Instead, she turned around and floated closer to the edge as if she was getting ready to jump.

Danny wanted to scoff. What a stubborn ghost. Just like its protectors.

“Very well,” she said, words carried by the wind. “You can stay. But,” she looked over her shoulder, “you must do one thing for me, if you are so fixated on ‘helping me’.”

“Anything.”

Danny’s eyebrows went to his hairline. That was a very, very dangerous thing to say. You just don’t promise “anything” to a ghost, even less to someone like the Gotham Spirit.

“There’s a vortex of corrupted ectoplasm hidden in my city. Find it, neutralize it, and I will be forever in your debt, Princess. Good night and—

“ — good luck.”

The last parting words were lost in the sound of flapping wings of the flurry of bats Gotham finally surrendered to. The colony flew up to the sky, vanishing among the dark clouds.

“Whew!” Jazz whistled. “That could have gone better.”

Danny turned away from the sky to look at his sister in disbelief. “What the fuck, Jazz?”

“What?

“What do you mean ‘what’?” He lifted his hands. Unbelievable. “You just— That was such— Why?”

She chuckled, her voice weak. “I… don’t know? It just happened.”

Danny wanted to get the bottom of how could his sister, always so obsessed with following protocol and rules, do a stand off with a whole freaking city just like that; but said sister was whisked away by two hundred pounds of vigilante.

Jason was laughing without caring who may listen, holding Jazz by her waist up in the air, spinning in place with her in his arms.

“That was amazing!”

Jazz laughed with him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Her cheeks were colored, probably from embarrassment at being at the center of such a spectacle.

“Oh, well.”

Jason stopped spinning and placed her on her feet, but immediately captured her and flushed her against his chest instead, reaching for a deep kiss that dipped Jazz backwards.

Danny looked away from such a cheesy moment.

Batman ignored the show and had already approached the point from where Gotham disappeared. He placed one knee on the roof and reached for the concrete, but there was nothing on it. No stain or mark that there had ever been a ghost formed from soot and smoke.

“It really was her.” He murmured under his breath.

Danny knew he wasn’t supposed to hear that, but the alternative of engaging with Batman was watching his sister exchange bodily fluids with her boyfriend and hmmm no thanks.

He sighed.

“It’s not your mother.”

“I know.” Danny didn’t flinch at the tone. “I know.”

Danny crouched beside the man. “Was she what you expected?”

He thought about the question for a second. “I don’t know. She looked like my mother, but there was nothing of her. She was hurt and distrustful. Cautious.”

Danny hoped the man could see the similarities between the city and its protector, but chose to bite his tongue and not comment on it.

“The corrupted vortex of ectoplasm.” Batman said out of the blue, standing back up. “I think I know what she was talking about.”

Just like that, the man was all business and no fun. Almost made Danny want to go back to giving him the cold shoulder and ignore him the rest of his stay in Gotham.

“What do you mean?” Jazz asked, tuning into the conversation. Her lips were swollen and her cheeks were still flushed.

“I’ve had my suspicions but I never had enough proof to investigate.”

“What?”

He looked at his son. “There’s a Lazarus Pit here, in Gotham.” He looked at Jazz. “And I think I know where it is.”

---

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[linnetagain]

Hi! I’m not sure if you’re comfortable answering questions about your fics here so please feel free to ignore this if you’re not.

I’m a russian queer who left a comment under chapter 3 of The Season and I’m super qurious why you decided to make Астарион :), Cazador and Halsin russian. In Good Men and Monsters you mention that Astarion has been called upyr, does he have Eastern European background in that universe as well?

I’m completely enamoured with and fascinated by your works and wait for new updates religiously. Thank you so much for sharing them with us, you’re a солнышко! 🖤

Hello friend!! I am slow to answer but happy to! I can't promise I'll be very eloquent or be able to provide a satisfying answer but I'll do my best.

First of all, I haven't specified Astarion's background in Good Men and I likely won't, so if you want to read him as Eastern European please do! I can absolutely see how it fits. In the context of that discussion it's the concept of Vampirism and the folklore surrounding it that is focused on Eastern Europe rather than he himself. I am absolutely not going to touch some of Stoker's vampiric lore because he was a xenophobic Victorian man (the boxes of dirt... goddamn, Stoker, what the fuck - the grave dirt of course is relevant in Good Men but it's 'the soil the vampire was buried in' not 'fifty boxes of soil from his homeland'). I could write a whole essay on the symbolism of the outsider as a threat and the crossover of the ostracized sections of Victorian society in Dracula (non-english, lower class, homosexual, the list goes on and fucking on) but this is already a long reply so I'll spare you and look at Season.

There are a couple of reasons that it fits, for me, and a lot of it is to do with the Russian history of competitive ice skating. Writing a modern AU Astarion who wasn't a vampire meant I knew I needed to find another way to have that aspect of his character where his life hasn't been his own, where it's been shaped by other people for their own purposes, and even as an adult and being 'free' to make his own choices, he's living with the legacy of who they made him, and working to be more than that. Competitive sport definitely has that aspect already, unfortunately, and ice skating even more so.

I also never wanted him to be the only Russian, because then of course you're risking tokenizing him. Cazador made sense for obvious reasons, but Halsin too. I considered him because he's the other high elf companion, but also because in game he's the one with a history of war. Transferring him to a modern day context was harder than a lot of the other characters, but I wanted him to have that similar ground with Astarion that he has in game, even if they never address it. Unintentionally, it means that in Season he and Astarion have very different experiences of their culture and identity, especially in context of the diaspora, which is something I really enjoy exploring.

Of course that then raises the question of the current geopolitical state of Russia and the wider Slavic regions. Having real world issues as a basis for plot is always somewhat fraught, but it's also something very close to my heart and that I want to write about. I also didn't want to make them all British to avoid any of that difficulty, that would be both unrealistic and uninteresting.

I think the ultimate reason is that fiction, even fanfiction, is our way of processing and reflecting on and exploring our world. It's less obvious in fantasy settings, but it's still very much there. The ultimate reason I choose to do anything is because it's interesting - and usually, in a real world context, that means it's fraught and complicated. I want to write about things that matter, to me and to anyone who might read it, and I want to do it in a way that means anyone reading from a different context might feel seen.

The reason I started writing in the first place, however many years ago, is that I didn't see any asexual rep in fiction and I knew that if I needed it, someone else needed it too. I do the same now. I have queer Russian friends who feel like the world has moved on from what's going on in Russia at the moment, or that all Russian people are being treated like they MUST agree with what the Russian government are doing. The nuance of the situation and their identity is erased by oversimplification. I suppose part of writing this is just me wanting to do anything I can to combat that. It's not much, but I hope it's something, to know that you're seen and still being thought about, and people still care.

Writing characters who have dealt with miscarriage, drug abuse, xenophobia, chronic pain, emotional neglect and all those kinds of things is because I have feelings about these subjects, I want to discuss them, I want to explore what it means to live through something like that and how it affects you as a person. Fiction is a space to do that, and to invite people into those conversations that we wouldn't have otherwise. Art has always been a starting point, and it's always been at the forefront of social and political change. I don't write fanfic thinking it's going to change the world, obviously, but I do write it with the intention of treating real life situations with the respect and consideration they deserve, rather than just using them for drama or brushing over them because it's a difficult thing to talk about.

I know that Season is a love story. That's the ultimate goal, and I presume that's why people are still reading. But it's also, to me, a story about what it means to be queer in our world today. What that looks like, how far we've come and how far we still have left to go. I want to give people a story that is real, in that sense. That takes in all the fucking awful shit that can come with being queer and out and open, and still have hope and a happy ending. It's not easy, and I don't ever want to pretend that it is. But fiction also gives us a place where we can imagine what a happy ending might look like, in a world that doesn't provide them as often as we'd like.

So. Sorry for the essay as a response, but. I suppose I made Astarion Russian because it made sense for his character, but also because I want to write with hope, and not manufacturing false hope by turning away from the world as it is. I want to write all the awful, difficult, horrible things, and believe that happiness and hope are possible anyway, despite, and including them. We don't live in an ideal world. Sometimes I want to cave to despair and think that things will never be better. I write because I don't want to believe that's true.

[sadlynotthevoid]

I think we need at least one more bnha x dc crossover in a fusion AU way with bad parent Bruce just so we can have Trained Assassin Teen Jason go to UA in a rehab way (because I doubt bnha proheroes are really against killing in certain cases and Jason would flip that shitty distopia from inside out if given the chance, which he should have) and Stain go after Bruce's ass.

Outside Jason's interrogatory room:

Random diplomat: —and so we decided to consult with yourself, since this is... an exceptional case.

Nedzu: I knew there would be trouble to decide a punishment for the Red Hood, but I wonder what makes everyone so uncomfortable.

Random diplomat, who I'm going to call Jeff: Well, that's— why don't you take a look at him for yourself? *Activates one way mirror function*

Jason, a literal teen: *bored out of his mind, spinning in a swivel chair*

Nedzu, not a human but also in charge of a whole full school of teens: Ah. He's younger than I expected. Though that explains a lot of things.

Jeff: It does?

Nedzu: The decision of making Batman face the Joker to force him to kill him, despite his well known irrational protest against killing in all cases, instead of killing him himself makes more sense coming from a traumatized teenager in seek of safety and certainty.

Jeff: I see. Anyways, his age is one of the three reasons why it's nearly impossible for us to come to a conclusion.

Nedzu: Having in count his young age, I assume his life circumstances is other?

Jeff: Yes. The kid was interrogated by an agent with a range truth-type quirk before and— He was murdered. And resurrected, violently. Then spent a year or so under tha care of assassins.

Nedzu, smiling wide: Oho. So that's the reason.

Jeff: For his last antic, yes. Knowing this, it's hard to judge him because no one has gone under similar events before. Specially because his previous life wasn't exactly a normal one either.

Nedzu: By the way, what is the other reason?

Jeff: ...his fans would burn us alive if they discover we put him, a traumatized teen who almost got killed by his father, in prison for killing people who— under any working system— should end in life sentence or penal death.

["Sir, the crowd outside doubled its size."

"Again Ramírez? This is the third time already!"

"There's nothing I can do bout it. They aren't doing anything illegal."

"Anf onef ovf them gahve me a muffin."

"Johansson! Not eating during guard duty."

"He didn't have breakfast, sir."]

Nedzu: So that's the real reason.

Nedzu, already taking the legal papers: If we agree in a few things, then I'm willing to have him in UA to rehabilitate him.

Jeff: Of course.

Aizawa: *enters to Nedzu's office*

Tsukauchi, Jason and Nedzu already there: *turns heads to him at the same time*

Aizawa, a single father of twenty children: Oh no. What did they do now?

Tsukauchi: As far as I know, nothing yet this time.

Nedzu: Aizawa, take a seat. This is Jason, he's going to be part of your class starting today.

Aizawa: Isn't him a bit old?

Jason who has never been normal for a single day in his life: Apparently, I'm seventeen...ish. You should have seen me a week ago. I looked like 19 years old.

Tsukauchi: The doctor said it could be good for him if he could look at himself and see his real age, so recovery girl made a call.

Jason: It was a therapist. I've never had one of those before. And oh boy, wasn't she right? I only jumpscared myself twice this week.

Aizawa, already resigned to parent this kid: Hahhhhh.

Todoroki, going downstairs after a nightmare: *stops*

Jason, in the middle of a stress-baking session: *looks at him dead in the eyes while whisking cream*

Tokoyami, sitting in the dark for no reason: Revelry in the dark.

Jason, finishing yet another cake: More like a feast. Black forest, you two?

Todoroki: Sure.

Dark Shadow: Me three.

Aizawa: Class, due to recent events, you will have a new classmate joining you.

Jason: Sup.

Aizawa: This is Jason. He is—

Todoroki: An excellent chef. Thanks for the cake.

Aizawa, too used to their bs: —technically a criminal. But there were extreme circumstances and the global government agreed to let him free and give him a hero license if he graduates from Nedzu's hellish rehab program. Good luck.

Jason: Meh. Can't be worse than digging myself out.

The whole class: Hiiiih—

Aizawa: I was talking to them. They have a terrible low terror resistance and you can traumatize anyone who talks with you for more than ten minutes.

By the way, in this AU Jason has a healing quirk. Because he deserves it and I like it how it goes with his name. Plus, the angst of baby Jay trying to heal his mom even after she had already died and it's only her corpse.

I was thinking it seemed like a normal healing quirk, but after he dies, resurrect and is thrown into the pit it evolves. As time pass, Jason finds more and more phoenix resembling features in his quirk.

[harrietpotterandthedemigods]

So, I just finished watching Ducktales 2017. What a gem! But of course my brain did its thing and now I’m imagining all possible post-canon fanfics.

Specifically all the potential Percy Jackson crossovers! Or, should we say Percy “Quackson”?

My main concept is linked to a mystery the characters never address. Which is quite surprising if you think about it. Especially since Webby has dedicated most of her young life to mapping out the Duck’s entire family tree. But Huey Dewey and Louie wanted desperately to know what happened to their mom, yet they’ve never expressed any interest in who their father is.

Now that doesn’t have to be all that weird. I imagine the boys grew up not knowing much about their mom aside from little nuggets Donald would tell them, like; “oh your mother loved this dish” or “your mother actually wrote this lullaby I’ve always been singing to you”. Just enough for them to be curious about her, but they probably realized it made their uncle sad to think about her, effectively stopping them from asking about her. (Though I imagine Donald would have answered many of their questions about Della without hesitation, like how she was as a person.)

When it comes to their father, Donald might not actually know who their father is. They might be the result of a one night stand? I’d say it’s actually quite likely since Della never mentions an ex or anything about her love life for that matter. Maybe Donald never asked in case Della herself didn’t know? It does seem like she was always the wild child of the two. That’s all fine, but it means Donald had no way of dropping lore about him in the same way he probably did about their mom. Actually, forget what I said earlier. Donald did not know who their father was. Had he known, he would have made sure the boys knew him. Because Donald is a good parent.

That said, the boys knew nothing about their dad. But they didn’t lack a father figure. Paired with the previously mentioned point, it makes perfect sense why the boys would not feel the need to know about their father. Unlike with their mother, they never had to feel like they were missing out on having a dad. Donald filled that role. He never calls himself their dad, but he does refer to them as his boys (I’m actually sure Daisy was mentally preparing herself to having to be a stepmother in those vents). And the boys clearly admires him and look up to him, the season one finale clearly shows it. Almost to the point of rubbing it in our faces.😅

So even if the boys were to find out who their father is, it might now be that big of a deal to them.

Huey, Dewey or Louie: Oh, okay, cool. Uncle Donald is still our main father figure, so, yeah, that role’s been filled. Nice meeting you, though.

That said, WE can still be curious though.

And the absence of any clues whatsoever practically gives us free rein to speculate!

Now since I talked about a Percy Jackson crossover, and I’m writing it on this side blog, you probably saw where this was headed.

I suggest that Huey Dewey and Louie are demigods!

Both the Greek and Norse pantheon are real in the Ducktales universe. (Though the liberties taken with the portrayal of Norse mythology are almost offensive in my opinion. Jörmungand is the enemy of the warriors in Valhalla, dam it! He’d never be seen as the underdog man of the people there!) And though we only ever see three Greek gods, we do know many other gods took a liking to the ducks. That’s what Zeus was so jealous of Scrooge for, after all. So it’d be pretty safe to assume that if the boys are demigods, they’re Greek.

Now in this adaptation, the triplets have distinctly different personalities, as opposed to earlier adaptations. That might lead to a possibility of them having different gods as fathers. There are examples of twins with different fathers in mythology. And it might feel a bit easier to match each triplet with his own godly parent.

But… I know a candidate who would fit as the father of all three, and, who I can definitely see falling in Love with Della Duck.

My friends, I suggest, the father of Huey, Dewey and Louie is none other than…

Hermes, Messenger of the gods!

Hermes is also a trickster figure and the patron god of travelers, thieves and anyone who uses the roads really. He isn’t picky about who he sponsors.

Apollo also drops hints about his personality in ToA. That he is a bit adventurous and a wild child.

You can’t tell me Hermes and Della wouldn’t be somewhat each other’s type. They could definitely be seeing each other at least for long enough to create a child, or three.

Additional to being a trickster and a messenger, Hermes is also a god of commerce. These aspects could very well be seen in Louie, who sees all the angles, defeats his opponents by out witting them, and strives to be as rich and successful as his Uncle Scrooge. Though preferably with less hard work and more witty poker strategies.

As previously mentioned, both Hermes and Della are adventurous and the wild child of their respective sibling groups. It should therefore not be a surprise that at least one of their children would be the same. Dewey is the adventurous triplet, and seems to have decided to follow in his mother’s footsteps and become a pilot. He could have gotten his wild attitude from both of his parents, or just one. He is also a bit of a theater kid. He loves to dance and, sort of, has his own talk show. That’s not a clear link to Hermes, but considering he invented two instruments as an infant, one of which became the characteristic lyre his brother uses to play, and is sometimes considered as a minor poetry god besides Apollo, I still think Dewey could have gotten the theatre side from Hermes.

Huey is not as easy. Hermes is neither the god of wisdom nor knowledge. Those domains falls to Athena and Apollo respectively. And Huey’s most prominent character trait is his per suit of knowledge. But I look at his hobbies. He functions as a sort of unofficial sidekick for Gizmoduck. Hermes often act as a travel companion for Zeus when he wanders the earth, and as the messenger of the gods he often assist other gods. Assisting others with tough situations is something all triplets do throughout the series. Also Huey is a junior Woodchuck. Don’t you think the god of travelers would encourage you to learn more about survival in the wild? Hermes is also a god of linguistics and in some cases acts as a mediator between other gods, and can sometimes choose not to fight an opponent he’s expected to fight, showing some levelheaded behavior and certain intelligence, which could be where Huey could get his brains.

But aside from Della and the triplets’ personalities, there’s another piece of evidence. Because we know of at least one instance where one of the triplets has interacted with Hermes.

In season 2 episode 11, Dewey has stolen Hermes’ winged shoes.

But Hermes is the god of thieves, remember? Do you really think he wouldn’t notice a kid was about to steal his stuff?

No way.

It’s my theory that Hermes has either known from the start that he and Della had triplets, or he saw the kids that were obviously Della’s during one of their trips to Ithaquack (is that how it’s spelled?) and simply but two and two together. So when one of them tried to take his shoes, he simply figured he’d let his son have some fun with them. The next time we see Dewey, he no longer has the shoes but he’s completely fine, no harm done.

I imagine Hermes might have appeared off camera and been like; “Hey, I’m glad you had fun with the shoes, but we shouldn’t risk your life by angering Zeus. I’ll take them back and next time you can ask and I’ll supervise.”

I don’t think he’d have told Dewey who he was to him, because a god for a father would become a big deal to the triplets once they found out. And Dewey would probably not repeat the same mistake again by withholding information about their parentage.

So that’s my headcanon. Huey Dewey and Louie are demigod sons of Hermes.

A post-canon crossover fic could therefore feature a satyr taking the boys to Camp Half Blood and learn sword fighting from “Percy Quackson”. How their relationship with their father would then look like once they’re claimed could be up for interpretation. Personally, I’d like to think that between Percy’s trust that gods can change for the better if they want to, and Apollo doing exactly that, Hermes is inspired to become a more present parent to his kids at camp. So if you want to be wholesome, Hermes basically becomes part of the McDuck family through his sons.

But hey, that’s just a theory!

Feel free to share your thoughts about this!🤗

[yetanothergreyjedi]

Ghosts of Our Pasts: pt 12

DP x DC crossover

Damian Wayne and Danny Fenton Sibling AU

Ao3

Masterpost Previous

---

Mistakes a Mother Shouldn't Make

-

Oh Dears, you didn't think I was going to immediately tell you what's happening with Danny and Dami, did you? Sorry not sorry

---

Talia was looking for her children. They hadn't appeared yet this morning, which meant they were likely finding mischief. Fine as long as they weren't late for lessons, fine as long as it did not intrude on anything of importance.

It was too early for training, yet they were not in their beds and the halls were quiet. She had been searching for several minutes and still no trace of them. Not that that was particularly alarming, children trained for stealth tended to be skilled at it. They had the advantage of their size and the fact that most did not look down when anticipating threats. Add to the fact that they knew the methods for changing the guard and they could disappear as effectively as any assassin.

Her guards had not seen them. They had not come when she called. She hoped they hadn't fallen asleep in a crawl space again, it might be hours before they woke and realized they needed to return, and Father had been keeping a close eye lately. Dany was already in a dangerous position, if he believed her eldest was stunting Damian's potential...

She was worried about Danyal. He was growing... unsettled. His progress had stagnated for seemingly no reason, and it wasn't out of limitation. She knew what Dany looked like when he'd reached his limits, when he'd reached past them. This felt deliberate. Of course she had no way to prove he'd been aiming off center, or that he'd misstepped on purpose, or that he failed to see an opening he'd see without fail every single time they'd tested it last year.

Ras was not close enough to see the choice. This was a good thing. She did not know what punishment would exist for her son if her Father knew.

Then there were the pranks.

If this was truly the height of Danyal's progress, Ras would find it disappointing, but the League would still have gained from it. But Disloyalty? That would not stand.

Perhaps it was time, she had always considered sending her sons to her Beloved. Part of her loathed the choice. Bruce would not encourage loyalty to the league and his presence held the very real threat of defection. But if Danyal had already made that decision...

Then her beloved was the only one who could save him.

This was the last thought before the wall clicked. She had her weapon drawn before she processed the opening, the passage. She hadn’t known this one existed. Seams she had never recognized opened into a door, and out stepped her youngest.

She registered the blood and dust and tear tracks down his face before any true thoughts could form.

1.) Check behind him. No threats made themselves immediately known. Nothing in the secret hall, no footsteps giving chase.

2.) She knelt, quickly scanning Damian for injuries. Nothing immediately visible.

"Are you hurt?" She demanded.

Damian hiccuped another sob, but shook his head. What he did say, however, was, "D-dany,"

If her blood was cold before, now it was liquid nitrogen. "Damian, where is your akhi?"

---

Maddie couldn't remember the last time her cooking had made herself this sick.

Between Jazz recognizing when something was too far gone, the food coming to life then escaping, and her own iron stomach, the last actual case of food poisoning hadn't been since the portal. This being the thing that caused it... it didn't make sense.

The meal had been prepared with fresh foods, smelled delicious, and had not a hint of undead twitching. There was only one thing that could've caused it, one that didn't by any accounts make sense.

Ectouranium, despite its frightening name, was perfectly safe for human consumption. Should've been perfectly safe for them. Yet here she was, standing over the toilet just like Jack had done an hour ago.

Hoping the worst had passed, she rinsed her mouth from the sink. The water had the ever so slight taste of electrified old pennies, and Maddie knew why her attempts to decontaminate the kitchen had failed; because even the tap water tasted like ectoplasm, and she suddenly craved it. She flushed the toilet with a sigh, she should've known. Of course they were too contaminated for a simple fix, Danny had been registering as a ghost on every scanner—Danny.

Danny had eaten dinner with them.

She practically flew down the stairs to a star dappled bedroom, empty. And that wasn't surprising, she could only hope that he hadn't decided to disappear again tonight.

She checked the bathroom next. Its door was still ajar. The relief she felt that he had stayed home was squashed by the way Danny huddled on the floor. He was gasping for air in short pained starts, pressed into the corner where the wall met the tub as if trying to melt into it.

"Danny!" She ran to him, and her heart broke as he tried to shuffle away from her despite the fact that there was nowhere to go. Instincts from his past or something else, she didn't know. It didn't matter, the movement turned ragged breathing into deep chest coughs that had Maddie reaching to call an ambulance before she saw the blood.

But her phone wasn't here, it was still plugged in on the bedside table where she'd left it. And Jack would be asleep with his earmuffs and—

"Mom?" A bleary-eyed Jazz said, "what are you..."

"Jazz, call an ambulance!"

---

Talia stalked through passages she only half knew. She was equal parts proud and dismayed that the trail the boys had left was so subtle. She was equal parts relieved and terrified that the unused halls were too dusty to leave no trace. She moved as quickly as she dared, unwilling to misread the subtle signs.

Until the signs were less subtle. Her eldest's struggle was painted clear crimson for a hallway, and then it stopped. And it was clear what had happened, even if the illuminating green had faded like a dull cracked glowstick.

Dany was no longer in danger of that death, but the deaths that would no doubt follow behind her were still as real as before. There were six drying bootprints before her son had realized and taken measures to prevent them. Thus Danyal's mind was clear. Good, even if the trail became harder to follow. Not perfect, the hard stone became dirt and hiding footprints was nearly impossible. He'd doubled back at least twice, intentionally or because he'd taken a wrong turn?

Pride and betrayal and fear and hope all swirled in her heart but now was not the time to dwell on them.

The end of the tunnels came and went, the wilderness stretched in front of her until it gave way to civilization and the trail went cold. Perhaps she did not check all the places a child could hide that an adult could. Perhaps she overlooked a camera's blindspot.

She had no way of knowing if the assassins her father sent would know to not to do the same.

She did not find her son.

No one told her if anyone else had either.

---

Maddie cradled her son in her arms, encouraging him to keep fighting for breath. Jazz had disappeared a moment, an eternity, exactly fifty three stuttering wet gasps and 5 lung tearing coughs ago.

Then she returned, not talking urgently with an operator, but holding a beaker full of electric green-white.

"Jazz, no."

"It is not poison for the dying, or the dead." Her daughter quotes her son.

"It's still—"

Jazz silences her with a glare, her eyes reflect the eerie light. She doesn't need to say it, Maddie knows that it's Jazz who's memorized Danny's contingency plans, who knows his rules for when the hospital is and isn't an acceptable risk.

"Okay," Maddie shifts to let Jazz take her place by Danny's side. She tips the glass and he drinks what should be poison.

He improves but does not heal and Maddie tells Jazz why. That this amount of ectoplasm can only counter ectouranium so far, that she had forgotten that the 'contamination' was what kept her youngest alive.

Jazz did not lecture her this time, it felt worse than when she did.

They brought Danny down to the lab and Jazz sat them down next to the open portal. It was a chill down her spine and an ache in her bones but neither of her children seemed to fear it, and she would not leave them now.

Danny's breathing had gone quieter after the ectoplasm, so she hadn’t exactly noticed when it stopped. He turned and looked at her with eyes that were not reflecting the portal. How many times had she tricked herself into believing they were?

"Danny?"

"Mom," He breathed in after saying the word, but did not exhale. She wasn't sure he needed too.

"I'm sorry," She whispered.

He huffed a laugh, "Not the first time I've been poisoned,"

Jazz facepalmed behind him.

"For more than that," Maddie said, because Danny had never seemed less human than this moment, and she couldn't apologize and ask at the same time.

He dropped his head on her shoulder, he was cold as ice, but Jazz was at his other side and would've said something if it was a problem.

"Just don't do it again," he requests, meaning more than just adding things to her cooking.

"I won't," Maddie promised, and felt the weight of something binding in her own words. It wouldn’t matter. She intended to keep her word.

So perhaps the FentonWorks ghost security was dismantled and destroyed by the end of the week. Perhaps symbols drawn by teenagers proved more effective. Perhaps their son would sometimes pass through the front door instead of opening it.

Some questions don't need to be asked.

Some questions shouldn't be.

---

Talia was often grateful that her son was a public figure. It meant that instead of wasting manpower on a subtle check up, (and that would be made more complicated of course, her beloved would not allow it), all she had to do was a quick search of his name to find out anything the public might know.

It wasn’t always enough to feel comfortable, particularly when Robin was reported to be injured, but it was far better than if the Wayne's had been just another face in the crowd.

Drama was the usual, but she was surprised to see some of it focusing on Damian instead of the other family members... Apparently someone had run from him, he had given chase and the details devolved into theories from there. It didn't sound like something Damian would do in her opinion, but with every passing year the Damian she remembered existed less and less.

She scrolled through the comments wondering if they had simply misattributed the action of one of the others. Damian running through the streets shouting after them? Her son would know better ways than that. But then her eyes fell onto another comment.

"I saw him," The person with a pink cat for a profile picture said. "He was yelling 'Daniel'."

The world seemed to stop. Not Daniel, Damian had been yelling after Danyal.

-

-

-

Notes:

There are a lot of reasons you shouldn't train small children as assassins, most of those reasons are ethical. But I'm stuck on the idea of giving stealth training to small children… bring them into one(1) department store and POOF they gone!

Tag list pt1

@spectralstardustandphantomnights @avelnfear @idfk-man10 @blackroserelina @candeartist422 @mur-ururu @luer-mirin @insufferablecatenthusiast @skulld3mort-1fan @alonedustspeck @voidbornposts @meira-3919 @marshmello @aethernorwood @mimilikey @undead-essence @cloudminder @markus209 @everything163 @latheevening226 @roman4517 @moobloomrights @battybatbat @lumosfeather18581 @werv @ahyesanerd @pyramaniac @lexdamo @princessbelix @bun-fish @deeannthepan @edgyboi10000 @thatrandomsarahchick @busterkeel @aconitewolfsbane @spoopyspoony @bright-shade @spidey29phangirl @idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit @keimiwolf @u-a-wizard-jamie @gay-puff @bicerise @itshype @blackfoxsposts @icanneverdecide @lolottes @chubbypotato @jovialherringtacoghost @saltyladynightmare

[morelikeravenbore]

🦋 Thanks to the cuties who have tagged me in this, I've loved reading everyone's answers!

How many works do you have on AO3? Uhh *checks* — nine. One long fic and a bunch of oneshots.

What's your total AO3 word count? 88k~ but about 76k~ belong to Villain (so far).

What fandoms do you write for? Hogwarts Legacy is the only fandom I write for, and Sebastian is really the only character I care to write about (HAHA sorry everyone else.)

Top five fics by kudos? I don't really pay attention to stats so:

1. How to Make a Villain

And then whatever the next top four are 🙃

Do you respond to comments? I TRY VERY HARD TO but sometimes it takes me a while (spoons/adhd-brain/burn-out etc). Like any writer, comments give me LIFE, but something I wasn't expecting to struggle with is the feeling that I don't really deserve them. Who knew writing fic would be a lesson in accepting kindness lol

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Welp the only fics I've finished so far are my oneshots, and they all end with orgasms or romance so... 

What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Here Comes The Sun: a cute little Sebaura proposal oneshot hehe 💍🌞

Do you get hate on fics? Not openly, lol. I do love it when people get mad about what my characters do though so pls don't hold back from yelling at them if the urge ever strikes you. 🍿🍿🍿

Do you write smut? I dabble every now and then, but to be honest it's not my favourite thing to write. Before writing for HL, I'd never written a sex scene in my life and I wanted to give it a go to challenge myself. Lately though, I haven't really had any smutty motivation. I'm definitely a romantic at heart and I LOVE writing about the playful side of romance: young love, cute banter, silliness, teasing, etc. Also bickering. Nom nom nom gimme all da arguments.

Craziest crossover? You and me bb :lip_bite:

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Nope! Does this really happen? Like, someone copies and pastes a whole-ass fic and calls it their own? 🧿🧿🧿

Have you ever had a fic translated? I've had requests to translate Villain into Russian, Polish and French, but I'd like to complete the story first.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Does contributing crack fic ideas counts? Because 👀 yeah all the time lol 

All time favorite ship? Uhhh Sebastian and Aurélie HAHA. Otherwise, it's Allie and Noah foreverrrrr. (The movie version though, I've never actually read the book.)

💙 Honourable mentions go to Anne and Gilbert, and Emma and Mr Knightly. Dishonourable mention to Harry and Ginny, eurgh. 

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I only have enough spoons to write one long fic at a time, and I fully intend to finish Villain even if it kills me.

What are your writing strengths? Personally, I think my writers voice sounds distinctly me, which I'm very proud of.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language? OOH this is a great question since Aurélie is fluent in French and I don't speak a bloody word. Generally speaking, I prefer to write it like: 'I can't speak a word of French,' she said in French. 

Sometimes I'll use French if the meaning is clear to someone who doesn't speak the language, or if I can give strong enough context clues, ie:

'How nice,' Aurélie said eventually, her accent thick with French indignation. 'I can see you're both very passionnés about Quidditch.'

Sebastian froze, sensing danger.

'Uh — Passionate?'

'Oui. I did not realise you had to undress yourself to discuss tactique.' 

Or if the POV character can accurately guess the meaning, like this:

'You don't have giant spiders in France then, I take it?'

'Non pas du tout!'

He didn't need to know French to translate that as a vehement no. 

But I try to avoid using the actual written language as much as possible because nothing kills immersion faster than trying to read dialogue you can't understand.

Also I frequently annoy my French friends for translations because uhh if I used Google Translate they'd probably guillotine me hehe.

First fandom you wrote in? This one.

Favorite fic you've written? How to Make a Villain is absolutely my greatest writing achievement ever hahaha. But aside from that, I'm really proud of Noctilucent because my goal was to write something suggestive without making it smutty and I was quite pleased with the outcome.

🦋 np tags for my writer babes and anyone else who wants to join in: @galaxiasgreen @lyworth @sloanesallow @sunsetplums @gingerlegacy07

[whoslaurapalmer]

been going through some old wips so behold!! some scene sketches i have done for various sugar bowl gen fics and stuff, bc i will probably never make them more than these few sentences (or they will transform into something else) and that is not terrible. sometimes you just have little snippets that exist as they are, and that's cool ⭐

wait hold on first. that time i wanted to crossover hades and hamlet but i have read hamlet too few times and need to really bite into it to make this work right. also wasn't sure if they should talk in iambic pentameter

[ "i dream of ophelia," hamlet says, suddenly. he is wiping the blood off his knife with the hem of his jacket, and horatio watches the movement, still. "i dream of her in such a dreadful state -- she has old flowers in her hair, and when she comes at last close enough to touch, she is the softest and the saddest thing i have ever seen, as if all a rotting petal. she smiles at me, with tears on her face." he pauses. "a hideous sight." ]

[ "my lord," horatio says, "perhaps it is not death."

hamlet looks away. "if not to death," he murmurs, "then to what end, horatio?" ]

that time i wanted to well i guess crossover hades with lemony but just in the sense that lemony dies and comes back repeatedly and it wasn't a time loop. just needed a lot of words about death and living i didn't always wanna pull out

the first time it happened, bertrand had dragged lemony out of the water, and lemony was coughing out lungfulls of water in the dark shadows on the pier, his whole body cold and wet and trembling, and bertrand was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do, and lemony said, in a harsh whisper –

“i’m going to die.” he coughed again and looked petulant, closing his eyes. “don’t tell kit.”

"i'm sorry?" bertrand said. 

then he was holding a dead lemony snicket in his arms, and before the absurd horror of it could really sink in, lemony opened his eyes again with a sharp, clear breath. 

because lemony snicket is sometimes the kindest, most aware person bertrand knows, lemony takes him out for lunch. 

"does this happen often?" bertrand asks.

lemony makes a face. "no," he says. "not often. i'd rather it didn't at all." 

It was a lot to take in. But lemony was trusting him -- lemony, who, Bertrand knew, trusted less than three people on any given day. bertrand was touched. 

bernadette and lemony go out for ice cream

her mother had told her to cause uncle lemony a reasonable amount of trouble, and bernadette, being six, was good at causing a reasonable amount of trouble. if only uncle lemony wasn’t equally good at causing a reasonable amount of trouble back. she’d kept changing her ice cream choice all the way to the ice cream parlor down the street from the movie theater, to keep him on his toes, and he had retaliated by buying one little cup of each of the ten flavors, for them to share.

they sat at a table outside the parlor, under the awning of the shop and so in the shade and out of the hot summer sun, and taste-tested them all, bernadette writing the results in the notebook from her pocket.

“what did you think of the mint chocolate chip?” uncle lemony asked.

“it needed more chips,” bernadette said. she held her pencil very tight and wrote slowly so all the letters looked like they were supposed to. her penmanship was not quite up to her troublemaking skills, but bernadette was determined to fix that as quickly as possible. “what did you think of the salted caramel?”

“less salt,” uncle lemony said, and paused while bernadette crossed a still-too-big t with neat precision. “the smores?”

bernadette smiled, because the smores ice cream was always her favorite. “perfect.”

that time i was testing out ideas for college au and wound up nearly writing the basic eight and went 'well that is NOT the tone i want'

This, thing has been happening lately. (beatrice can just see lemony, where he usually sits in the basement of the library with her, gently circling thing in her literary analysis and telling her the word is too vague. Since when does lemony police her thoughts? She flexes her grip on the steering wheel and taps her nails against it. anyway.) when she’s with olaf, she almost doesn’t feel real. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, sticking his hand out the window as beatrice drives down center street. It’s like she has to remind herself who he is. Because the second she sees him she thinks of kit all over again, in the backyard of olaf’s parent’s house, punching olaf in the face, blood on her knuckles when she pulled back. And again, and again, with a coiled rage in her eyes, because he was laughing at her around the blood he was spitting into the grass, that wheezing laugh beatrice had always loved rising to a frenzied pitch, and kit didn’t stop until olaf was on his knees and jacques grabbed her around the waist. Kit twisted in his grip like she could’ve hit him, too – and it’s the stupidest fucking thing, beatrice thinks, the only reason kit stopped was because jacques was still wearing the party hat beatrice had snapped onto his head when the snickets had all arrived. Because it was beatrice’s birthday, and kit and olaf had ended an eight year relationship in one five minute fight between lemony and bertrand pulling the cake out and josephine cutting it. Jacques had pulled kit into the house, and olaf got to his feet, dragging his forearm over his mouth. 

“Didn’t think she had it in her,” he said, and how was he still laughing? Something cold and hard was curling up inside beatrice – it was her hand, gripping the cake fork so tight it was going to leave a perfect mark on her palm. She let it drop under the table, into the grass. 

Beatrice got the details from kit later. And she couldn’t look olaf in the eye, now. 

that time i was trying to work something out about olaf and esme and just tried rewriting the same idea over to see if i could make it work

you don’t love anything, olaf told her, like it was supposed to hurt. and if esme was anyone else, maybe it would have – if she was olaf, perhaps, who thought baiting for a rise, an argument, a power play the height of appreciation, who thought hate as intoxicating as love. maybe. as it was, esme rolled her shoulders, said, mmm, no, put her heels back on, and left olaf alone. he could come back to her when he was being less exhausting. she had absolutely no patience for his shit moods.

and it was a lie, anyway, esme thought, taking the elevator down to the lobby, fur coat hooked in her fingers and dangling just enough above the floor not to touch. she loved lots of things. rumors. gossip. attention. a very nice pair of hands. good food, in clothing, being looked at. when all eyes were on you, it didn’t matter why. you could get anything you wanted, just because you got people’s attention if only for a moment. just because you played your cards right.

“you don’t love anything,” olaf told her, like it was supposed to hurt. like if he said it all right, he could cause pain in someone else. he liked doing it. pain in someone else meant power.

esme, however, was not just someone else. she raised an eyebrow at him, bending over to do the clasp on the side of her heels. “I love lots of things,” she said. “just because you aren’t one of them doesn’t mean you have to have an attitude about it.”

and it was a lie, anyway. Esmé loved lots of things. rumors; gossip; attention; a nice pair of hands; good food, in clothing, being looked at. admired was better, but just having eyes on her was pleasing enough. being special. and it wasn’t hard, really. she was very good at being special.

that time i was thinking about ernest and lemony and bertrand but wasn't quite sure where it would go and also i can never get them all in the same damn room

“This is lemony snicket,” said lemony snicket.

Ernest paused. “Well, that’s a neat trick,” he said, digging his elbow against the glass of the phone booth. “Dialing bertrand’s number and getting you, instead. Do you do weddings? We’ve missed dewey’s bar mitzvah, of course, so that’s out – how about funerals?”

“How would that work?” lemony asked immediately. “Would i be doing card tricks over the deceased? Isn’t that inappropriate?” 

“Depends on the funeral,” ernest said. “Please do it at mine. Is bertrand there?” 

“He’s supposed to be,” lemony said. “I believe he’s been detained.” 

It figured, of course. When ernest was actually calling in an emergency, bertrand was out somewhere being a good person to someone else. Well, it wasn’t – really an emergency. That was genuinely too dramatic, and the last thing ernest was was dramatic. Bertrand had just given ernest the number for his office at the theater and told ernest to call if he wanted to. If he needed to. He’d smiled when he’d said it, the way bertrand always smiled, one cheek dimpled and a sunshine kindness pouring out of him. And there was no time like the present, ernest thought. The present being, jammed in a phone booth blocks away from the hotel, which was still not enough distance, because – 

It didn’t matter. It was fine. Ernest would be fine. 

“Is there anything i can help you with?” lemony asked, because of course he was still on the other end. In bertrand’s office. 

Ernest closed his eyes, his jaw working. “No,” he said. 

that time lemonberry ice were supposed to be playing like some absurd hide and seek game but i could not quite work out exactly how they were playing and went well! too bad, gang

Beatrice is luminous in the lights above Ramona’s garden; they hang halos in her dark hair, in her eyes, catch on her ruby-red smile. There are the tiniest sequins sewn in her mask, Bertrand realizes, glittering like diamonds in the shape of a crescent moon curved over half her face. She’d shown him her costume before, of course, but here, at the party, it looks different than it did in the apartment. Beatrice glows even in private, but out where people can see her, she shimmers, flashes, beams, like the whole world bends around her and into her hands (balanced on his shoulders, tapping out something that feels like Magalenha). It is dizzying. He could kiss her, if he just tilted his head – they’re pressed that close in the sliver of space between the bushes at the pond. He could absolutely, definitely kiss her, and she’s grinning like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. 

But! This is supposed to be professional. They have rules. Bertrand holds himself very still, raising an eyebrow at her, and Beatrice bites her bottom lip hard around a giggle.

“Shhh,” Bertrand says, trying to sound stern. Does he look stern? Probably not, not at all. 

“I’m sorry,” Beatrice whispers, still giggling, “you just look so – ” 

“Shhhh,” he insists. Now he’s trying not to laugh. “We have to be quiet, Bea.”

She schools her expression into the perfect patient look. And just in time – there are footsteps behind them, quiet on the patio. Dress shoes, not heels, moving slowly from one corner to the next. Someone is taking their time. 

that time i idly considered a sugar bowl gen groupchat fic, but i could never figure out the right circumstances to put them in where the groupchat mattered enough to be the main focus of the fic, bc the nature of a groupchat means you are getting things secondhand, which can cut down on actual story content. but i did come up with usernames, of course. and of COURSE lemonberry ice shenanigans went down in the background.

itstheduchess has renamed the chat ‘don’t tell lemony anything we’re about to say, part 5’

itsthecount: tell me every single detail of the juicy gossip itsthecount: I demand answers and I demand them now itstheduchess: where’s kit itsthecount: do not. sidetrack this conversation. itsthecount: but she’s in the shower itstheduchess: ugggggg itsthecount: who do I have to kill to get the hot take on snicket’s latest fuckup itstheduchess: THIS IS WHY WE DON’T TALK, OLAF itsthecount: and yet here I am, in the fucking group chat theretheir: ????? Did something happen? theretheir: I tried to call Beatrice earlier but she didn’t pick up plainspoken: ramona I respect your desire to respect their privacy but if something has happened it might be better to tell us now itsthecount: yes, so I can plan my funeral outfit accordingly itsthecount: this bright green suit has been dying to be worn theretheir: Olaf, I want you to know that I saw every single thing wrong with that sentence and that I’m going to give you hell for it at a later date kitsnicket: he doesn’t even have a green suit. kitsnicket: what happened? itstheduchess: from what I can tell I think they ran into bertrand plainspoken: oh, no. theretheir: I thought he was out of town? I thought he was in Boston? kitsnicket: do not tell me l and b are in boston itstheduchess: he came back for the summer, they ran into him at the diner on route 9 and I don’t know what happened because beatrice won’t tell me but i’m ASSUMING something did not go well from her tone theretheir: Well, tone is notoriously hard to tell in the written word. itsthecount: josephine have you ever read anything by lemony snicket because I think that will change your opinion on tone kitsnicket: o has a point.

itstheduchess: do you ever get the feeling that since we’re, for lack of a better word, spies, that we maybe shouldn’t have a written record of all our conversations?? kitsnicket: frequently. but that’s never stopped us before. theretheir: I often wonder where I’d be without the ability to personally call you all out on your grammar. itstheduchess: josephine. itstheduchess: you do that outside the group chat.

itsthecount: can’t we just do a murder mystery for snicker’s birthday and call it a day itsthecount: we’re all used to that itsthecount: I will supply the bodies kitsnicket: we’re going to have a conversation later about how that was not the wisest thing to say, next to trying to say ‘flammable’ was a compliment. itsthecount: I will NOT rehash that argument but I will say again that i’m RIGHT kitsnicket: regardless. we are not putting my brother through a murder mystery.

the original incarnation of all phone, no sex, which was instead more about the newspaper

when lemony came home that evening, he took off his hat, looking thoughtfully off into the distance. “apparently,” he announced to beatrice and bertrand, who were bent over a newspaper crossword puzzle in the kitchen and sharing one pen, pressed together from shoulder to hip, “i’m having a torrid love affair with you, bertrand.”

beatrice gasped, her head jerking up. “you are? and no one told me?”

“torrid?” bertrand echoed, taking the pen from beatrice and filling in another answer. “bit of a strong word, don’t you think?”

“i do,” lemony said. he crossed to the kitchen, loosening his tie as he went, and sat down beside beatrice. “i prefer something like passionate.”

beatrice rolled her eyes. honestly, the two of them were lucky they had her, otherwise they’d go around calling their magnificent relationship something boring like passionate. but torrid certainly wasn’t the word either. “you two have no imagination,” she sniffed. “how about steamy?”

bertrand and lemony shared an intrigued glance. beatrice pulled the pen back and contemplated 45 down, smiling to herself.

“i don’t think we’re particularly steamy,” lemony said.

“barely any steam,” bertrand agreed.

“sensuous, then,” beatrice suggested absently. out of the corner of her eye, she saw lemony’s face flush red to the tips of his ears, and her smile grew.

bertrand cleared his throat for a solid five seconds. “you can’t say words like that with a straight face, bea.”

the two of them were so cute when they were flustered. “how is sensuous any worse than torrid?” beatrice asked.

“now is not the time to argue the semantics of language,” lemony said, with all the wisdom of someone who has done that very thing for hours at a time and once drove josephine anwhistle to tears over his opinion on metaphors. “but it has to do with the sound, I think.”

“what about ardent?” bertrand said. “it’s sort of sophisticated.”

“it is sophisticated,” lemony said, “but does it have quite the enthusiasm?”

“you two are going to make me bring out the dictionary, aren’t you,” beatrice muttered.

“nothing would please me more,” bertrand said. he even batted his eyelashes at her for emphasis, which did nothing to sway beatrice’s opinion, although she had to admit he was cute when he did that.

“how about heartfelt?” bertrand suggested behind her.

goodness, he was sentimental. grinning at her coat, she told him, trying to be firm, “affairs aren’t heartfelt.”

sigh. for many years now i have toyed with doing a lemony pov of my babybea fic, but it has just never panned out. but moxie got the bulk of the good lines in the scenes i considered. oh i did have a title though! it was 'but all folks are damaged goods' to continue pulling lyrics from the crooked kind

moxie swings her office door open, grinning wide. “you,” she says brightly, “look like hell.”

“That’s very kind of you,” lemony snicket says, leaning against the doorjamb.

“have you found your niece yet?” moxie asked.

“no,” I said.

“have you been looking?”

“have you?”

moxie sighed. “no. and that’s because you asked me to look for the baudelaires. I thought you’d personally want to find your niece. she is your niece, you know.”

“i am well aware who she is, moxie.”

“are you?” moxie snapped. “because i’d think a man who cared about his family wouldn’t be slumped in my office, asking to be forgiven by a woman who’s already done that, many times over. and begrudgingly, I might add.”

I met moxie’s eyes, and found them cold and grey. they no longer looked as washed and sad as I thought when we were children, instead tempestuous, a word which here means “unwilling to let lemony snicket get away with anything at all.”

I had never forgotten how lucky I really was, to have been forgiven by moxie mallahan.

she was wrong to say it was begrudgingly, though. it was at first. but there is nothing begrudging about exonerating a man from inaccurate accusations.

“what else can I do?”

“well whose fault is that?” moxie shouted. “who’s been hiding, all these years, and not doing a single thing about it? pain isn’t supposed to be comfortable, lemony! it’s not something you get used to! it’s something you drag yourself out of and then never look back at, especially when there’s someone out there who needs you! you don’t lounge around in it and let it eat you alive and forget about your daughter, leave her all alone to deal with everything you were supposed to take care of, all the secrets you never told her! you help her, so she’s not out there running away at sixteen and forcing it all down so she doesn’t think about all the people who were supposed to be there for her!”

it took me a moment to realize that moxie was not talking about my niece.

i have also heavily considered writing a sequel to (the three-part folding mirror) i just wasn't in a great space at the time so it kept getting shuffled to the back of my priorities but it had such TASTY things in it. specifically this was going to reveal that bea and bertrand spent that evening planning the opera

it had taken years to amass the amount of furniture that sat in the green room backstage, and somehow that hadn't turned it into a cultivated bastion (the word of the day in the life section of the punctilio) of good taste. the green room was the ugliest place olaf had ever been in his life. first of all, it was green. not because someone had decided to be funny, which would've been a reason olaf could try and respect, but because it was an organization theater, which meant a majority of the walls were all green outright. olaf had long since stopped lecturing anyone who would listen that it was the most egregious (last tuesday's word of the day in the life section of the punctilio) calling card in the world for an organization that made such a big deal about secrecy, but it was. second, the furniture -- stately little straight-backed chairs one of the snickets had put against the wall that baudelaire always put his jacket on, the most enormous but out of style set of brown chairs sebald had had to take the door off to get in, a coffee table with a permanent slouch from olaf's shoes getting kicked up on it. at least there was his couch, beautifully lurid purple, plush in the right spots, that he'd convinced one of the other snickets to push the six blocks to the theater while he and beatrice lounged on it. old books olaf had read cover to cover more than once, last season's marked-up scripts still piled around, a set of glasses he'd taken piece by piece from his parent's house (taken, not stolen. you could not steal your own family's possessions), excellent wine from esme (definitely stolen). cool in the summer, warm in the winter from the blankets ramona made, a permanent glittering floor from an age of makeup residue. ugly. shit. fucking beautiful. his. 

he wasn't welcome in every space the organization had created, but the theater, above anything else, was a theater, and he was always welcome there. it liked drama. it lived on it. a theater was the place you could break rules, set things right, change the world. no -- not change. change wasn't the right word at all. he wanted to rile it. bite it back. watch the world simmer. let it burn, just a little bit, nice and slow, before anyone noticed, and then it was too late. it was a shame nobody else understood how good it looked when you turned the world on its head just to watch it spin a little differently. not his parents, not the organization, not even beatrice really got it, not like this. nobody but this space, where the theater was one big throne and olaf was its very willing king. 

speaking of beatrice. it was monday, now, and it had been an excellent weekend, and she'd missed the whole damn thing. unforgivable, but olaf was a generous man. he'd tell her. she didn't live in the green room like she'd used to, but he knew he'd still find her there. and when he leaned into the green room door, palm down on the handle and let his weight push it open, there she was, sprawled out in that red sundress that clashed with their couch. ankles crossed over a pillow, her face hidden behind some book, and she hadn't noticed olaf come in. well now, but that just would not do. 

olaf sauntered over and dropped himself into sebald’s chair beside the couch, throwing his legs over the arm, then kicked the sole of beatrice’s heel sharply, grinning. “and where have you been, brat?”

beatrice kicked the bottom of his shoe back with perfect aim. olaf slid farther down into the cushions, his limbs sticking out at stupid odd angles. "rude," he called, waving his hand at her, even if she couldn't see it. "i come, out of the goodness of my heart -- " beatrice snorted, and olaf grinned wider. " -- to fill you in on all the hot drama, and this is the thanks i get?" 

"oh, please." she turned a page of the book. she'd started picking off her nail polish again, he noticed, little pieces of red missing off her nails. "it's been, like, forty-eight hours since i saw you? that's not nearly enough time for hot drama to happen without me, brat." 

“oh, but it did. ernest turned out to be a dirty, dirty traitor who’s been hiding information.” beatrice didn’t need to know that ernest had also given information to olaf, and that olaf had been stacking it away for future use. beatrice got drama, and the theater, and the rush when you did something special and all eyes were on you – but special to her meant noble, not different. she got away with it because she was still beatrice, but she didn’t have to know everything. (and olaf himself wasn’t a dirty, dirty traitor. some people knew how to play the game properly and bide their time, ernest.)

beatrice sat up, the book tumbling out of her hands and onto the floor, looking beautifully scandalized. “ernest did what?”

olaf wriggled himself back into a sitting position to match hers. “as far as I can tell,” he said, leaning forward, “at the party at the hotel, he was supposed to give one of the snickets something important, and pretended to be frank about it, and then he got caught."

olaf grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into the room, her arm bent between them, his knuckles brushing her shoulder. “you okay?” he asked.

beatrice flashed him her bright, stunning smile, the one that almost split her face with her delight. “peachy keen,” she said, and slipped her hand out of his grasp and took off.

beatrice knew the rule – when you were acting, nobody knew, and if you did it right, not even you would know.

but that was the thing, she knew all the time.

if you did it right, then when you were acting, nobody knew. not even you. 

bertrand was asked it over and over again, but he could never come up with a good answer. how could he tell the denouements apart? he just -- could. it wasn't anything as obvious as different facial structure, or the way they talked, or the way they moved, bertrand just looked at them and knew. you spent enough time around the three of them, you didn't learn tells or tricks (which could be imitated, anyway), you learned dewey, and ernest, and frank. 

this wasn't to say it was kit's fault ernest had lied to her. it wasn't. but bertrand also knew that if they didn't want you to know who you were talking to, you wouldn't. ernest had done it to him a few times. 

that time violet experienced The Silliest Childhood Horror, based on my own personal life experience

in her -- ugg, old age, bertrand keeps calling it, although he is a year and a half older than her and they aren't even thirty -- heightened state of mature thinking, beatrice will call it, she no longer makes the impulsive, rash decisions of her youth, like, climbing furniture (she has a stepstool now), or, throwing breakable things (she has pillows), or, launching herself across a rooftop (she has -- well, she hasn't found a replacement for that particular activity yet). she has the wherewithal to stop and think about something before she does it. but this summer is hot, and no matter what she does with her hair it just keeps finding ways to stick to her neck or her shoulders and sits in a thick, heavy weight on her head, so she takes the scissors from the bathroom and gives herself a neat, wavy bob one morning, along the line of her chin. 

and, it's not that beatrice forgot about violet, because violet was just in the other room, making piles of cheerios on the table of her highchair with bertrand instead of eating them for breakfast, it's that beatrice forgot children were just, like that sometimes. because the second violet saw beatrice lacking three-fourths of her hair, her daughter burst into tears. 

"oh no," beatrice said. 

that time i am constantly monitoring the level of Angst i am writing to make sure i do not descend back into high school levels of horrible prosey pushing it WAY too far angst but sometimes you do just write a heartbreaking thing just to see how it looks on the page

[frank says it, one night, very quietly. “You would’ve rathered it was me,” he says. “That i was the one who died, wouldn’t you.” 

Ernest stares at him.] 

that time i wanted to write the events that bring moxie and lemony back together as friends but i just got stuck on the exact vfd assignment details bc i can never find it in me to make them vague, so it progressed no further. but somehow arson was definitely involved and lemony (and r!) were doing it for Reasons. anyway it did have a neat ending of asking moxie to be the editor

"alright, snicket," moxie says, and she sets her typewriter down on the rickety table between them with the gentleness it requires, but there is a hard look in her eyes that she hopes tells lemony that if it was any other item she would've slammed it down. or thrown it on the floor. or thrown it at him. instead, she throws herself into the seat across from him and pushes her hair away from her face. he hasn’t said it, but he looks like he doesn’t have a lot of time to chew the fat on a cloudy thursday evening in her small but neat newspaper office. and moxie mallahan is a busy woman now, anyway. "start talking."

lemony clears his throat. he looks run-down, and moxie feels only the smallest bit satisfied at what this world has done. but it really is a shame, she thinks. he looks so anxious where he used to look so determined.

"where do you want me to begin?" he asks softly.

"why don't you start," moxie says briskly, feeding paper into her typewriter, "with why you're alive, first of all. last i heard you were dead, or at least missing."

lemony leans back in his chair, and he certainly takes his sweet old time in answering her. "i hadn't intended," he says, "for that to come out."

moxie raises an eyebrow. "that you're alive?"

"yes."

"why?"

lemony is silent.

moxie sighs, a hard and angry shot of air. "snicket," she says, "i agreed to this meeting under the condition that you would talk to me. if you aren't going to say anything, i will throw you out of my office, and i'll continue looking on my own for answers. i thought you were finally coming around, but if you're still going to be a secretive stick in the mud, then i don't see—"

"i'm sorry," he says. he meets her eyes this time. the look he gives her is startling in its intensity. "i am sorry, moxie."

moxie frowns. she taps her fingers against the keys. "tell me what happened, snicket."

"there was an incident at mulctuary money management."

“that’s not what I—”

“that’s where this story starts,” lemony says.

moxie stares at him for a considerable amount of time, one that she hopes is enough to make lemony uncomfortable. she stops when he finally shifts in his seat some minutes later. "the papers said it was a filing error," she says. she remembers the headlines from the previous week—mischievous money mismanagement at mulctuary money management! she'd thought it was a little much. she certainly wouldn't have been so alliterative. filing error at local bank would do the trick.

"it was not," lemony says. "it was a robbery that just happened to look like a filing error, that was used to cover up a much larger crime happening nearby.”

"how do you know?"

"i was driving the getaway car."

moxie tilts her head in thought. "which car?"

lemony almost smiles. "the one from the much larger crime."

“when did you leave stain’d-by-the-sea?” lemony asks.

“don’t you know?” moxie replies.

“i do,” he says, “but I wanted to hear it from you.”

“i was eighteen,” moxie says.

moxie stares at him, her fingers frozen on the typewriter keys. "what?" she whispers.

he doesn’t say a word.

“that couldn’t have been the only way,” moxie says.

lemony sighs, his expression blank. "we don’t know any other way. sometimes the only way to stop ten fires is to start one."

moxie can think of a million other ways. "you -- "

"what did you think i was, moxie?

a friend, she'd thought at first. a mystery, she'd thought, one she'd wanted nothing more than to unravel. a detective. a hope that was going to save her town. a best friend. then a liar. a murderer. a thief. a coward. and now --

sad, she thinks. she feels sorry for him, and she can’t even be angry about it now.

"i've made a lot of mistakes," lemony says.

"you've made more than a lot," moxie murmurs. "you've made a considerable amount."

"and i know i can't apologize for all of them."

"i don't think you can."

[more before this, slumps in his seat, etc] he runs a hand through his hair. “i’m trying,” he says. “i am trying to make up for them.”

“leave, then,” moxie says quietly. “get out of it. start over.”

“where am I going to go?”

"i have no right to ask you," lemony says, "but i think the day may come when i will need the help of an impartial third party to tell the truth. the whole truth, or as much of it as I can bear. can i count on you when that day comes, moxie mallahan?"

moxie sighs. "we'll see," she says. "we'll see, snicket."

he smiles at her, a sharp and fast thing, and then it's gone. he climbs out of the window and drops into the alley below, and when moxie looks down into the alley he’s already disappeared.

every now and then i try and figure out, if i was going to deal with the taxi, which we all know i am not necessarily a fan of, how would i do it

in general, the taxi, much like jacques snicket, was reasonably unseen, always undetected, and often nearby. but that did not mean that jacques snicket liked the taxi. he had tried to return it after the initial assignment with it, one that had taken him through the city and into the hinterlands and back again at, he’ll admit, an even speed with fair gas mileage, but he was told that the taxi was his now, and it would make things much easier for him. he did not see how, but he figured it was easier to keep the taxi.

he asked kit to take a look at it and make sure the car was working properly.

“I can’t believe you get to drive this car,” kit muttered, bent under the hood of the car and getting grease all over her hands. “do you know what I would do to drive this?”

“please don’t tell me, I would rather not be an accomplice,” jacques said. he was sitting in the driver’s seat with the windows down, reading the owner’s manual, in particular the safety recommendations, because someone should. “did you check the – ”

“yes, all fine,” kit said. she waved a dismissive hand at him from around the hood. “start it. I want to hear the engine.”

jacques started the taxi, and he assumed it sounded like it was supposed to. it sounded like a car.

kit closed the hood, wiped her hands off on her handkerchief, and got into the passenger seat, looking pleased. “well, it runs perfectly. start driving.”

“what? kit – ”

“jacques, do you expect me to let my brother go tearing off with a perfect engine without knowing if it runs right?”

bea's letter fic references 'the time bertrand tried to come up with nicknames' which was a wip i had tucked away somewhere

bertrand put his pen down on his notebook. “alright. I think i’ve got it this time.”

“i doubt it,” beatrice said, cross-legged on the floor in front of the record player, “but give it a try anyway.” she looked up expectantly, her hand on her chin, elbow digging into her calf.

before bertrand had a chance to say anything, lemony walked out of the bedroom, took one look at bertrand’s notebook, and said, “bertrand, I don’t think you should say any of those words out loud.”

“okay, how about this one – buttercup?” bertrand offered.

beatrice looked at him, her face almost dangerously blank. “why do you build me up, buttercup, baby,” she intoned.

“just to let me down,” lemony called from the bedroom.

“and mess me around, and then worst of all, you never call – ”

“baby,” lemony shouted.

“when you say you will – ”

“okay, okay, I get it,” bertrand said, laughing as he crossed the word off his list. “not buttercup.”

“you alright, bea?” bertrand asks.

beatrice startles a little, her wide brown eyes fixed on him, and then she smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “just wonderful,” she says, walking past and dropping a kiss on the top of his head as she goes. “i’ll see you later, the shop down the street is having a sale on fruit and I cannot not take advantage of it.”

“don’t let jo hear you use a double negative,” bertrand says. he smooths down his hair, and then eyes the door. “you aren’t following lemony so you two can have outrageous sex in an alleyway without me, are you?”

beatrice laughs, swinging the door open. “you know i’d take you with me if I was!”

more messy lemonberry ice thoughts, where i was trying to eventually write them all dancing and just got caught up in the semantics of How Exactly I'd Get There

number one on bertrand’s list of spring resolutions (he’d forgotten all about new years resolutions, and had taken the next most timely opportunity) was to learn to paint, and so he set up an easel by the floor-to-ceiling balcony window in beatrice’s apartment, to catch the sunset as it filtered in through the glass at the end of the day. the sun moved so quickly now in the evening, and bertrand wanted to capture the way it fell in soft, fuzzy gold patches against lemony reclined back into the couch, with beatrice stretched out at his side, her head pillowed on her arms in his lap. how it sat, warm and inviting on the line of lemony’s collarbone just visible beneath the open neck of his dress shirt, on his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, on the curve of his hand in beatrice’s hair, on the constellation of moles down beatrice’s left shoulder, on the triangle of skin at the top of her knee where her slip folded open a little.

bertrand was not good at faces, or incredibly distinct lines, or, if he was being honest, a great deal of art in the first place, but he was good at shapes and colors, so the painting didn’t necessarily look like beatrice and lemony but it still looked like beatrice and lemony, the shapely smooth strokes of beatrice in the thin black slip, the easy angles of lemony relaxed against the cushions, his feet (with those very beautiful blue flowered socks) propped up on the coffee table. the record player in the corner of the painting did look more defined, though. it looked-looked like a record player. but it was only spring, bertrand reasoned, and maybe by autumn he’d be able to get their faces down. he very much wanted to.

the record player in question hit the end of the b side of one of lemony’s slow jazz albums, and beatrice groaned at the silence and rolled off of lemony, graceful to her feet even when she stumbled, trailing over and removing the record. one of the straps of her dress slipped down her arm as she sorted through the record box. bertrand brought his brush back to the beatrice smudges on the canvas and tried to make the little line of the strap on the sleeping beatrice, but it came out thicker than he wanted. he frowned, looked back at the beatrice fitting a count basie record into the player with one hand, the other pushing her hair back out of her face, sunset orange spilling brightly down her back, and then turned the strap into another sweeping curl instead. that looked better.

"lemony," beatrice said, "do you want to waltz or do you want to two-step."

lemony opened an eye and looked in her direction. "i would like," he says, "a sandwich."

"bertrand, do you want to waltz or do you want to two-step."

“I am painting,” bertrand said, waggling the paintbrush.

beatrice was hunched over the record player on the floor, at the right angle that the orange sunset filtered through the balcony window and spilled down her back, over the constellation of moles along her left shoulderblade and the low v of her black slip. bertrand didn’t think himself much of an artist, not really, but he liked the feel of it, putting lines and shapes on paper and trying to get them to look like what they were supposed to. he had a little sketchbook for that purpose, and he kept it on the table behind the couch – now it was propped up against lemony’s head as bertrand colored.

he’d already drawn a scribbly lemony in the upper left corner, the top of his hair and shoulders highlighted at the edges from the sun, shaded in lightly with the crayons piled atop the rug. bertrand had thought even colored pencils would be too extravagant for the occasional drawing of beatrice or lemony, or the doves in the yard, or the dandelions coming back in the garden. also, they’d already had the crayons. they were beatrice’s.

beatrice takes another critical look around her living room, and then pushes the end table further towards the wall with her foot. she has her hands on her hips, and her hair pinned back from her face, the evening sun gold in the hollow of her collarbone and all the curves of her, resting on her fingertips like it was always meant to be there, bertrand thinks.

was it smart, bertrand wonders, for the millionth time (and he has kept track), to fall in love with beatrice baudelaire? it’s not like he had a great deal of choice in the matter, really. beatrice pulled people towards her like – some very nice simile that doesn’t involve fire he will definitely think of when he is not standing in her kitchen and lemony is not putting away the dinner plates and that’s it, that’s why it isn’t smart, because of lemony. both of them have a magnetism, really. beatrice, loud and uncompromising with a quick laugh and clever eyes, lemony, quiet and stubborn with a stunning, deep-rooted kindness. you just can’t look at either of them without your whole chest trying to rearrange itself.

[like a wave to a shore, maybe? like raindrops pooling together on a window sill. inevitable things.]

and both of them are in love, with each other, not bertrand, and it’s – it’s fine. it’s totally fine. bertrand is honest enough to think that it’s not exceptionally fine, but it’s, regularly fine. it’s decently fine. he’s here, after all. they have a standing saturday dinner and bertrand has gotten very good at not looking too long at either of them.

and – they are teaching him to dance.

[he didn’t know what was more surprising – that lemony looked the most affronted that bertrand couldn’t dance, or that lemony could dance. but bertrand had to keep expecting the unexpected of lemony snicket.]

that time i was ttoally going to rewrite singing in the rain as lemonberry ice. oh clearly it didn't follow the movie it just had Some Vibes. but god i had the best music number in this opening, and also lemony and bertrand hadn't met bea yet and clearly i had a not-concrete idea of where vfd was in the background here. also beatrice was driving by and stopped to fix their car

lemony sighs, his hands dropping from the steering wheel. “when I woke up today,” he says, eyes fixing off somewhere in the distance. “i had a feeling something like this would happen. I should have listened to it.”

“you had a feeling the car was going to break down in the middle of the morning?” bertrand asks. “that’s incredibly specific.”

“we aren’t holding you up, are we?” bertrand asks.

“not at all,” the woman says. “i’m not in a hurry. i’m running early today, anyway.”

“it’s good to be early,” lemony says. “some would call that the mark of a noble person.”

“is there a reason,” beatrice says, hoisting herself up and sliding a foil out from the mess of gears, “that you guys have a sword in your car?”

“i was wondering where that went,” lemony says. “thank you.”

beatrice stares at lemony, and then fixes her eyes on bertrand, a deep, penetrating brown gaze with one raised eyebrow. bertrand has a vague thought that he might be able to get lost in those eyes before beatrice ducks back down under the hood.

“what are you two?” beatrice asks. “actors? spies? extreme hobbyists?”

bertrand and lemony exchange a glance.

“yes,” they say together.

bertrand grins with delight. “you know how I say there’s a song for every occasion?”

“oh no,” lemony says. “bertrand, I cannot handle that, not at this hour.”

“you might have been meant for each other – ”

“you can’t just change the words to make the song work – ”

“to be or not to be, let your hearts discover – ”

“i don’t intend to discover anything, I only met her five minutes ago – ”

“you’ve got a feeling, it’s a feeling you’re concealing, i don’t know why – ”

“this song doesn’t have a narrator, bertrand, and I cannot abide by such flagrant disregard for the lyrics – ”

“oh, come on – it’s just a mental, incidental, sentimental alibi – ”

“jacquelyn will be furious if we get to the studio tomorrow and you’ve done something stupid to your voice, you really shouldn’t – ”

“but you adore her, so strong for her, why go on stalling, you are falling, love is calling, why be shy?” bertrand stops and waits out the pause between the verse and the chorus, staring expectantly at lemony.

lemony stares back at him, stretching out the pause much longer than is musically necessary. he raises an eyebrow.

“fine, be that way,” bertrand says, still grinning, and he swings the door shut. “let’s fall in love, why shouldn’t you fall in love, your hearts are made of it, go take a chance, why be afraid of it – ”

“are you quite finished?” lemony asks.

bertrand clears his throat and takes a step back, tugging on the hem of his vest. “well, if I have to be,” he says, trying for a smile.

lemony starts humming let’s fall in love while making dinner, and gives bertrand the dirtiest look of all time when bertrand starts laughing.

[admirxation]

Crossover though that plays in my mind Leon kennedy in attack on titan. What are your thoughts? 🤩

ahhh an anon asking my thoughts?!?!? sorry I'm so used to having radio silence or weird stuff in my inbox so I'm so excited to have an anon in my inbox haha, especially with such an interesting thought. Thoughts below the cut off so I don't spoil people. 🩷🩷🩷

Leon Kennedy and aot, my two favourite things, honestly if I could draw I would love to see him in a scout uniform and some odm gear (the black one in season 4 would fr make him look like a snack) like I would fr scream (any artists if you wanna make that a reality I beg you tag me so I can see that beautiful creation).

If Leon was in the aot world, I could imagine him being innocent in the cadets but not incompetent or overtly happy (I don't imagine him overtly kind like Historia, and don't imagine him like a Marco character, more a neutral stance of knowing the world is shit but not fully understanding how the world is shit with lack of experience). I mean innocent in the sense he knows the world is dark and how dangerous it is, but he only knows that from what other people have said and what has been taught to him. he hasn't come to the physical realisation of how dangerous it is. Similar to how you can tell someone, 'oh this *insert action* is awful' and they know it's awful but doesn't really come to the grips with the affects of it until they have been face to face with it. If that make's sense.

In Re2r he seems like a bit of an optimist but slowly grows with the realisation that he can't save everyone and only comes to grip with true darkness and corruption with seeing what is around him. I can imagine him wanting to join and being a solider to help people, but doesn't realise how hard it is to help others, especially with the panic everyone is in since he joined where the series takes place with wall maria being taken, and only understands this when he’s put out in the world.

Also just a funny thought, I could imagine him in the early days with Eren and his little "IM GONNA SLAUGHTER THEM ALL" moments and leon is just there sick of the shit just wanting to eat his bread lmao.

I also think as he grows accustomed with the danger, he grows a bit more serious and a bit more realistic in the terms of that world, realising there needs to be sacrifice for humanity. I could also see that bright eyed rookie/cadent slowly fade, a little bit like Eren. In the series you see characters like Connie and Sasha who keep up their characterisations of being comical in ways but can be serious, we see how the world changes them but not too much, whereas for Eren there is obviously a massive juxtaposition to when we first see him and to when we leave him. I feel like there would be some similarly with his character fading but I don’t think his kind nature would completely go; in re4r he’s serious but that kind nature doesn’t completely go, he doesn’t detach, he’s still cares. I can imagine him being serious and getting the job done but obviously having a soft side,and finding it difficult to detach from some things. I can’t imagine him going extremely cold.

Also I'm in such a Levi brainrot, like I have loved that man since 2016 and he was my first anime crush and I will never forget about him (I also found out a month after first watching that he shared the same VA as Leon in aot English dub, so i knew why I fancied the socks off the English dub voice). Omg imagine Levi and Leon speaking and being in a scene together and being a part of the Levi squad, I would FR squeal like a piggy.

I know this wasn’t really in depth, I would love to make a long character analysis (English lit student go brrrr) but obviously I have some exams I gotta do. If anyone is interested, when my exams are done, I would like to have in depth convos about crossover stuff or maybe some head cannon stuff and character analysis.

Bruh I now can’t stop thinking about Leon in a scout uniform ughhh F E R A L.

Thank you again anon for getting in my inbox, means a lot when people actually speak in it haha

Have a lovely day/night *mwah*.

[wjehfshs]

Hello! I hope you're having a great day! I've seen that you write crossovers and I've really liked them! So I'd like to request a mw2 x atwow, könig and horangi get a mission to find an enemy, you can choose if it's on pandora or not, they both stay in the forest for a few days with food and a small shelter until male na'vi reader finds both of them, they both try to gain mreaders trust but he doesn't trust them at all, after a few months the 3 had gained each other's trust completely, mreader had gone protective of the 2 that when he saw the enemy behind them he acted fast and killed them saving könig and horangi, after that könig and horangi had began liking mreader, just how protective and kind he are made them love him, sorry if that didn't make any sense english isn't my first language and I hope you have a great day and remember to stay hydrated! :D

More COD X Avatar TWOW

Dw ur english was amazing, I have so much fun writing crossovers, especially COD and Avatar, reader is kinda cold emotionally, violence and blood mention, reader protects Horangi and König

Horangi and König where deployed for a special mission on a planet called Pandora

They where to find a rouge soldier who stole an avatar body, and just pulling him out of the avatar bed would be too dangerous

They had been given Avatars to go around pandora freely

They where only deployed because they knew they would be ok

They where given some materials and set out on their way

They where told about the forest Na’vi but never actually saw any pictures or seen any themselves

They had set up camp in a secluded spot for a couple days, only going out if they needed to get food or samples

One day when Horangi was walking back to the camp you spotted him from the trees

As he walked in you jumped down right in front of the camp entrance

You had your bow drawn and teeth showing

“Scheisse!” (Shit!) König called out, going to grab his gun

“No! Touch it and I hurt you” you said, Na’vi accent thick

They knew this was the Na’vi the scientists had been talking about

König immediately threw his hands up in surrender, as did Horangi after putting his gun down

They took note of your h/l (hair length) hair, loincloth, necklaces, bracelets and arm band

Your tail was flicking and your ears pinned back

“You are not meant to be here. You are sky people. Dangerous ones. Go back or else you will get hurt if I don’t kill you first!” You hissed at them, bow still drawn

“We are not here to hurt you! We are simply here to find a rouge soldier… we promise we will not hurt you” Horangi said in a Korean accent

“Yes! We will not harm you or anything. We are simply here to find him and leave!” König explained, panicked slightly

You glared at them before lowering your still drawn bow

They lowered their hands thinking you trusted them now

You brought your bow back up and hissed

They immediately threw their hands back up and lowered their heads to show they where no threat

You took a moment to think before you spoke up

“It is dangerous here. Palulukan may get you. Bring down your home and follow me” you said bluntly, sitting off to the side as guard as they hesitantly started taking down camp

As they finished you got up, glanced back at them and started to walk off as they followed hurriedly

Even though they where in avatar bodies they struggled to keep up, you knew your way around the forest but they didn’t

You took them to a safer spot in the forest

“Here. Set up your home. I will take guard as you do what you need to do. If I find you have done anything to harm the forest, eywa or my people i will cut you without mercy” you spat at them as you once again sat off to the side

They set up camp again, taking an hour or two before they collapsed on the ground

“Thank you” you heard König say to you

You didn’t respond

A few days had passed as you went back and fourth between the deeper more dangerous parts of the forest and their camp

You decided this just wasn’t do-able. You needed to go back and see your family but you wanted to make sure they wouldn’t betray their promise

One day you approached them

“We cannot stay here. I need to see my family and it is too dangerous out here. You two are like babies and I cannot care for you all this time. Come. I will show you my home”

They followed after taking down camp once again

You explained what was going on to Olo’eyktan and he hesitantly agreed to let them stay

You led them to an old part of the home tree where they could sleep comfortably and do what they needed to do

Months had passed as they went in and out of their avatar bodies, more and more excited to go back in each time

One day they where out tracing some tracks they had found, you where following suit in the trees, keeping watch

They where too distracted by collecting as much as they could to notice one of the sky people sneaking up of them

They didn’t realise they where also avatars due to them now being equipped with loincloths and bows to better fit in

You jumped down on top of the guy and started to stab

They turned around in shock at the display

You on top of an avatars back, stabbing him and fighting him as he screamed

You stood up, covered in blood as you looked at them

They said nothing but you all silently knew you where closer than ever now

[lexosaurus]

The Phantom Martian: Chapter 2

Anddd chapter 2 is up!

This is a crossover between Danny Phantom x The Martian. You do not need to have read/watched The Martian to understand this fic.

xxxx

Summary: When Astronaut Mark Watney went to Mars, he knew there was a chance he'd never come home. Now, though, he's determined to last long enough for NASA to save him because this whole dying for science thing is not as fun as it sounds.

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton is just trying to keep his identity a secret amidst a potential crisis with his powers. Seriously, what's up with that weird current under his skin? Why is he having so much trouble controlling it? And why does it feel so familiar...?

In a fit of determination (and possible stupidity), Danny goes to Mars to save Watney, only to add to both their crises when he arrives and can't get home. Will NASA save them? Will Danny have a home to return to if they do?

Chapter WC: 5,838

Fic Tags: Danny Fenton & Mark Watney, Canon Divergence, Ecton AU

xxxx

Excerpt under the cut!

“The hell?” Tucker leaped out of the way.

“Ugh!” Danny shook out his hand, the tingling current tickling his fingertips. Thankfully, it seemed that unlike when he purposefully went after Dash, subconsciously he was incapable of doing much more than producing the equivalent of a strong static shock. “Sorry, I don't know why that keeps happening.”

“Well, figure it out before you electric-shock our whole class!” Tucker hissed, tossing the capped thermos to him. “Seriously, electricity powers? I thought you had an ice core, dude! So not fair if you get a halfa core too!”

Danny snatched the thermos out of the air. “Halfa core?” 

“You know, because you get two sets of power types! Cold and electric.”

“It's not electricity powers.” At least, he was pretty sure it wasn't electricity powers. It wouldn't make sense if that was the case considering the ball in his chest that was called his ice core. 

But more proof—well, not really proof in any way he could explain—was just what it felt like. It wasn't a burning zap kind of shock like touching one of his dad's rogue home-project wires, it was…different. He couldn't explain it, which was the problem. But the sensation felt familiar to him. It burned, sure, but it was a cold sort of burn, one sharper than the light tingling of intangibility. It was funny how it almost felt like…

[destiny-in-the-universe]

what have i done lol-

I somehow managed to get back into The Promised Neverland and decided ‘hey, wouldn’t it be kind of silly if there was a crossover with my current interests’ and i realize this might make very little sense but this is created from self indulgent bullshit

I’m only using RC9GN for now but this will likely stay in wip mode for now! (this is not the angst idea i had in mind for finja and nomi- that’s something different)

Though to explain my thoughts for this nonsensical idea-

🏠 For the time being, Marci is the caretaker of the children- she is always good to them until the very end; as much as it pains her- she knows what needs to be done and makes sure the kids never know what happens on the other side of that gate

🏠 The Sorcerer is an ancient demon. He becomes the primary foe that our main characters will have to face after escaping from the orphanage

🏠 McFist and Viceroy work for Lambda. Viceroy administers the tests, creating certain technology which keeps the test subjects complacent while McFist ‘runs’ the facility under the Sorcerer’s occasional supervision

🏠 “Finja” is this crossover’s William Minerva. He was a member of a resistance though no one knows what happened to him- he seemingly disappeared one day, and his title back then - the Ninja - faded into the wind… (there were others like him, but they had barely any luck)

🏠 Skip to present times when Marci’s the current caretaker- we’re introduced to Randy Cunningham and his best Howard Weinerman, they’re nearing twelve but still have a bit before they’re adopted. Randy longs and hopes for a happy family, and who knows maybe they’ll want Howard too

🏠 Norrisville High are of course, the orphans. Randy is an adventurous boy- much more than his friend Howard. He spends his time in the forest; things are happy and they couldn’t be better- and then it’s announced someone’s been adopted

🏠 He feels happy for them, but he also can’t shake a feeling- Randy decides to bring the adopted child their left behind stuffed toy, say his final farewell

🏠 What he sees takes him by surprise (he feels sick to the stomach). Randy is terrified out of his mind as he remains rooted there, unable to will himself to move but there wasn’t any way to forget that thing which ate his sibling - even if they weren’t really related - and he knew he had to do something. He would escape with his family

🏠 Randy immediately goes to tell Howard. Howard is, of course, horrified by this but he doesn’t want to get involved- though after a bit of convincing from Randy, he reluctantly decides to help out (although he’s made to promise not to tell anyone- not yet-)

🏠 I feel at some point Julian, Theresa, and Debbie eventually are clued in on what happened- Randy is desperate to get everyone out, and eventually he learns of “Finja”. He decides he needs to take on the mantle, become the next ninja

🏠 I don’t know who would be sent to Lambda, if that arc happens at all

🏠 (it would be a little funny and mean of me if it was Randy though- in a bad ending version)

🏠 I’m not entirely sure what happens after this, but I do know that eventually we have a scene parallel to the escape scene- Randy and the rest of his allies had trained up to this point, clueing in everyone else (not completely, as he doesn’t want to fully scare them)

🏠 if this does get written- it might not happen anytime soon! I still have a one-shot to work on and a potential multi-chaptered work (unless it’s just a really long one-shot), on top of other projects but I simply couldn’t leave this idea alone for some reason. It doesn’t help I was talking about the anime last night with a friend of mine heh

With that, I’ll be on my way- (sort of) but I hope you enjoy this! This is me and my weird self indulgent ideas-

I have no idea what this alternate universe would even be called, hence why I’m once again leaving it to vote

[donnalawliet]

The Kennedy Fiasco (oneshot TUA/MCU crossover)

It is the year 1963. And while Diego Hargreeves and Erik Lehnsherr do their best to save the president, the two deadliest assassins, Five Hargreeves and the Wintersoldier, are tasked with killing JFK. Chaos ensues, along with a lot of feels.

An Umbrella Academy/Marvel crossover.

(inspired by a tumblr post of mine: https://www.tumblr.com/donnalawliet/757653913223774208/cherikdogfood-i-love-that-thought-it-makes-me?source=share )

Thank you @cherikdogfood for giving me ideas and supporting me. And thank you @i-am-tardis-locked for listening to my rants.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

September 1st, 1963

When he agreed to Five’s last minute plan to time travel, Diego had expected that they would go back a year at most and solve it all together. None of these things ended up being true. He landed in a dark alleyway alone, in a place and time completely foreign to him. His siblings were nowhere to be found.

Before he could fully process the situation, cries for help reached his ear and something inside of him activitated. After years of “working“ as a vigilante, his need to protect had only gotten stronger. So without looking back or rethinking it, he started running after the man clearly trying to steal a woman’s handbag. Diego’s hand automatically reached for one of his knives and as soon as he threw it, the knife obeyed his command to go where he wanted it to go. He barely even thought about it. Pinning the man to a pole was easy and retrieving the handbag to hand it back didn’t even register as a conscious action. A job well done.

The sound of a TV distracted him though. It was quite boxy, not one of those flatscreen televisions he was used to in 2019. And it broadcasted a face and voice that he only remembered from his history lessons back at the academy. The 35th president of the United States, John F. Kennedy.

As Diego realised what situation he truly found himself in, a thought materialised in his mind. He had been given an opportunity to change history. To make things right. To save a person far more important than a woman with a stolen handbag.

He had the opportunity to save the president.

November 20th, 1963

Five was exhausted and that was putting it mildly.He had failed to save the world in 2019 and now, in 1963, he had to do it all over again. And as the cherry on top, he had to see a face again that he had so desperately hoped to never encounter in his entire life once more.

“Under my leadership, the Commission would sound more like…jazz“, the Handler grinned and mimicked the soft rhythm of jazz music. Five was slowly starting to get impatient. He was only staying around in the hope of one clue, one detail that would help him. So far, nothing. Her words didn’t make sense.

“What about the board of directors?“, he ased, allowing himself to sound cocky.

It was more of a rhetorical question than anything else. Something to get his former employer to reveal what she was planning.

But her response sent a shiver down his spine: “Well, that’s where you come in!“

Five knew that tone all too well. He had heard it many times before, when she had confronted him with a job. Another face, another name, another correction in the  timeline. Princess Diana of Wales, Josef Stalin, John F. Kennedy, Hindenburg…

“Nope. No, it isn’t.“

He knew deep down that his response wouldn’t change her mind. Not just yet. Just like she knew that he wasn’t completely turned off by the offer.

The Handler hummed and stood, making her way around him so he was forced to turn around and look up. Five hated the way he had to look up at every one in this body, it didn’t make enforcing his authority any easier.

“In exchange for the assassination of the board…along with the completion of your last failed job…I’m willing to get you and your family out of this timeline and back to 2019, where you belong.“

In that moment, Five did his best to not let any emotions slip past his mask. He knew of course what job she was referring to. The one he didn’t complete. The last job he worked for the Commission before breaking his contract. Though he knew that another organisation, one he knew all too well, had also been interested in getting the job done, the Commissiom had been the one to complete it. Or at least, they had tried. And now, she wanted him to take off where he had left.

In order to save his family, Five had to kill the board of directors…and shoot John F.Kennedy.

As soon as the Handler returned to the Commission, she began to prepare her backup plan. While she was fairly certain that Five would take her deal-his protectiveness for his siblings made him too predictable sometimes; she wanted to make sure the job got done. And so, instead of heading straight to her office, she made her way to a door that lead down into the basement. Only the click of her high heels echoed through the hallway.

The Handler missed the times when Five still worked under her. Back when he was fresh out of the apocalypse, malnourished and in need of training, he had done everything she commanded. Including fighting the second best assassin in the timeline. She hadn’t  even given him a reason and there hadn’t been even a valid reason for it. The Handler had simply wanted to see who would win.

And after cooperating with the company that owned the second best assassin for some augmentations…Five had turned out to be even more powerful. He was truly the deadliest assassin. Even deadlier than…

Her lips curled upwards as she stopped before a capsule, frozen over with ice.

“The Wintersoldier.“

After he had received his father’s invitation for a “light supper“, Diego needed to blow off some steam. Though Luther was far easier to talk to now than he had been a few months ago, it didn’t change the fact that he was angry. Angry at his father for using them in sick experiments for whatever, angry at Lila for leaving, angry at…the fact that Five refused to take action and help him save the president. He had no idea why that was so hard for his brother, who often claimed that he could do anything.

And so, he made his way to a bar. Not to drink, of course, but to play darts, use his powers to maybe earn a few dollars. It was cheating, but he couldn’t care less. All of the darts that he threw hit the tripple twenty, he barely had to think about it. Diego was so immersed in his outlet, he didn’t even realise that he was being watched.

Erik was not like Charles. He couldn’t detect mutants with a machine from miles away. But he had common sense. And while watching Diego play darts in that bar, he recognised the way some of the darts curved before hitting their target. He had done it before with missiles and bullets. That sense of familiarity caused Erik to smile and walk over. Despite leaving Charles behind, he wasn’t alone. Not only was the president like him, but now he had found another one of his kind.

“You’re quite good at that“, he commented and tilted his head. Sometimes, Erik wished that he could take a look in people’s heads the way Charles could, but he also liked figuring some things out on his own. The man in front of him, apparently Latino, possessed quite a few scars, signs of battle and injuries. But what caused him to frown was a tattoo on his wrist, in the shape of an umbrella. Erik didn’t even know why it reminded him of the numbers permanently etched onto his skin, but it did. It was a sign of ownership and control.

Diego turned towards him while throwing a dart, which still hit the bullseye.

“Yeah, thanks. It’s not that hard though“, he replied, before muttering under his breath, “I wish saving the president was just as easy.“

Despite it just being a whisper, a small expression of his thoughts, Erik heard half of it.

“What was that?“, he asked and his expression went from a smile to a frown. There was more to it and he was going to figure out what.

However, Diego shrugged it off and sat down. After spending some time in an asylum, in the 1960s no less, he had grown used to people ignoring what he said.

“You wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you.“

Erik hummed and picked up a nearby coin that had been left behind as a tip. Just so Diego could see, he let it float above his palm. A small gesture, to say something that couldn’t be said aloud: We’re the same. You can trust me.

“Why don’t you just tell me and let me be the judge of that?“, Erik asked, handing the coin over to the bartender to get another drink.

Diego stared at the coin for a few moments. No one had taken him seriously before. He was alone on Team Zero, if he was being honest with himself. And in Erik’s eyes, he just saw understanding. So he took a deep breath and nodded.

“Alright. I’ll tell you.“

November 22nd, 1963

After slaughtering the board of directors, Five expected to feel disgusted. He had tried to swear off  killing after all. It was supposed to be just one last time, to protect his family. To save them from doomsday.

But instead, it had felt right. Of course, he would deny it if anyone asked. To himself though, lying wasn’t an option, though he had tried it for 58 years of his life. He had grinned as he stood there, covered in blood and holding an axe like a medieval executioner. Watching AJ beg for his life, it had been like music.

And he hated it. Five hated himself for enjoying it. The Handler had made him a killer…or had he really always been one?

Had someone else, the Commission or the organisation that had sharpened his reflexes and mind, made him out to be the world’s deadliest assassin, now stuck inside a teenager’s body? Or was it just him?

Not a programming, telling him what to do, not some foreign DNA dictating his urges…None of that.

Five quickly abandoned the thought. He had more pressing matters at hand.

“Alright“, he told himself and closed the case containing the sniper rifle, “One last time.“

Meanwhile, Erik had a plan. Diego had told him what was going to happen and even though it sounded outlandish, insane even…he couldn’t allow that to happen. He had to keep the president safe, he couldn’t allow anyone to take a shot at him. Kennedy was one of them, loosing him would be catastrophic.

Even if Diego was just an insane wayward mutant, the risk was too great. He wouldn’t take any chances. Shortly after their conversation, Diego disappeared. And even though he could have been useful, Erik decided not to look for him.

So after putting a hat and sunglasses on, he made his way to the grassy knoll.

Five always felt a certain sense of peace while setting up his crime. Arranging his gun and utensils the way he wanted, getting the perfect angle. It grounded him.He enjoyed the calm before the storm, it was the favourite part of his job. But he didn’t know that this time, he wasn’t the only one setting up this assassination under the Handler’s orders.

Not even three hundred feet away from him, the Wintersoldier was hidden behind a small wall. His orders had been clear. If Number Five failed to accomplish his task, he was to take his shot, to make sure the target would be eradicated. His movements in setting up the sniper were pure efficiency, nothing more.

He barely remembered the seconds upon waking up, just that there had been a woman and her red lips had been moving. The first sentence coming out of his mouth had been the only one that mattered: Ready to comply.

Diego’s day had really not been the greatest. He had been kidnapped and betrayed by the woman he loved, then thrown back into 1963 to stop Viktor from blowing up the FBI building. The bright light had hurt his eyes as he made his way forward, all of his muscles strained in an effort to bring himself forward. But eventually, he lost his grip and the world went black for him.

When he woke up however, soft rays of sunlight illuminated the hallway. And despite the way his body ached, relief washed over him as he spotted Viktor coming towards them, safe and sound. They had suceeded.

“You’re alive“, was the sentence that came out of his mouth and a soft smile appeared on his face. Diego had done it, his brother and the world was safe.

But then, through his dizzy mind, a thought dawned on him. He quickly glanced down at his watch and cursed himself mentally. Of course he wasn’t done yet, there was still one thing left. The very thing he had tasked himself with.

“Kennedy is a few minutes away“, he stated and pushed himself up, ignoring the way his body protested, “I can still save him.“

Diego barely heard Allison’s protests. Finally, he could do what he was meant to do. He could show Dad that he was wrong. Reginald Hargreeves didn’t make him a hero with his experiments, he himself did. And he would do that by stopping him, saving JFK in the process.

Erik was standing on the grassy knoll when Kennedy made his turn. While he didn’t appear busy on the outside, he was in deep concentration. No bullet could escape him like this, not one would even get close to the president.

But suddenly, he was pulled out of his concentration. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a person all clothed in black, running in his direction. After a few moments, he recognised Diego, the one who had warned him in the first place. Diego wasn’t running towards him however, but instead a man standing a few feet away from him, holding an umbrella on a sunny day.

How could he have been that blind? It was obvious, so out of place that anyone could have spotted it. But yet no one did. Just as Erik was about to help Diego with pinning the man down, he felt it.

Five had of course spotted Diego, tackling a random man on the grassy knoll. But he had no time to deal with his fool of a brother, he had to save him first. And so, he inhaled and exhaled deeply. He only focused on the target, which was Kennedy’s head.

“One last time“, he promised himself, then pulled the trigger.

The bullet didn’t reach its target. Erik managed to get ahold of it before it could reach Kennedy. Meanwhile, Diego had realised his mistake. The man he had tackled had merely been a distraction, set up by his villain of a father.

Before he could think about it further, a second bullet made its way towards the president. It didn’t come from Five this time, but wasn’t any less deadly. With Erik distracted and still holding the first bullet, Diego tried to instinctively change the curvature. A bullet was different than a knife though. He was exhausted, so his grip wasn’t as tight. And when Erik tried to help, they both lost their grip.

The bullet curved, but still found its intended target. They had failed. The 35th president of the United States, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was dead.

The Wintersoldier relaxed a bit after watching his task be completed. He had done as told, he could go back, as commanded. Bucky Barnes may have cared about what happened after, but he didn’t. He had served his purpose.

Instead of relaxing, Five let out a string of curses. He had failed, again. The slaughtering of the board, it had all been for nothing. The deal was off and he didn’t know how to get his siblings back, even if the end of the world was no more. They didn’t belong here and without a briefcase, they had no way of returning to 2019.

“Damn it, Diego“, Five mumbled before he teleported, off to find another solution.

Diego felt like a child again as he looked up and ran. He had failed in his task, but worse, he had indirectly been the one to do it. For just a few seconds, the bullet had rested in the grip of his powers. If he had just held on…Kennedy would still be alive. He was no hero, he was a failure, just like his father had always told him. Always Number Two, doomed to fail from the very beginning. He would have to find his siblings, make sure they were okay. Maybe it hadn’t been about Kennedy in the first pace. Maybe Eudora had been right all along: You want to proove that back then, when your father had you running around in masks and uniforms, that it wasn’t for nothing.

Erik didn’t have enough time to run. And despite his  best efforts, he was quickly surrounded by police. They were there to arrest him, for killing the president, despite his best efforts to save him. Quite ironic when he thought about it. He would have more time to reflect on it later. Erik tried to get free, willing the guns to point away from him. But there were too many policemen. He felt a small pinch in the side of his neck before his knees gave out and the world went dark.

In the end, the only person content with the results was the Handler. Even if Five would have succeeded, she never would have given him a fair chance to escape with his siblings. Like this, the timeline was preserved and she would be able to kill him for what he did to her. She would be the most powerful woman in the timeline, with no rogue assassin and his annoying family to challenge her claim. Before she could celebrate though, she would have to go to war.

John F.Kennedy’s death had merely been the start of…something.

[frostise]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎 𝐈 𝐑𝐔𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆?

how do i show my support? i usually like and comment on other people's posts. if you're a new rp partner of mine then i will be more hesitant with interacting with your account because i have intense anxiety. however, i will start warming up to you via interaction as the days pass by and i will always ask to reblog something off of you if i send you an ask prompt because i really loved your response to it. i'm okay with you denying it if it makes you uncomfortable. i will also show my support by sending you IC or OCC memes into your ask box! sometimes i will tag you in random posts that reminds me of our muses dynamic whenever i get comfortable with you and other times i will straight up tag you in dash games ♡

why am i an independent, selective and mutuals only account? throughout my years of rp experience and the bullshit i had to endure, i automatically had to set strict rules so i don't have to be stressed out of my mind whenever i log in. i was always independent with my entire blog and created my own icons from scratch, moodboards, graphics, playlists, carrd pages (originally made by poohsources) and headcanons. plus, i'm not associated with any rp group. i'm only selective when it came to fandoms i don't exactly see frost navigating in like h.azbin hotel, s.upernatural and f.naf. mutuals only is self explanatory, but i will explain to showcase our interests for our muses interacting, i will need to be mutuals with you ♡

rules + about. i always expect a potential rp partner to read my rules first before following me. i know it's a long read but you only need to read it once and that's it. i have updated it so it'll be a lot more clearer on how i run things around here. reading my about page for frost is optional but it makes me so happy to know someone did go through the trouble to learn about how i portray her since many D.C writers have commonly mistaken she only has cryokinesis and isn't weak to the cold ♡

reblog cooldowns. i have 'reblog cooldowns' almost everyday. this just means i reblog 4 random posts and tag them as 'isms' or 'aesthetics' everytime i answer a reply or thread. i do this because it's fun and it became a good routine for me everytime i log in. you can say it's like a reward for writing sm. it keeps me motivated ♡

slow activity. i'm super slow when it comes to replying IC or OCC. sometimes i'm way too exhausted from my personal life to write or my social battery is knocked to the curb. i always do get back to you though. sometimes i forget to interact more with my newer moots. just know i will never ignore you on purpose. i'm just a anxious person in general

OC + crossover/fandomless muses. i love seeing OC's on my dashboard! i do make an effort to know all about them if you have a about page. this is how i incorporate your information into my writing and it'll determine how kf will react to your character ^^

moots threads on my dash. i honestly never liked or commented on any of my mutuals threads if it doesn't involve frost because i fear it'll just peeve both parties out lmfao. i'm just stalking on the sidelines at this point. watching in admiration ♡

pinterest collab. if we knew each other for awhile and i sense great chemistry between our muses (romantic, platonic, familial ect) then i'll be happy to invite you to collab on pinterest. you can always reject the idea if it makes you uncomfortable. i'm also thinking of collaborating on spotify sometime in the future maybe ^^

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