#except in both jason ends up staying in the building

[lemonfizzyy]

You thought I was done? No, I have more to add.

I never explained exactly how Dick ended becoming Nightwing but it was similar to how Bruce becomes Batman in the OG universe. He's angry at how unjust the world can be, and how his parents' murderer was never caught.

Similarly, he starts to build an idea of a protector, the type who would've stepped in and saved his parents. He still doesn't leave Haly's though. Not because he still wants to be an acrobat full-time, but because leaving the circus behind feels like betraying his parent's legacy.

Now, around the time Dick is like 20, he's still touring the world. Meanwhile, Clark Kent is around his twenties and traveling the world as a freelance reporter. (Yes, I read Superman: Birthright. I contain multitudes.)

Long story short, they run into each other while they're both trying to not get involved but also very much get involved with a local [insert crime here]. In the process Clark accidentally reveals his powers (Something that happens in Superman: Birthright as well.) and after initially being rightfully frightened, Dick is pretty darn impressed and thinks its cool. That never happens to Clark since everyone else who's ever gotten an inkling of his powers reacts with fear and never really warms up.

Even longer story short, they become good friends and exchange information before parting ways. They do a whole email pen pals thing, it's cool.

Blah blah blah, a month or two later, Superman is created and Clark learns more about his heritage and Krypton. He shares this with Dick and... Well, Nightwing. Dick really likes it, and he's further inspired by Clark's initiative to become a hero.

From there it's straight pipeline from leaving Haly's, making the Nightwing outfit and going on a soul-searching training journey that is reminiscent of the one in Batman: The Knight. (Which I read as well. I'm becoming a certified Canon Knower, it's crazy.)

Except Dick's journey includes less dubious teachers and romantic relationships with extremely untrustworthy people. (Dick is older than Bruce was and way less actively-desperate/willingly-emotionally-stunted/sheltered-via-extreme-wealth.) Dick overall has a more soul-searchy/make-a-bunch-of-unlikely-allies type journey that is more befitting of the Nightwing brand.

(You might be thinking: "Oh, is he trained by Slade like in the hit animated tv show Teen Titans?"

And my answer to that would a no. He doesn't give a hoot about Dick because he's not young and impressionable, and a host of other factors. He'd only give Dick a second glance if he were hired to kill him. He'll be a villain later, just not as nemesis level as in the OG universe.)

And the rest is normal nomadic-vigilante shenanigans until he decides to go back to where it all started... Gotham.

Update on Alfie and Dick: Now, I believe, would be a good time to inflict you with some psychic damage in the form of a fact. In this AU, Alfred is around 30 and Dick is like 24... They are only 6 years apart. Only a year more than the age gap between Dick and Jason.

So... yes, Alfred and Dick they become like brothers, as cursed as it is.

Alfred's the dry responsible older brother to Dick's chaotic younger brother, and Dick eventually moves in.

(It's a slow process, first Dick keeps his vigilante stuff in the Manor so he can train Bruce, and then he had to stay there after an injury he needs supervision for and then Alfred angrily insists he actually come for medical help instead of being an idiot and bleeding out somewhere and... Yeah, well, it's a whole thing but yeah now Dick and Alfie are co-parenting this kid while being the strangest pair of brothers you've ever met.)

I’m like 6 days behind on my self imposed AU challenge so I’m gonna queue them throughout the night lol…. Day 4: Bruce and Dick role swap….

Alfred is appointed as Bruce’s guardian like usual but the boy can’t get the man that held him and covered his eyes from his dead parents out of his head. The little detective tracks him down to a gym in the Narrows, where he’s been working since he aged out of the Gotham foster care system. Guess where Bruce wants to take self defence/gymnastics(?) lessons now.

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[rmbunnie]

I am alone on this barren earth (Jason Todd liker and Mia Dearden liker who honestly thinks issues 69-72 of the 2001 Green Arrow run are fun and good and would really like to talk about them beyond "Jason Todd was ooc and irredeemable there because he was trauma-dumping on Mia but also everything he said was fake and made up and he was manipulating her to become his sidekick and he blew up her school in retaliation because she didn't so really we should ignore the whole comic as bad writing /or agree he should just be read as an sadistic sidekick killer" (None of which is true and over half of which is directly stated to be false in the comic's text) but all people ever have to say about the comic is weird wrong takes about the three pages in which the gym fight happens ripped out of the very interesting and fun surrounding context)

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC x DP Fanfic: Family bonding.

The Waynes, for all of their proclamation of being some of the best detectives in the world, missed the signs that one of their own was dating. Usually, that wouldn't have been so shocking, except that the person who dating made a point to tell the group he was dating.

He also somehow always stayed friends with his exes. Which was a superpower of its own, if they are honest, because not a single one of them was bitter about the relationship ending with Dick.

Another thing unusual about Dick having a lover was that he never brought them around or was seen in public with them. If anything, it felt like Dick was trying to keep the relationship a secret.

Which went against everything he cared about when dating someone.

That's why Bruce fully believed that the secret was being enforced by his partner. So it was up to the Waynes to find out who this mysterious lover was and evaluate if they were good enough for Dick.

So on a Friday night, when Dick was allegedly tutoring underprivileged kids but was actually meeting up with his lover, the Waynes piled into a shabby-looking minivan and followed.

It was cramped. It was dented, and it had tinted windows. Most importantly, the minivan belonged to John Constantine, who hadn't used it in over twenty years after learning to portal from one place to another.

Dick would never realize it was them.

"I think this is a terrible idea," Jason grunts from the back seat. He crosses his arms, refusing to pick up the binoculars Tim had passed around earlier. "Dick is a fully grown man. He knows how to properly talk to his partner about what he wants in a relationship."

"Shut up, virgin," Damian hisses from the passenger seat. He won the right to sit there after breaking Steph's skin with his teeth. Bruce had allowed them to brawl for a few minutes until Damian emerged victorious. He also let her use his phone to schedule a rabies shot, keeping eye contact with Damian in the rearview mirror. "Just because you never had a girlfriend-"

"-or a boyfriend. You fail to seducing both." Cass cut in from around her binoculars. She fist-bumped Tim as Jason threw her an offended look.

"Thank you, Cassandra. Ultimately, you have no experience and thus can not comment on what to do in relationships." Damian concluded.

"Neither do you!"

"Yes, but I am a child." Damian waves his hand in Jason's general direction. "It's expected of me to not have any romantic experience. You, on the other hand, are a loser."

"Unless you are Asexual or Aromantic," Bruce pipes in, leaning a little against the steering wheel, attempting to get a better view of the apartment building that Dick had walked into. He wasn't going up to any of the actual units; he remained in the lobby. "Then you are the are not a loser. But rather the closest thing to godhood."

"B, we know gods."

"That's why I said closest."

Thankfully, the lobby had huge windows. Dick was speaking to the receptionist, leaning on the counter with a little smile, and the man was grinning back.

However, Dick hasn't touched his hair even once. This was not the secret lover. This was a fool falling for Dick's charms, probably someone involved with a crime.

Ugh, so dull.

Jason crossed his arms stubbornly "I can get a date. I'm just busy."

"Doing what? Reading romance novels?" Steph laughs. Jason opens his mouth to yell at her, but the receptionist hands Dick a golden key that the eldest Wayne pockets. He strides out of the apartment complex, hands in his pocket and whistling joyfully.

The Wayns put away their binoculars, and Bruce carefully peels out of their parking spot. They keep a nice distance away from Dick as he scrolls around the stores, stopping every once in a while to admire a display before he sits on a bench, hand still inside the pocket with the key.

A person wearing a trench coat and thick sunglasses approaches the bench, sitting on the far end of it and not looking in Dick's direction. The van collectively gasps.

Despite the disguise, they can tell just who it is.

"Tatior," Jason hisses between clenched teeth as Duke slides a sealed brown package across the bench towards Dick. In return, the eldest places the key on the bench, back top, and strives away from the bench. Duke waits a few minutes before he stands, walking in the opposite direction of Dick, hand sliding out to grab the key nearly undetectable.

"Why does Duke need an apartment key? And one that was snuck to him," Tim asks, watching the two siblings walk away from each other as though they were strangers. "What's he up to?"

" We only have time for one family mystery today," Bruce answers, turning the wheel to the left and continuing to follow Dick. "I have dinner plans with Selina later."

Duke pulls out a red wig and slides off his coat. Underneath is a punk rock outfit, complete with spikes, the coat he throws into the trash and clicks his boots. Four-inch heels pop out from his shoes, and Duke struts out of sight.

Tim leans against the windows, face and palms against the glass, eyes wide. "Wait. Wait. I have so many questions. B, turn around!"

"Dinner plans, Tim!"

"But B!"

Damian points. "Look! Richard is twirling his hair! The harlot draws near."

Steph laughs, patting Tim's back, who is straining hard to open the door. Thankfully, Bruce was quick enough to press the child lock. "I love the way you talk, Dames. It's like a period piece villain escaped the TV."

"Thank you, Brown. I enjoy your existence as well." Damian smiles, pressing the binoculars against his face. "Oh."

Bruce's grip on the wheel tightens. He had chosen to stay really far behind Dick once the man had walked into a narrow street, making it harder to blend into the traffic. "What is Damian?"

"You will not like it, Father," Damian says lowly. Behind him, Steph and Tim also reach for their spying gear. Jason and Cass were grimacing from the back seat, one taking pictures and the other working on getting the listening device's antenna out the crack of the window to aim at Dick.

Bruce's knuckles turn white as he steeled his resolve. "Go on. I can take it. What do you see?"

"It's Danny Fenton." Tim, Steph, and Damian all say at the same time. "The person he is dating in secret is Danny Fenton."

Bruce felt his heart stop. "The man who makes bread in the shape of hero logos?"

"Yeah. Otherwise known as "The Happy Baker," Steph says gravely. "The only Gothamite who is unreasonably happy without drugs or Joker venom."

"I once saw him making up songs while setting out a display of animal-shaped bread. He rhymed Gotham with awesome." Tim practically spits. "I should have known. All those animals were circus-themed. The elephants were incredibly tasty."

"You bought some!?"

"Excuse me for being hungry B!"

Damian slaps Bruce's arm aggressively. "Father! Father! Richard is getting on one knee."

"WHAT?!"

Jason pressed one hand over his headphones and attempted to listen closer before his eyes widened. "Wait! It's not a real marriage. Dick's investigating a possible trafficking ring, who been using Gotham baking supplies as a cover. He wants Danny to help him infiltrate the front by pretending to be baking husbands!"

"He just asked him to get married," Jason reported, much to the horror of the general van. Cass' camera starts clicking aggressively, either to capture the moment or have something to hang over Dick's head and force him to call off his marriage.

It's hard to tell with her perfectly impassive expression.

"Oh, thank the gods." Bruce breathes, only to have Steph ruin the moment.

"They're frenching right now."

"Oh, come on!"

"This is fun," Cass says over Bruce, swearing under his breath. "We should spy on each other as a group more often."

"Can we find out what Duke is up to next? The heels will haunt me until I know everything." Tim pipes up.

Damian, Tim, and Steph do not lower their binoculars even though they are close enough that they become a nuisance rather than helpful. He hasn't seen them so engaged in a family outing in a long time. "Yeah, we can spy on Duke next."

There is a moment of silence as Bruce considers the request before he merges lanes. In doing so, they drive by the kissing couple, too caught up in each other to notice the people staring at them through spying gear.

"You're the best adoptive dad ever!" Tim cheers as the rest of the kids let out whoops. Fenton's ears twitch, breaking the kiss with Dick to look right at them over their eldest shoulder.

Bruce slams a foot on the pedal the second Cass starts yelling, "Go go go! He saw us!". They peel away, screaming while Dick throws them a finger, and Fenton laughs silently.

The happy little freak.

[momo-minomo]

Fic Fairy Friday Theme: Bruce Wayne and his Emotional Support Robin

I'm so sorry I'm a few days late with this one! I've been so freaking sick that I basically slept through this weekend. Hope these lovely recs and playlists help make it up to you!

The relationship between Tim and Bruce, like all of Bruce's relationships with his kids, is complicated. Tim entered Bruce's life because he was falling apart at the seams and needed someone to hold him together. The problem is that Bruce resented Tim for it, at first, and even after Tim became a real part of the family the consequences of a child being the pillar holding the entire family together continued to be felt. These fics are exploring all the different sides to Bruce and Tim's father-son relationship, both healthy and problematic. I have a particular fondness for fics where Bruce looks back and realizes just how much damage he did to Tim in the beginning and tries to make it right now, years later. I read a LOT of fics involving these two so consider this part 1!

The Fic Fairy Friday Masterpost

we're all ghosts by envysparkler

Summary:

Tim is woken up by Bruce Wayne's screams.

Momo's Notes: An AU at the start of Tim's Robin career. He's staying over at Wayne Manor for the night when he hears blood curdling screams coming from Bruce's room down the hall. I won't spoil what's awaiting him inside that room, I love this one. It really showcases just how Tim is holding Bruce, Alfred, and Dick together during this time period.

Just How Long I’ll Love You by SilverSkiesAtMidnight

Summary:

There’s a crime scene board set up off to one side. Bruce wanders over to examine it while Batman goes about preparing the tests he’ll want to complete to make sure Bruce isn’t going to tear the fabric of spacetime apart. He vaguely remembers this case. It was already a cold case even by the time Dick arrived, a murder whose trails had gone nowhere. It was one of the files he’d dusted off and given to Tim to practice his skills. He hums approvingly as he studies the board. Tim’s getting close - once he finds the witness Bruce had overlooked the first time, he’ll have the lead he needs to crack the case. Then he frowns, touching one of the photos of the building. It’s not one of the original crime scene photos, nor one of the ones Bruce himself had taken when the crime was fresh. Tim must have gone himself to take them after Bruce gave him the case. Pride sparks in his chest, twisted with shame. “Have you looked at this?” he asks, raising his voice enough for his younger self to hear him over by the monitors. Batman grunts, glancing over and then away again. “It’s a cold case,” he says. “Robin’s been working on it.” “I know that,” Bruce responds. “Have you looked at it?”

Momo's Notes: Time travel/AU fic where Bruce is sent back in time to just after Jason's death, splitting off a new timeline as a result. He sees how broken his past self is and is horrified at how he treated Tim.

New Traditions by Kgraces

Summary:

Bruce revives an old family tradition, but not everyone is in the loop.

Momo's Notes: I have a few fics like this I'll be reccing, where Bruce is in a healthier mind space and trying to be a good dad to Damian ends up making him realize just how badly he failed Tim so he tries to make it right and be the father Tim deserves.

with the exception of… by DSS1101

Summary:

Once upon a time, Tim Drake was Robin. And he was 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥. But he wasn't chosen. And that's fine, okay? It was a delicate situation, he understood that then and he understands it now. He doesn't hold it against Bruce, or Dick, or anyone after him who benefited from the Batman that he fixed. It's just, he hadn't realized how many things he lost out on while fixing Batman. The ice cream just seems to be the final straw

Momo's Notes: This fic is similar to the one just above where the rest of the family have it pointed out just how different Tim's childhood with Bruce was compared to the rest of the kids both before and after Tim. Bonus points for showing the family BEING a family at the beginning. Bruce is TRYING to be better and the others are trying to make the family thing work but it's a work in progress with a lot of road bumps on the way.

"Thanks, Dad." by sElkieNight60

Summary:

Sure, it’s embarrassing to call your teacher ‘Dad,’ but for better or worse, Bruce is both more and less than just a mentor. OR, Tim accidentally calls Bruce 'Dad' and they both deal with the revelations and fallout that comes with.

Momo's Notes: Tim accidentally calls Bruce "dad" and then immediately panics. Bruce deals with the regret and damage from his miserably failed attempts to keep Tim at arms length years ago.

Asimov’s Integral by sElkieNight60

Summary:

Tim is an unwanted android, a Robo-Child. After being sent back by his parents, his last and only hope rests in the hands of a man still grieving the loss of his own son. “I didn’t ask for a replacement,” Bruce barked. “I don’t want a replacement! You can go back and tell the RCO I don’t need a replacement.” Bruce Wayne didn’t want him. If Bruce Wayne didn’t want him, he’d be sent back and dismantled.

Momo's Notes: An AU where the Robins are all robot children companions. Everyone knows Bruce Wayne's robochild was destroyed but his attempts to get proprietary replacement parts for the second hand robot kid he picked up off the street scandalizes the company who makes them. Tim was rejected by his first owners, the Drakes, but was given a rare second chance when he's chosen as Jason's replacement by the company. Bruce Wayne's immediate rejection means the company will melt him down for scrap for clearly being defective unless he can convince Mr. Wayne he can be useful in rebuilding Jason.

Some Day's End by SilverSkiesAtMidnight

Summary:

Bruce circles him. He’s barely broken a sweat, highly conscious of the lack of ache in his own muscles. “You need to improve your stamina,” he growls. “This isn’t good enough.” His tone is cruel, biting. Tim should lash out at it. He should snap back that he’s trying, that he’s doing his best, that he is improving. Instead, he just nods, adjusting his stance. He swallows, throat audibly clicking with dehydration. “Again,” he croaks out. “Let’s do it again. I’ll get it this time.” And Bruce should refuse. He should insist he take a break, should send him to go get something to drink, should tell him they’re done for the night so he won’t be too sore to train again tomorrow. Instead, he matches his stance.

Momo's Notes: Bruce realizes just what kind of monster he's becoming when accidentally breaks Tim's arm during training.

I Want It Real by Dickered (Sagemistakes)

Summary:

Tim gets hurt. A lot. He's pretty okay with that, most of the time.

Momo's Notes: Tim believes his pain is worth it to keep the family secret safe. Bruce vehemently disagrees. Sometimes you just need a dose of actual good dad Bruce comforting his kid.

What is Earned and What is Given by Cdelphiki

Summary:

The arrival of Damian was quite the shock for Bruce. But that wasn't the only shock of the day. When Tim declared Damian should 'earn' Bruce's love, like 'everyone else,' Bruce realized he had a lot more work ahead of him than he originally thought. Or: Bruce makes sure Tim knows he's loved.

Momo's Notes: More of Bruce realizing he's made serious errors as a father and moving to correct them immediately like a good dad should.

Pretender by galaxy_magitech

Summary:

When Bruce gets hit by fear toxin, he mistakes Tim for Jason. Tim realizes that if he practices his Jason impression, he can calm Bruce down and maybe get some scraps of the affection he so desperately needs. Win-win solution. Years later, Bruce finds out.

Momo's Notes: I do love it when Bruce's fucked up post-Jason period and how he treated Tim is confronted by Jason (or any other batkid). The added angst of Tim being consistently mistaken for Jason just makes extra delicious!

NA NA NA NA Batdad! by nightwalker

Summary:

The irony of Batman having that coffee mug was amusing. The thought of Brucie Himbo Trainwreck Wayne owning it was hysterical. Ollie took a quick swallow of coffee to push back a laugh. “I like the coffee mug. A friend of mine has the same one.”

Momo's Notes: No angst on this one, I figured we needed a couple palette cleansers of Bruce just being an openly loving father with Timmy. Poor boy deserves it!

Clockwork by heartslogos

Summary:

“Do you even hear yourself when you talk?” Tim wrinkles his nose. “Also stop trying to hide the coffee. I’ll always find it. You just put it out of reach or opposite the peanut butter. I am on to you.”

Momo's Notes: No angst on this one either, just showing the loving familial relationship and synergy Tim and Bruce have built up between them.

Playlists!

[whereisyourstar]

Split Apart at the Seams

Jason Voorhees x GN Reader oneshot (for now)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: graphic descriptions of injury, blood, muscle, and pain. newly discovered masochism and sadism. wound fucking. unhealthy power dynamics.

Your reason for being here at all is equal parts genuine chivalry and blatant sucking up. One coroner, three assistants, and four student interns makes for pretty tight scheduling when the nature of the job is to be on call 24/7. Illness spreads like wildfire in this building despite the sanitation standards, which means you're preparing to do the work of three people—the coroner herself and your fellow assistant, who had to leave halfway through his shift. For the next fifteen hours, it's just you and a rotating cast of interns (who get to stagger their six hour shifts, the lucky bastards) taking on whatever scant cases Crystal Lake can throw at you. These late night shifts are never too exciting, which is a blessing and a curse. Finding ways to stay awake becomes an active hunt for work on nights like this.

Nine mostly peaceful hours pass, and you're making your way through decently well on the combined graces of coffee (always fresh, you love the interns and will miss them so much when their summer break is over) and listening to radio. Both help you put a sizable dent in the paperwork that's always piling up, and when the late-night DJs start pulling out their more obscure tracks, you find you have a taste for the blues.

That peace is broken at fifteen past midnight, when the phone on the coroner's abandoned desk rings and all hell breaks loose. Thirteen bodies coming in from down near the lake, all confirmed dead, identification still being sorted through. The officer at the station relaying everything to you isn't shy about using the word massacre.

It's just about the last thing you need right now, this close to the end of the shift, but insane murderers aren't in the habit of checking in with the local morgues before doing their thing.

Once the ambulances and removal vans arrive, you work with the sole intern and the paramedics to get the bodies directly into the morgue. You're forced to talk with a pair of detectives for a few minutes, mostly just squaring away contact information for when the autopsies are finished, but the entire time you're just thinking of the number of bodies and putting them against the hours left before you get to go home. You won't get to them all before the next assistant comes in, so you'll take the most interesting ones first. Anything to keep you awake through the rest of the morning.

The detectives stay to oversee you and the intern stripping the bodies, ensuring that every stitch of clothing goes into an evidence bag. It's work that no one particularly likes, but it's worse on the bodies that have been dead longer—once blood dries down, it's hell to pry off of skin. You work in tandem with the intern, undressing the corpses so he can fill the bags, and you make mental notes to follow up on while you work. These are mostly college kids, reeking of weed and booze and sweat, like nearly everyone does when it's summer in Crystal Lake—not much else to do in a town like this except smoke and drink and have sex. The tragedy of it hits you in a distant way. These kids were too young to die, but you've been working for the coroner long enough to know that death isn't picky about who it takes. You haven't cried over a case since this past winter, when a twelve year old boy was picked up off the street, literally frozen to death. That's part of the reason you're working so hard to impress the coroner now—the look she gave you that day was withering.

At the end of the row of fresh bodies lays one that is distinctly bigger than the rest. The detectives at your back focus in as one when you approach it, the combined weight of their attention almost physical, and it sets you on edge. This body is special in some way, and just going off the size alone…the killer, maybe? Did one of these kids manage to take out their own murderer before they died?

It's a man in a mask. An old hockey mask, you think, but that's where the sports paraphernalia begins and ends. Your suspicion feels slightly more justified now—a mask means he didn't want anyone knowing who was killing them. You take a second to inspect the deep slash to the head that's been partially absorbed by the off-white fiberglass, impressed more than anything that whoever gave it to him managed to get all the way down to the skull casing with one swing. Then you hook your gloved fingers under the chin of the mask and pull up.

He's older than the others. That's the first thing you notice—there's fine lines around the eyes that you don't think are connected to any of the facial abnormalities. Mid-to-late thirties, you'd say, but not much more than that. Those eyes are wide open, as they often are in death, and you note the difference in alignment. One is lower than the other, cloudy and drooping where the brown one is more typically shaped. The part of you that just really loves this job can't help but do a quick case study—upturned nose that trends bulbous near the tip, some kind of cleft palate that turns the left side of the mouth down, a misshapen ear on the right, and protrusions in the skull that make you hope his mother got a cesarean over trying for a natural birth.

One of the detectives whistles a sharp note, jolting you out of your focus. "Damn. That is one ugly motherfucker."

Your frown is immediate—your job isn't to evaluate anyone's looks, and you don't think it's the detective's either—but you hide it before he walks over to stand on the other side of the cot. He peers down, practically bending in half at the waist to get a better look, and it strikes you as distastefully voyeuristic. Is this what the CLPD is paid to do? Stare at dead people who look different? You want to grab for the mask to cover him back up, but that's an overreaction and you know it. Besides, the intern has already packed it away into an evidence bag.

"I'll take this one in first," you tell him, schooling your tone toward neutrality. "Anything I should know before we put these others away?"

He spares a second to meet your eyes, and his mustache twitches at the side like you said something funny. "Nope. You just make sure to give us a ring when you're finished with 'em all, we'll want copies of the files."

You spare a thought for your colleague on the next shift, who will have to deal with not only the police, but enticing the ancient copier to spit out at least thirteen case files before his shift is over. If you have time, you'll personally put a fresh pot of coffee on before he comes in.

The rest of the undressing is done on autopilot, your every motion the most efficient it can be under the curious gaze of the detective. He's too interested in the unremarkable, if slightly meaty, form that's revealed for your liking. You wish you could tell him to back up, and maybe that's something the coroner could do, but you definitely don't have that authority. It's a relief when you're able to pull the white protective sheet over the body, now matching with the other twelve, and the detective trots back over to his partner. You stay long enough to make sure the intern is okay with helping the regular officers collect the evidence bags, and ask to have the other bodies cleaned while you work. Normally you would stay to assist, but you want to get this body out of the morgue as quickly as possible.

You can relax a little in the examination room. The smell of sanitizer is familiar, and the bite of cold metal keeps you sharp. Once you've got a new set of gloves on, you set about heaving the body onto the table, which is done neither gracefully nor respectfully. You settle for tilting the stretcher cot up inch by inch until the unmasked man tumbles onto it, then adjusting him correctly from there. This is why the coroner has assistants and interns in the first place—some cases are built like linebackers and weigh what feels like half a ton. She had better adore you after this shift.

From there it's just the routine of performing an autopsy. Start the recorder, wash the body, and make notes as you go. You take your time with that head wound, notating it as the result of either an ax or large blade. It was sharp, whatever it was—the layers of skin and fat are so cleanly defined that it's almost textbook. Like you noticed earlier, though, the actual skull hasn't been punctured. This wound is nasty, and it happened recently enough for the blood that oozes out to not have coagulated yet, but it's not what killed him.

"Let's see what you can tell me," you mutter, lifting the chin to inspect a continuous line of bruising around the throat. To the recorder you say, "Bruising is consistent with strangulation or hanging…swelling in the neck, but that may be a side effect of the overgrowth on left trapezius. Nothing broken as far as I can tell." You prod your fingers along the neck, careful of the hump that eats up a good portion of the body's left shoulder area. You'll have to inspect it later to make sure it is just a physical anomaly and nothing related to the death, but that leering detective still looms in your mind. This man, whoever he was, deserves some dignity after death. After that struggle with the cot, you'll protect as much of it as you can.

With the external examination done, you move onto the actual autopsy. The scalpel sits on its tray with the other tools while you prod at the body's chest, checking for anything that might obstruct the blade's path. No body hair, thankfully—a scalpel is plenty sharp, but you've had to shave more than a few chests to the coroner's satisfaction, and you're never keen for a repeat performance. Everything checks out, so you pick up the scalpel, press it to the left shoulder and report to the recorder: "Beginning Y-incision now."

Part of your responsibilities here are keeping the coroner's tools in good repair, which is a job you take seriously. Just as sure as the sun rises every morning, you are positive that every scalpel that passes through your hands is cleaned and sharpened to the absolute standard. So there is no reason for it to get as far as three centimeters under the clavicle and then stop. The blade hits a snag and refuses to go any further no matter how you encourage it—which you have to do gently, because you really don't need a sloppy Y-incision on your record. "Come on," you breathe, leaning in close to try and see what's blocking the scalpel, then poking two fingers under the top layer of muscle to lift it. It's just standard skin and gristle, there's nothing here for the blade to even catch on, but you refuse to accept it's the scalpel's fault. Another finger goes under, a small break in procedure—there has to be an obstruction, you just need to see it better.

With three gloved fingers under the skin, tucked devastatingly close to the breastbone, you notice something. A buzzing, almost, like a hushed hive of bees is sending reverberations all throughout the body. Cautious, yet intrigued, you push your fingers further under and press them to the meat underneath, wanting a better feel. That buzzing is stronger here, you're up to the knuckles and nearly touching the breastbone now. Insects, maybe? But the blood hasn't started clotting yet, even fast-moving pests couldn't move in and get this deep this quickly.

Two things happen at nearly the same time. First: you abruptly understand why this man was presumed dead. His heart is beating so faintly and rapidly that its pulse is nearly undetectable—you certainly didn't notice it when inspecting his neck. Second: when you look over your shoulder, unwilling to rise from your curled in position, the man's eyes are open. They've been open, but now they're focused. The pupil on the brown one dilates into a pinprick as his upper lip curls.

You are three fingers deep in a dead man's chest and he's just woken up.

A hand is around your throat before you can react. The man is sitting up and taking you with him, his fingers crushing down on your windpipe with clear intent to choke the life out of you altogether. You have a scalpel in your hand, but it's your dominant one inside of him, and that's what you try to retrieve first when your reflexes finally kick in. The glove catches on exposed muscle and your fingers start to pull free of it entirely.

One moment the world was going black, and the next it isn't. Your throat is released and you gulp in huge lungfuls of air, panting and shaking and scared and confused. The man has traded holding your throat for ensnaring your wrist in his massive grip, the one connected to the half of your hand that's currently inside of him. All his attention is on the incision, now dripping at the seam with blood.

"I'm sorry," you rasp, half-heartedly pulling against him. His entire head twitches when you speak, like he's fighting the impulse to look at you. "I'm so, s-so sorry, I didn't know. You're, ah—not dead. You can g-go, you clearly don't need to be here."

He ignores your stammering for all the good it was going to do you in the first place. Instead, he tugs on your wrist and pushes your fingers further inside the incision, purposefully skipping them along the muscle there. He makes a sound that's somewhere between a grunt and a hiss, his upper lip curling to expose the sporadic placement of his teeth. Another tug, more forceful this time, and a deeper grunt. Then he looks at you.

You're standing there with your mouth hanging open. This can't be real. You must have caught the flu going around and now you're having a very vivid fever dream. He can't be doing what you think he's doing.

Experimentally, you twitch your fingers against the surface of the muscle and his breathing comes up short. You twitch them again and he licks his lips. When you splay them out entirely, laying them flat, he tips his head back and flutters his eyes shut. That's an expression you would recognize on any face. Bliss. Pleasure.

Your next breath comes out in a little oh and you stop trembling. With your wrist still locked up in his grip, all you can do is pet the striated muscle, massaging and stroking it in equal turn. The man loves it somehow, enjoys the pain or the intimacy or forcing you to do this at all, his breathing going heavy and the groans seeming to pull from under your fingerpads and up his throat.

Emboldened, you step closer and, rather than pull away, push into that vice lock on your wrist. He releases it instantly and is rewarded by your fingers brushing up against hard bone—a rib. The noise he makes is strangled and you're already staring at his face when his eyes fly open. He looks from you, to your hand, and back to you. His naked brows pull down in a silent question.

You don't know what compels you to reassure him. "It's okay," you tell him, hushed, soothing. "I know what I'm doing."

It's not a lie. You are good at your job—it's just this context that's new, really.

Maybe it's the sentiment that get through to him, or maybe it's the tone. What matters is that he holds your eyes, heavy brows pulling further down, then he nods. He breathes through this open mouth, panting a little. Waiting.

One of your fingers is still on the rib bone, so you stroke over it in a minute arc. The fit of the upper chest wall is tighter against the back of your hand here, but you're undeterred. One stroke, two strokes, three, and on the fourth you press your other fingers into the muscle. The man's cry is guttural and, interestingly, his hand slams down on the table. You jump, gasping, immediately concerned that you've gone too far. But it's not just pain twisting his features.

Professionalism, if there was any to begin with, flies out the window when you glance down the length of his body and find him painfully erect.

You learn something about yourself just then: you're kind of into this. Seeing his obvious pleasure with the situation seems to give your body and brain the go-ahead to enjoy it too. Even with that acknowledgment, the wave of want that crashes through your veins takes you completely off guard. Your hips press against the edge of the table in the hopes of tamping down on this sudden desire by giving it a bit of what it wants. The scant pressure is like kindling and you crush your bottom lip under your teeth to keep from whining. Fuck.

It's insane, but you're both past that by now, you think. Faster than blinking, you've lifted the scalpel again and cut another half inch along the incision. Now you're the one outpacing him, slipping your pinky finger under the skin and gently grinding your palm against the naked muscle and bone as you push it further in.

He grabs at the fabric of your scrubs, scrunching them in his grasp when he falls all the way back on the table with a massive clang. Taking you with him again, you guess, but it's possible he may just need something to hang onto. His bottom half writhes while everything from navel and up stays locked down—he's trying so hard not to disturb your work.

"Shh," you hush him over a genuine moan, stroking over the part of his rib cage that's received so much attention tonight. "You're doing so well. Should I press harder?"

He nods frantically, more of those wordless groans ripping through his throat. Your body pulses with desire, your focus pulled between his face, your hand inside him, and his dripping cock. The head is flushed such a vivid crimson that you wonder how he has any blood left at all. The professional in you does some sloppy math to calculate how much blood loss has already occurred. Everything else just wants to get a hold on that cock and see what happens if you sync your strokes between hands. He doesn't appear to need you, though—his hips rock in minute circles, thrusting into the open air. It's just enough, if the beads of precum slipping down his length are anything to go by.

You set the scalpel down on the table with shaking fingers, unwilling to cut any more into him while he still lives. Sloppy as that calculation may have been, the number you came up with was cause for concern, and you don't actually want to kill this guy. This leaves a hand with nothing to do, and you consider shoving it down the waistband of your scrubs and catching some relief. You're riled up enough that it wouldn't take much, probably, and you doubt he would even notice.

Glancing at his face to check is what undoes you. He dropped his hold on your scrubs at some point, likely when you were caught up admiring his cock. Now he uses his fingers to delve into the weeping wound on his head, slipping them around and between the layers of flesh and fat. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, mouth hanging open in a silent cry, and all you can do is watch. Your hand is rubbing over his naked muscle, disrupting thousands of nerve endings, touching him where you're certain no one else has dared to touch, and he wants more. It's working for him, and it's clearly working for you, because seeing this man fondle his own wound brings you right to the edge.

You lose all sense of yourself then. Your mind clears of everything—the long shift, the intern down the hall, even your own name—in the single-minded pursuit of getting him off. Inside him, your fingers play with pressure and spread, withdrawing almost entirely to skate around his clavicle, then pushing in to rub down his ribs. There's no other word for what you're doing—you're fucking his incision. Your hips keep pace, grinding against the edge of the table for what little friction you can get from it, and your body shudders with wave after wave of pleasure. It's a good thing, then, that you decided against touching yourself—with the way you're reacting to even this much pressure, you'd probably pass out.

A burst of inspiration prompts you to reach across his chest, now bent so low over him that you can smell the sweat and rancid blood on his skin, and circle a gloved thumb around his nipple. This entire side of his body hasn't been touched at all, which means he isn't expecting it. His strangled gasp punctuates the first circle, a garbled keening accompanies the second, and when you roll the nub between your fingers at the end of the third, the complete and utter silence is the best reward yet.

You let go of his nipple when the first massive shudder rips through him, intent on seeing him come apart. As you ease off of your tiptoes to return to your side, you look down his body expectantly and are literally hit with the first spurt of his release. Your tongue works reflexively, licking the corner of your mouth and tasting a musk and saltiness that isn't entirely unpleasant. His feet are flat on the table, hips arched entirely off of it while his orgasm takes him in strong thrusts. You watch, transfixed, as he covers his stomach in his own cum, his cock bobbing in the air with every pulse. It takes longer than you expect for him to run out—it's been a while, it seems.

When his hips finally still, there is a moment where the only sound is a long, shuddering exhale. Then his entire lower body collapses bonelessly onto the table.

Your first reaction is to panic. For all you know, that orgasm just fucking killed him.

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" You still don't know his name, it's ridiculous but it's the best you can do. His face is slack, relaxed, eyes peacefully shut while his head lolls to the side. No help there. Your free hand darts around uselessly over his torso until you remember, of course, that you're still inside him. Palm flat, you force yourself to calm enough to feel for that strange heartbeat. His lungs have been working hard under your hand this entire time, and his uptempo BPM is hard to forget, so you should—

There. His lungs fill to take in a deep breath, which presses his pulse into your palm, and you actually sigh with relief. You didn't kill him.

Although, now that you think of it with a slightly clearer head, you're supposed to have a dead body. This one, alive and apparently satisfied, is no longer fit for autopsy.

You watch his face when he exhales that breath. It tumbles out of him in a deep, growling snore.

You let him sleep while you get to work. He deserves the rest.

When he comes to, it's violent. He claws his way to consciousness like waking is a fight that he intends to win bloodily. It's a mess of limbs and a fearsome, silent snarl that could make anyone witnessing it turn tail and run. The sheet that had been meant to cover him slips to the floor.

From your position by the door, you stay very quiet.

You debated on being here at all for this part. The first thing he tried to do when he woke the last time was kill you, after all. You're under no pretense that this isn't a very, very dangerous man. But it helps your story if he leaves before you do and, to be very honest with yourself, you wanted to be here. To talk him through it.

The sutures are some of your best work. A normal autopsy wouldn't necessitate such careful application, so you genuinely enjoyed the throwback to med school while working with the thread. He notices the pull of them immediately and halts his waking rampage to paw at the raw, dimpled flesh.

"Those won't dissolve on their own," you tell him, only jumping a little when he immediately snaps his attention to you. God, but he's intense when he's not writhing around on a table. "You'll have to snip them out in a week or so."

He is very still. His mismatched eyes are so heavy on your face that you have to fight to keep your chin up. You don't know what comes next, but whatever it is, you want to do it with confidence.

"I applied those stitches to your chest and the wound in your head while you were out. And I, um, cleaned you up. With a rag, I didn't really touch you at all, I promise. That's all that happened while you slept." He continues to stare, but his hand rises to prod at the closed gap in his head. He hadn't even noticed—no wonder it wasn't enough to kill him outright. His resilience is impressive, if not a little terrifying. "You probably need a blood transfusion, but the best I can do is recommend that you drink water. A lot of it. And try to get more salt into your diet for the next few days."

The man swings his legs off the table and stands, uncaring of his nakedness. If he hears you, he makes no indication of it. He shouldn't even be able to stand after losing so much blood, but you're not about to tell him to stop. He's not your patient, after all. A scalpel—the scalpel—falls off the table with him and you wince at the clatter. When he stoops to pick it up, you make your play.

"You're the one that killed all those people out there, aren't you?" And you're not actually expecting an answer to the guess, but he rises, scalpel in hand, and dips his chin into a nod. Your pulse starts to pound in your ears. Okay. He killed twelve people and not one of them managed to kill him. At least you're fully aware of the danger now. "Once you're past this door, the exit is down the hall and to the left. You can walk right out. It's just me and an intern here, neither of us is going to stop you. I promise. So there's—" your voice cracks, a testament to your fear. "There's no need for anyone to get hurt. Right?"

He's such a big man, but that feeling of danger that just radiates off him makes that tiny scalpel seem like a very viable weapon. It wouldn't take much for him to do some real damage with it, you're sure. Your mind churns through a highlight reel of every terrible thing he could manage with that blade, and none of it ends as nicely for you as it did for him when you held it.

He stares at you for what feels like an eternity. Then he squares his shoulders and takes a lurching step toward you, which sends your stomach plummeting. Eye contact is next to impossible to maintain, but there's nowhere else to turn. The unfairness of it puts a bitter taste on your tongue—you're about to die and you didn't even get to cum first. That's your reward for being unselfish in bed. Or the autopsy table, as it turns out.

The scent of putrid blood on his skin wasn't washed away either of the times you put rag to flesh, and it sits on the back of your palate heavily. He comes close enough to back you up to the wall and invade all of your senses—scent, sight, taste, the sound of his rasping breaths, the sudden press of his fingers into the bruise on your neck. It's been developing this whole time, left there by his own hand. The ache of it makes your heart jump in your chest, excitement and dread mixing in a heady cocktail. It turns you on, the way he tests the bruise he gave you, and you think he can tell. He doesn't smile exactly, but his permanently frowning mouth twitches at the corner.

One tap, two of the cold scalpel's blade against your bare flesh. It's far from dull—the edge catches just over your carotid artery and makes a surface cut there. Your mouth falls open, thighs press together, and your breath comes out in pathetic little pants. "Please," tumbles into the space between your mouth and his, and you don't know if you're begging for your life or for him to keep going. Both, maybe.

Then it's gone. The scalpel leaves your throat and he takes himself with it, shouldering through the door without a backwards glance.

You slump against the wall until you're sitting, half-dazed and breathing heavily on the floor. Steps echo in the hallway and you distantly listen for the turn, then the tell-tale sound of the crash bar on the emergency exit. It opens, and right on cue, the fire alarms begin their flashing and wailing.

When the intern comes running in thirty seconds later, you've had just enough time to position yourself against the examination table, limbs splayed in what you hope is a convincing act of distress. "He wasn't dead," you croak, pressing a limp hand to your throat. "I don't understand…"

The intern fusses over you, gently guiding you back to the coroner's office to sit you down in a chair, but you hardly hear any of it. Let the distraction feed into the confused, frightened, innocent coroner's assistant story you concocted while sewing that man up—it's not so far off from the truth to be unbelievable.

Some time later, when emergency services have combed the entire building and the poor sick coroner has been roused from her bed to handle this disaster personally, one of the officers slips up while you're in earshot. It's just a name that's revealed, but it's enough. It's everything right now.

Jason, you think, pressing your thumb into the rounded corner of the session recording tape you're hiding in your pocket. You just couldn't bring yourself to destroy it, not even to bulk up your story. There are several things on that recording you're looking forward to hearing again. Jason Voorhees.

The cut on your neck throbs in time with your heartbeat. It's covered by a tiny bandage, placed there by a paramedic who noticed the way you kept touching it. The bandage twirls once in the air before falling to the floor, permanently relieved of its duty. You press a nail into the scab trying to form and hum, content, for the moment, with the memories.

[necrotic-nephilim]

I saw on your pinned post you had Slade/Tim. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

yes of COURSE i adore SladeTim and am happy to spread propaganda-

i will be honest some of my thoughts are simply "i will fandom bicycle the hell out of Tim bc he's my Fave Guy", but i do genuinely think about what a relationship between Tim and Slade could be fueled by. i 've briefly mentioned them on this blog before (but that was a month ago so it'd be impossible to find) and what i brought up then I'll echo now: i think what's fascinating about Slade and Tim is the fact it *shouldn't* work. there's really no foundation for them. there's been scattered interactions throughout canon, but nothing that's lasting besides the typical hero/villain thoughts.

which is fascinating, given Slade *does* have developed interactions with most of the other Robins. there's endless canon to build off of for Slade and Dick, of course, those two will always be tied to each other in fascinating ways. and Slade and Jason also have interesting history, working together in some comics and having a lot to build off of. even Slade and Damian have some history, Slade has developed feelings on Damian and multiple fights with real substance between them, not even mentioning how Respawn plays into it. so we canonically know at least a bit about how Slade feels on each Robin- except for Tim. Tim just gets brushed over which given how long he was Robin, it's impressive he never had a real meaningful moment from Slade, maybe aside from the time Slade brainwashed Cass, which was questionably characterized for *everyone* involved.

it makes SladeTim an interesting blank slate. and naturally, makes Tim the Robin that Slade just mentally skips over. Dick is *the* Dick Grayson, the mental replacement for Grant and the apprentice he crave, the "real prize". Jason is fascinating in the "Bruce's biggest fuck up" sort of way, running on his own away from the Bats and occasionally making a good ally when Slade is in a tight spot. and Damian is a reminder of Slade's fatherhood and the grandson of Ra's, so at the very least there's begrudging respect for the mantles he's carrying. but Tim is just... the other one. he's a rich kid who thought he could choose this life and has probably bit off more than he can chew and i don't think Slade ever fully takes him seriously, which is *really* fun. Tim has proven himself to most villains, but he's never really proven himself to Slade.

so i'm very interested in the idea of Slade having a run-in with Tim and being pleasantly surprised that Tim is far more than he appears is *fun*. i think it's fun if Slade doesn't realize Tim was trained by Shiva until he's actually fighting Tim and is finally forced to develop real thoughts surrounding Tim aside from just seeing him as Robin #3. i think there could be a sick curiosity to it that drives Slade to press and press just to see what he gets out of Tim.

i'm also always into the idea of Tim using sex as almost a form of masochism or self harm. i love shipping things like JayTim or RasTim to specifically explore Tim using sex as an emotionless outlet to get hurt in a way he can control. bc i *love* masochist!Tim who needs some kind of control over his masochist outlets. and well, Slade's a fun choice for someone for TIm to go to for no-strings-attached sex that will always stay within the arranged parameters. even if Slade isn't morally a good person, he's always good on completing his end of a deal and it makes him a reliable source for Tim to go to.

also, i just like "i know you're pretending i'm someone else when you fuck me and i don't care, i'd do anything to be touched like this" dynamics. i *truly deeply* adore ships where someone is a substitute for the *real* person their partner wants and they know it. and Tim in that dynamic will always get me. i think SladeTim works well for them both knowing Slade is pretending he's fucking Dick- maybe even calling Tim by Dick's name. and Tim allows it, bc it's part of the agreement. Slade gets what he wants and Tim gets what he wants. Dick will never be fucked up enough to want the things Slade likes in bed even if Slade manages to sleep with Dick- but Tim, the little fucking freak he is, will.

and i think feelings blooming out of that is fun, them accidentally falling for each other and neither expecting it bc rlly, they should've fallen for anyone else. i'd love to write an aromantic SladeTim fic though, i won't lie. where an aromantic Tim goes to one person he's confident won't fall for him romantically. and Slade develops almost fatherly feelings for Tim in the process. and not an ounce of it is romantic, but it makes for a complicated sort of almost-love between them. i think i prefer any SladeRobin ship with some kind of fatherly love from Slade thrown into the mix, and given Tim's loss of his own father is a very fresh wound, they have the most potential for that.

TLDR: the fun of this ship is that *because* there's so little canon, it makes for an endless sea of potential. and there's so many fantastic fics that explore it *very* well. i think they'd be neat.

[targaryenfelikayt]

+1. |The Dark Pictures Anthology: House Of Ashes|

characters: Salim Othman, Eric King, Jason Kolchek, Nicolas «Nick» Kay. wc: 967 summary: a collection of soft, intimate headcanons that peek into the quiet, oddly tender moments shared with your favorite slashers.. tags/warnings: domestic fluff, established relationship, unexpected pregnancy, slice of life, supportive husband. note: comrades, treat the topic of motherhood with full responsibility, and in the meantime enjoy these men in the role of daddies:)

Salim Othman.

Spreading the decorative pillows on both sides of the couch, you plopped down with satisfaction, munching on a fluffy pastry left over from dinner. Salim was finishing up the dishes while the TV channels flicked by in a colorful kaleidoscope.

Everything would have been fine if he hadn’t spent the past few days casting long, lingering glances on your way, eyes often settling on your figure, only to deflect any questions with vague replies. When you felt his gaze again, you couldn’t hold it in, setting the pastry aside:

“How long is this going to keep happening?”

The water stopped running, foam collecting at the bottom of the sink. Salim wiped his hands on a towel, tossed it over his shoulder, and sat across from you, right on the coffee table.

“My love, don’t take this the wrong way, but... I think you might be pregnant.”

“I would’ve noticed,” you arch an eyebrow in disbelief, but his serious expression makes you second-guess yourself. “...Wouldn’t I?”

“Let’s confirm or disprove my theory.”

He disappears into another room, leaving you alone. An uneasy feeling creeps in, like the living room is no longer your home but an old, unwelcome memory. On top of that is the bizarre realization: you and Salim might become parents.

You stare at the test he brings back minutes later, unsure of what result you want to see. The tension becomes unbearable, so you hand it to him, silently begging him to read it instead.

“Just don’t stay silent, just…”

Before you can finish, Salim sinks to his knees in front of you, gently pressing his forehead to your still-flat belly. His palms caress your thighs, then slowly slide upward until they find your hands — the hands of the mother of his child, or maybe children.

Eric King.

This whole story could’ve turned into a lighthearted joke someday: how Eric planned a romantic seafood dinner, and you both ended up sick in bed for days afterward.

Except the tests revealed that it wasn’t food poisoning or parasites bothering you, but a shared child. So tiny that when they showed it on the screen, you didn’t even see anything, just nodded along while clutching your husband’s hand tighter.

That evening, he finds a shadowy figure — you, wrapped in his old black hoodie, eating pistachio ice cream straight from the tub, bathed in the glow of the fridge light, not reacting to his presence at all.

“Eric, I’m scared,” you mumble as he leans in to hug you from behind. “Scared of being a bad mother.”

“If you're truly unsure, I won’t pressure you, we’ll do what feels right. But if it’s just fear talking, we’ll get through it. Together.”

Your worries may seem irrational, but the reason behind them is very real: with a job like his, making long-term plans is difficult. Working late at HQ is still far better than being deployed into danger zones.

You’ll both have to change a lot, but Eric is ready, if his treasure and the baby growing inside her are safe, loved, and close to him.

Jason Kolchek.

Who would've guessed Jason would be that kind of dad, the one who could be wrapped around your finger. Want a vacation? Done. Though, sometimes his panicked overreactions go a bit far. Like the yellow nursery walls? He’ll paint them overnight and build all the furniture the next morning. Want him to be present during labor? It's harder, but he’ll swallow his pride if that’s what makes you feel more secure.

By the last months, your belly has grown by the hour. Swollen legs made moving around the house a challenge for long walks? Out of the question. But Jason had a fix for that too:

“Only upside to my current state: no need for a food tray.” You pointed to the perfectly balanced plate of pancakes on your bump.

“You’ve got to find the silver lining, even when you're deep in shit, that's what the army taught me, babe.”

He massaged your legs to ease the swelling, occasionally pausing to take calls from fellow soldiers demanding a report on his latest mission. You’d insisted the trip was for a “very important matter,” but he wouldn’t budge today was your beach day, and not even cloudy forecasts would ruin it.

“Jason, I feel awkward...” you confessed, making him look up in surprise.

“Awkward because you’re irresistibly cute?” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “So… can I start calling you Mommy now? You already called me Daddy.”

You knew that look anywhere.

Nicolas “Nick” Kay.

Somehow, Nick stepped right into both roles, the head of the household and a father. He wasn’t always around, whisked away by military duty or other obligations, and while frustrating, he wasn’t wrong. That’s the life he chose.

Welcoming a baby didn’t change your world dramatically. There were late-night kicks, aversions to your favorite foods, swelling, and backaches and when Nick couldn’t be there, your friends or overly concerned parents picked up the slack.

After birth, seeing the exhaustion in your eyes, Nick started getting up for the night feeding himself, warming the bottle, checking the temperature on his wrist. During the day, he cooked, cleaned, and did the laundry. Domestic life? Fully claimed.

“What would I do without you, Nick?”

Mechanical lullaby notes floated through the nursery filled with gifted toys. You weren’t sure if the baby even dreamed yet, but you knew he was happy. And that was enough.

“Without me, there wouldn’t be a baby.” He cheekily pinched your now-curvier hips. “And now the parents deserve a break. Want something to drink?”

“Hot cocoa. And all the cuddles. My sentimentality is going wild.”

Wrapped in each other’s arms, you left the nursery, quietly closing the door. Nick busied himself in the kitchen, mumbling about one thing still left undone, planting a tree.

Ladies, I have received all your requests. They will be implemented, I am busy with exams now🌺

[trashdragon4]

Having incredibly Jason Todd flavoured thoughts in regard to Toi Dericottes poem “Speculations About “I””

I read this poem in class the other day and immediately thought ab my boy Jay. So i finally sat down today and messily vomited the below words into a document, please enjoy.

Heres the poem link: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/90292/speculations-about-i (in case u want to read it normally, as it is a banger of a poem)

Ok, so I feel like this is post death, early resurrection. This is Jason borderline catatonic, wandering the streets of Gotham having just dug himself from his grave, begging for the only safety he’s ever really known. This is Jason in the hospital, desperate for a comfort he’s unaware he ever had (Bruce, his dad, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry).

This is post Lazurus pit, with the league, with Talia. Jason is hardly more conscious than before, but sometimes he feels things now, the adrenaline of a fight, the hot sharp pain of a blade, he’s something closer to alive. But he’s a mere observer in his own body, and he hardly ever observes (he doesn’t want to see the carnage).

He’s gaining control now, battling the Lazurus pit, gaining consciousness as well. He doesn’t know where he ends and it begins, and he’s not sure if cares, if he should care.

Who is he now? What does he remember? He clings to those fragments, however painful they are and are becoming, because they are all he has left of himself, of Bruce, of Robin. In a way they are still shaping him, they are the tools Talia wields to carve him into what she needs him to become.

The Lazurus pit, it stifles what remains of him, pushes it deep down, he lets it, helps it even. It’s easier this way. Now all he has is the anger, and the stories he’s been told, they fuel it.

A memory, his childhood, he found himself, in his first life, in the grime of crime alley. He grew up in the filth and abuse and neglect and he loved it despite it all because it was familiar, a comfort, he loves it still. He hides this piece of himself amongst the scattered fragments of his mind.

Sometimes he wonders if he should’ve stayed dead. He thinks that maybe it would be better if he hadn’t clawed his way up from the dirt, if he had crumpled up like so many others on Gotham’s streets, if Talia hadn’t found him. He’s here now though and through the poison he lets her feed him he plots. Memory and musings will do him no good, so he will let them fall away.

The prodigal son returns. Except not really, he’s back in the physical sense and he’s trying, trying so hard to do what no one else will. He will be the saviour to all those his Father couldn’t (wouldn’t) save. He’s building a new safer home from the ground up, brick by brick. He’s in control for the first time in years and then he’s standing on that rooftop facing Bruce His Dad Batman with a gun in his hand and a countdown on his wrist and he didn’t see the batarang coming but it slices through his throat and he can’t breathe.

He is not the Jason of his memories, not the little bird who thought Robin was magic. He is the cage that little birds get trapped in.

Internal conflict, the fragments of himself are locked in opposition, he does not know who to trust, what to do, how to move forward.

He has broken the one unbreakable rule he was raised with, over and over and over, and he will do it again. It wasn’t that he wanted to kill, he wanted someone to protect him. No one did. He will protect himself now, protect everyone that needs protection. And so he clips the little birds wings.

This is all he is, no matter the justification. His survival is not one to be celebrated, and as far as he’s aware it hasn’t been. He is life at the cost of life.

He has failed everyone he has ever cared for, broken every promise to them that he made. Bruce, His Mother (both of them), Alfred, Dick, Babs, everyone. He never cared enough to promise himself anything.

[shellkissed]

would i be able to request the same fic as the daryl tofa one but with jason??

where reader and jason are in a secret relationship? but the reader is an Ace understudy?

thank you so much!!!

Authors Note: yes ofc anon! guys I hate school-i do NOT wanna go anymore😤

Loving in Secret

Jason Schmidt x fem!reader

You and Jason had always had an unspoken connection—one that started in the quiet moments between rehearsals, the stolen glances, the way your conversations felt easier with him than with anyone else. But neither of you could let anyone else in on it.

As Ace's understudy in The Outsiders musical, you were part of a rare dynamic within the gang. The role was important to you, but it also meant you were constantly under pressure. There were expectations for you to fit into this tough, confident mold that Ace wore with ease, and Jason had always been there, quietly supportive, but never making a move. That was, until one night after rehearsal…

It was the end of a long week, and everyone had gone home except for you and Jason. You’d stayed behind in the rehearsal hall, running over Ace’s line (s), your script spread out in front of you on the floor. Your mind was scattered, thinking about the pressure you felt to perform well as an understudy while also being part of the gang and, of course, trying to keep your secret relationship from the others.

Jason appeared in the doorway, glancing around the empty room before stepping in. “Still here?” His voice was soft, with that hint of concern you’d grown so used to hearing.

“Yeah,” you muttered, not looking up. “Just… trying to get everything right.”

Jason’s eyes softened. He knew how much the role meant to you, how much everything meant. You’d talked about it before—how Ace’s role was a balancing act of strength and vulnerability, how you sometimes felt like you didn’t fit in. He stepped closer, sitting next to you on the floor, close enough that his shoulder brushed against yours.

“I think you’ve got it,” he said quietly, glancing down at your script. “You’re gonna be great as Ace, just like you always are.”

You smiled faintly, finally meeting his gaze. The warmth of his expression made the weight on your shoulders lighten, but only slightly. You couldn’t deny the growing tension between you two—it had been building for months, both of you trying to keep your feelings hidden.

“You always say that,” you said with a small laugh, trying to brush off the emotion that had been stirring inside you.

He smirked, but there was something different in his eyes. “Well, it’s true.” Then his gaze dropped to your lips. “You’re… incredible. Don’t forget that.”

Your heart skipped. For a moment, everything around you felt distant. The rehearsals, the expectations, the pressures of being Ace’s understudy—they all melted away, leaving only Jason, his face inches from yours. You couldn’t help it. Without thinking, you leaned in, your lips meeting his softly at first, but it was enough to ignite something you’d both been holding back.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling with his as the world around you felt like it vanished entirely. You’d dreamed of moments like this, but now that they were here, you couldn’t stop. But even in this moment, you knew there were rules you both had to follow. This had to remain a secret.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, you rested your forehead against his, your heart racing. “Jason… we can’t… we have to keep this quiet.”

His thumb gently traced your cheek. “I know,” he whispered, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I just… I want everyone to know how amazing you are. Not just as Ace, but… as you.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. “I don’t want themto find out. I don’t want to mess things up. I’m already walking this line with Ace’s role.”

Jason nodded, understanding. “We’ll keep it quiet. But I can’t pretend I don’t care about you.”

“I care about you too,” you whispered back.

For a moment, there was just the sound of your hearts beating in sync, a silent agreement to keep your love secret, but to cherish it in the quiet moments, the stolen kisses, and the shared glances when no one was watching.

The rehearsal hall became your safe place, where you could both forget about the world for a while. As the days passed, your secret relationship became a little more complicated. You had to keep your focus on your time as Ace, knowing the pressure on you would only grow. But Jason was always there, quietly supporting you, never pushing for more than you were ready to give.

And in the midst of the chaos of being a greaser, of learning the lines, of navigating the expectations placed on you, there was Jason. A constant, steady presence in your life, your secret, your love. No one else could know—not yet—but the connection between you two was undeniable, and it was something you’d hold onto, no matter what.

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

Author's Note: hola chicas y chicos!

[valdangelodreams]

Au #30 (separated?)

I had a dream of what I think was the prequel to au #27 of this series, and I have more questions than answers

-so, high-school au

-the dream did not happen chronologically, so I tried to put everything in order

-it started at the climax more or less

-anyways, so it starts when Nico starts dating this guy right?

-and it was like implied that everyone thought the guy was great with him bc Nico started being healthier and such

-but he also started hanging out less and less, and for some reason no one called him out on it?

-and Leo notices because him and Nico had had this relationship where they started hating each other but having to see each other bc of shared friends and then eventually became close

-and Leo became like the person who knew Nico the best, and Nico him, and so he immediately thought him ditching hangouts for his new boyfriends was a huge red flag

-so he tries to bring this up to the others and everyone kept making it like Leo was just jealous

-but the guy hears him and starts trying to turn Nico against Leo, but like making him avoid Leo and not talk to him

-and also he was constantly managing the things Nico did and didn't do or say, and calling him annoying, and generally bullying him into changing his personality on the side

-and there was also a show of some sort that both Nico and Leo were a part of, which was important

-so Leo's feeling awful because he's watching his friend destroy himself and no one else can see it

-and it reaches a point where he's like so tired of it all and he just like decided to call it quits, bc he can't keep doing this

-and so he decides to use the show as a way to say goodbye to Nico, so he manages to talk to him one on one and ask him to stay and listen to his turn

-that's where the dream started, with Leo prepping to go on stage and Nico who just performed trying to stop his boyfriend from dragging him away

-and then Leo came on stage and started playing the saddest song, and Nico realizes that he's saying goodbye

-so he returns home with this in his head and he sort of happens upon this box that's labelled 'to burn' and it's full of pictures of him with Leo, and some with everyone

-and he has a full on epiphany and confronts the guy he's dating and then confronts everyone else

-and there was a specific scene where he was like "if getting better means abandoning everything and everyone I care abt then I don't want to get better" (this was where I woke up btw)

-this was to piper, bc she was like saying Nico shouldn't end his relationship since it was so good for him, and Leo was just being jealous

-and then for some reason that convo turned into them saying how Leo was jealous of Piper for years bc he liked Jason but he never got in between them

-and it was like everyone knew except Jason and Piper, like Percy commented that he thought everyone knew (I thought this was funny)

-and there was also a scene where I saw Nico running around town looking for Leo

-but I don't think he did, which is why I want to believe it was the prequel to the reunion

-like, I think they both realized their feelings, but Nico realized as he was desperately looking for Leo

-and like, if that doesn't build tension

[garymerlow]

🎧 owenge pls!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

you want owenge you got owenge!

"The shade is a tool, a device, a savior / I try and look up / But my eyes burn." [My Own Summer (Shove It) - Deftones]

------

“Oh, fuck, Jay, yes, right there.” Mark moans in a voice that comes out more wobbly than he’d like, were he in his right mind right then.

But he’s laid out on a quilt somewhere in a secluded part of Gary’s expansive property, covered in sweat from the summer heat and his own exertion even though he’s under the shade of a massive tree, and Jason’s fucking into him like it’s what he was born to do.

Maybe it was, for all Mark knew. He was certainly making it hard to concentrate on much else except for the feel of his cock inside of him along with his hands maneuvering between his cock, his painfully erect nipples, and his hair when they came together to kiss. 

He’s not even sure how they ended up like this anymore; what had at first been simply lazing about and drinking a few beers together while Gary and Howard were busy elsewhere had suddenly turned to them stripping their clothes off, making out as they explored their naked bodies, and now Jason fucking him.

He’s certainly not complaining, not after all the surely not subtle moves he’d been trying to put on Jay in the last few months.

Mark’s thoughts are cut off by Jason’s hand going back around his aching cock, expertly moving in a way that it matched each of his thrusts into him, and it made Mark toss his head back against the soft fabric under him with a long groan that he didn’t bother suppressing.

”That’s right, Markie, that’s right,” Jason says with labored huffs, not letting up with his ministrations as he leans forward to press a hot, wet kiss against his jaw next to his ear “Are you gonna come for me?”

Mark whines, both at the kiss and the question, and also at how Jason’s voice even in the heat of the moment curls up warmly in his belly like comfort and love. 

What did he ever do to deserve this from Jay?

”Yeah, Jay,” he finally gets out, hands scrabbling for Jason’s hipbones in a silent plea to fuck him harder “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come for you.”

Mark’s had his eyes closed the whole time, he’s not even sure why besides maybe the intensity of the pleasure — or maybe some other reason he’d rather not consider if he wanted to stay aroused but had a tinge of something Robbie shaped to it —, but he’s not surprised when Jason then asks for him to look at him as they both seem to creep closer and closer to their orgasms.

When Mark does open his eyes, Jason’s head is haloed by the bright sun peeking through the leaves and limbs of the tree over them. It’s so goddamn bright, and Mark can hardly see Jason’s face, really.

But there’s not much time to think about it, because suddenly the coil of arousal deep in his gut tightens as his orgasm builds, and Jason’s turning his hand on his cock in such a way that the breath starts to leave him a little bit.

He can tell Jason’s close, too. He’s hardly leaving much time between thrusts, and Mark’s sure he’s going to be walking funny for the next couple of days at least. 

Right as his orgasm starts to crest, he looks at Jason, tries to find his eyes but finds he can’t because of the brightness of the sun. His eyes start to burn with hot tears as he comes all over Jason’s hand and their stomachs, and Jason’s got his teeth sunk into his shoulder as he lets out a guttural moan and comes deep inside him a few seconds later.

As Jason slumps on top of him and his cock comes out of his hole, Mark’s left breathing heavy as tears run down from the corner of his eyes to collect on his ears and in his hair. 

He’s not even sure why he’s still crying as he turns away from the sun, burying his nose into Jason’s sweaty hair and breathing him in. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

He just grabs onto any part of Jason’s slowly relaxing body he can reach and holds on.

[tr4umaborn]

** IMPORTANT INFO RE: TJ HAMMOND

a study in. drug abuse / addiction,  self harm,  suicidal ideation / attempts,  over dosing,    bipolar I disorder  (  which includes mania episodes,  heavy depressive episodes,  anxiety,  and minor psychosis breaks  ),  bdsm / submissive behaviors,  sex as a coping mechanism,  in being the bad twin,  the nature of growing up addicted,  undiagnosed mental illness, the golden gay, an opposite role model, making music until your fingers bleed, the minor chord, living fast dying young

full name. thomas james hammond also known as. tj, teej, golden boy date of birth. 02 / 19 / 1984 age. 38 zodiac. pisces sun / libra moon / leo rising gender. male (ish) pronouns. he / they romantic orientation. homoromantic sexual orientation. homosexual occupation. pianist / influencer / model species. human birthplace. raleigh, north carolina, united states current home. new york city, ny, us nationality. he's never asked beyond being american ethnicity. just another dumbass white boy language(s). english parents. president elain barrish, former president bud hammond siblings. twin brother - douglas hammond other family members. lydia martin - basically a sister thanks significant other + children.  canon: mieczyslaw stilinski-hammond (husband) @mieczlw jason stilinski-hammond (son) @jasnstilnski the bee and jenna cinematic universe: antonio dominico marcus rizzotti marvel au: bucky barnes @whtwclf faceclaim. thomas doherty hair. brown + short eyes. baby blues height. 6 ft build. as an addict: too skinny for his own good when sober: muscular from getting addicted to the gym dominant hand. left scars. one of his left arm from the singular time he shot up, plenty of scars on his chest and back for boys who were too rough both in the bedroom and in the bar tattoo. many small pieces in easily coverable places piercings. one on his right ear, many on his left ear, had an eyebrow piercing decided against it, nose stud and septum vurrent positive traits. sensitive, whimsical, romantic, charming, artistic, gentle, love of beauty and harmony negative traits. gullible, gregarious, dependent, cagey likes. giving and receiving gifts, sweets, coffee, massages, cocaine (unfortunately), fuck boys (even more unfortunately) dislike. being wrong, being proven wrong, fears & phobias. disappointment, drowning wishes & dreams. to not be in the spotlight because of his family, but instead because of himself. mbit. ESFP - The Entertainer moral alignment. neutral evil enneagram type. type 3 - the achiever

biography.

 THE GOLDEN SON  𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. now imagine the feeling of floating away into the nether reaches of space. imagine the way slipping up into the air would make you feel – do you feel the air around you at all? is there enough oxygen to make the trip sliding up through the sky and into the unknown worth it? or will the whole experience just leave you clawing at your own skin because it’s burning from the inside out without the attentive oxygen filling up your pores?

the headline read : 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚'𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐲 but there’s nothing golden about the downward decent into enveloping madness. he was not born mad ( and really is anyone? ) but had the madness set upon him by the events that took place. born ninety seconds before his twin brother douglas, thomas james hammond was smiling when he came out into the world. it may be hard to tell now, but from that first moment he has always known that he wanted to experience all that life had to offer. the happiness didn’t end much at all in the first ten years of his life ( except for when it did, but according to doctors he was simply a growing boy with a growing mind ). even through the first campaign and moving into the white house ( seven year olds still in awe that they have this much space to play in ) his smile stayed so strong. there were things that made it even brighter : his brother, his mama, telling stories with a flashlight under the blanket long past their bedtime. but there was one thing that kept him happy, kept the madness at bay when it threatened to show its burning head.

music never wanted to kill him. while it may be an artist’s curse to feel everything so fucking fully, it isn’t the art form that grabbed him with sharp jaws. he picked up his first piece of sheet music at three years old, and everyone in the family broke out the camcorders. 𝐨𝐡 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐠𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐫 they’d say as he banged tiny fingers on keys. those tiny fingers grew into the keys. passion and music weaved together, only those within his most inner circle allowed to see what really showed. books upon books begin to get filled through the years. music notes that look like water as they swim across the pages of score sheets. his happiness isn’t dependent on his music, but his music has always and will always provide him with natural serotonin that he chases after in the powder of small bags.

fear and loathing keep him from doing well in school. doug is the favorite twin with grades and extra curriculars that fill out the resume how every college wishes it would. he’ll go to princeton or yale or harvard or wherever the fuck he wants and tj instead knows exactly where he’s headed ( 𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 ) but his steps to get there are the difficult part. first he must survive high school : where his best friends are snow and addie. they provide the blanket of protection he needs when he finds himself on the wrong side of his first tmz article.

the first son is a fag? it didn’t say that, but when he read it it really may as well have. the world plucked him from the closet just before y2k ; a fifteen year old boy with a life sentence. first came tmz, then the times article, and then before he knew it he’s suddenly the country’s most famous gaybie. to america that makes him their sweetheart, but the world never knows what sweethearts do when they’re craving sweet tarts.

the same year he found himself on the wrong side of a conversation. while the world doesn’t know it, having your father be the 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚 really makes these trying times much easier to keep undisclosed, he knows the truth of it all. the good ole boy’s private school couldn’t have a drug addicted slut making a bad name for their school, so they banished him to the other realm. or you know. . . expelled him. he finds himself in the countryside of france for the next two years where catholicism is the ruling decree and drug addicts rule the halls. it’s here he rules the school with charlotte arnold by his side, and cross my heart and hope to die those two are a dangerous duo.

college isn’t for everyone, but for a hammond it is an expectation. he’ll start his education one place, and eventually end it in another. the location doesn’t matter : after all there are phones on cameras and street corners now. his antics can destroy his life no matter what he ends up. wherever he is, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬.

 COCAINE DREAMS  and what about the snow? playing in the white confection as the world keeps spinning around you. it’s comfortable, holding you and keeping you warm when the world outside is desperately freezing. why wouldn’t you jump into it’s open arms that widen more for you? it doesn’t feel good to leave it’s grasp so you stay there. where you are wanted. where you are needed. 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝.

he feels everything so fully that even empathy doesn’t cover it. with elders describing his symptoms as a side effect of drug abuse, tj knows the symptoms came first. 𝐢𝐟 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 ( and if only when he screamed it was outside of his mind ) they wouldn’t feel the pain of every time he runs. snow opens her beautiful arms for him and through out his twenties he jumped too far into her arms. some moments were easy – someone at a party helped him sleep it off or his few friends gave him the space to grieve the loss of his sanity. other moments hurt more – nearly dying in a crackhouse in canada just over the border line from buffalo. or the time he thought a bottle of downers was a bottle of uppers and sent himself spiraling more when trying to fix his own problems. he’ll hurt those he loves with every gram that goes up his nose.

after tj and doug turned 24, elaine barrish hammond began her first campaign for president. in a never shocking turn of events, people seemed more interested in a third term of bud ( even though they knew the scandals he locked in his closet ) instead of elaine. he doesn’t care ; after all, a tour de usa means he can find a fuck in all 50 states. they want to use him as a puppet like always? not a person, not a son, but a 𝐭𝐨𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞.

she ends up secretary of state, and tj ends up with a forced residency in dc once again. at 25 years old he is beginning to 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠. no one notices when republican senator sean reeves of ohio begins to steal glances at the ex first son. what’s worse is the reciprocation. tj on the wrong end of those glances turns into allowing someone to devour him whole while knowing he’ll spit him up and throw him out. the details of his sobriety, and his happiness, are unfortunately unimportant ( after all, they come at the hands of a false idol ) and instead the focus shifts to the inevitable ending. our sweetheart feels the false love ooze from every pore ; it leaves him as the tears spill from his red rimmed eyes. there’s a car, and a garage, and it’s all he can think to do in a split second. how might a mother, who loves her children with all of her heart despite how she hurts them so, feel when she finds her son no longer inhaling fumes because he’s passed out? ask elaine barrish.

no one knows for over a year, names and pseudonyms being confused and dispersed. forced sobriety normally didn’t work for tj, but this time rehab seemed to get through to him. he can maintain a sense of sobriety, nothing that’s considered illegal or prescribed to others, until 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. the puppet is now a pawn, an article being published on the suicide attempt of america’s sweetheart. he watches the story unfold on the news while sharing a straw to soak up snow on his dealer’s couch.

the rest of his life will never look the same. he realizes that sobriety is a privilege he has to work for. feeling everything makes the lows lower and the highs higher. when no one will name it ( maybe one day a doctor will say the word bipolar to him outloud ) how can you treat it? mania gives him excitement, but with it comes his chest being ripped to shreds by his own mind. 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭, 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭?

[lisacameron99]

Surface Tension Part 2

Warnings: emotional distress, stalking implications, verbal fight, panic, homophobia (implied), mental health, injury recovery, strong language, past trauma (non-explicit), dark humor, overprotectiveness, flirtation.

Spencer caught Noel between classes, just outside the student lounge, where the buzz of chatter and the click of lockers made everything feel too normal for the kind of conversation she was about to start. He was leaning against the wall, clearly exhausted but trying to play it cool, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes half-focused—probably from spending the night at the hospital.

“Hey,” she said, falling into step beside him. “How’s Lily?”

Noel looked over at her, a little guarded but not hostile. “Still in the hospital. Scared. Bruised up. Shaky. But alive.” He paused. “Thanks for asking.”

Spencer nodded, then glanced around, lowering her voice. “Okay, this might sound insane, but… I was at Jason’s house yesterday. He’s building a dark room. In the middle of the night. Alone.”

Noel blinked. “A dark room? Like… for photography?”

“Yeah. Except the windows are blacked out, there are locks on the inside, and I swear the smell of chemicals was enough to knock me over. And he shut the door the second I asked what it was.”

Noel’s brow furrowed. “Why the hell would Jason DiLaurentis need a secret dark room?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Spencer whispered. “He said it was for developing photos from his old camera but… something about it felt off. Like he was hiding something. Or waiting for something.”

Noel exhaled through his nose, clearly uncomfortable. “That dude gives me the creeps. Always has. Alison trusted him one minute and hated him the next—she never explained why.”

Spencer looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You and Ali talked about Jason?”

“Not really. Just… she said to avoid him. That he kept secrets even she wasn’t allowed to know.”

They both stood there, the unspoken weight of the conversation pressing between them.

“So what do we do?” Noel finally asked, voice low. “If Jason’s got something to do with Lily’s crash, or A, or worse… how do we even prove it?”

Spencer swallowed. “I don’t know. But I’m not letting him scare me off. Not again.”

Neither of them said it, but the truth hung between them like a fog: Jason was hiding something. And it felt like whatever it was… had teeth.

---

The hallway behind the gym was almost always empty during sixth period. It was where people went to skip, cry, or scream. Today, it was where Justin found Noel.

Noel barely had time to turn around before Justin shoved him back against the lockers—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make a point. The kind of point only a big brother could make.

“You don’t get to pretend everything’s fine,” Justin snapped, chest heaving. “You don’t get to sit by her hospital bed and hold her fucking hand like you didn’t break her.”

Noel’s face twisted. “Justin—”

“You’re my best friend.” Justin’s voice cracked, raw with betrayal. “And you broke her.”

Noel shoved him back this time, stepping forward, eyes blazing. “I didn’t break her! You know what did—you know what did!” His voice rose, echoing down the hall. “Ian. Ali. Jenna. Jason. All of it. She was already shattered before I ever touched her.”

“Then why the hell did you stay?!” Justin roared. “If you knew she was hurting like that, why’d you stay and make it worse?!”

Spencer had followed the shouting, wide-eyed and silent at the corner. She didn’t step in—she couldn’t. It was two of her favorite people, both bleeding in different ways, and she didn’t know who to reach for.

That’s when Asher and Caleb came sprinting in from opposite ends of the hallway.

“Yo—hey!” Caleb cut between them, one hand on Justin’s chest. “Breathe. Stop.”

Asher stepped between Noel and the lockers, voice low but firm. “Enough, man. We get it. But this isn’t helping her.”

Justin was still fuming, shaking, fists clenched. Noel looked like he wanted to keep yelling but had already said too much.

Spencer stepped back quietly, unnoticed, slipping around the corner with her heart pounding. She pulled out her phone and opened her messages.

Spencer, 2:48 PM

Toby, can you check on Justin? He’s not okay. Like… really not okay.

She hit send before she could second-guess it. Because watching that fight? Watching them fall apart? It had cracked something open in her too.

---

The Brew was quiet in that in-between hour—post-school rush, pre-dinner lull. The kind of stillness that made it easier to fall apart without anyone noticing. Justin sat in the farthest booth, hoodie pulled up, earbuds in but not playing anything. Just static silence. Just space. Just… nothing.

Toby spotted him instantly. He didn’t say anything at first—just grabbed two coffees, nodded to the barista, and slid into the booth across from him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Justin didn’t look up. Toby waited. Finally, with a sigh that sounded like it came from somewhere deep in his chest, Justin yanked out his earbuds. “If you’re here to tell me I was out of line, save it.”

“I’m not,” Toby said, calm as ever. “I’m here because you look like you’re about to implode.”

Justin scoffed. “Cool. Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Justin stared at his coffee like it might bite him. Then, suddenly—everything poured out.

“I hate this place. I hate the way people look at me. Like being bi is some kind of punchline or threat. I hate how Noel gets to mess up and still be the golden boy. I hate that I get it—why Lily didn’t tell us what happened to her, because what the hell could we have done? And now she’s in the hospital, and I’m yelling at the one person who actually stayed, and I’m so tired, Toby. I’m just—fuck—I’m so tired of pretending I’m okay.”

Toby didn’t flinch. Just let him talk. Let him rant and spiral and fall apart without judgment. When Justin finally paused—voice raw, chest heaving, hands trembling around his coffee—Toby leaned forward.

“I’ve been there,” he said quietly. “Different situation. Same weight. You can’t hold all of this by yourself.” Justin looked away.

“I’m not saying go back to therapy if it didn’t help,” Toby continued. “But maybe try again. Dr. Sullivan. Or someone at the school. Because the stuff with Lily is a lot, man. And being out at Rosewood High? Where half the football team thinks ‘f*ggot’ is still a joke? That’s a lot too.”

Justin didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded.

---

The news came in quietly. No drama. No warning. Just a doctor with a soft voice and a clipboard full of information Lily didn’t want.

There was some nerve damage. Some instability in her knee. They wouldn’t know the full scope until after more healing, more scans, more tests. But the odds were… not great. She might never play volleyball again. Might never run a court, feel the sting of a hard spike, hear the crowd chant her name. Might never be that version of herself again.

Lily stared at the ceiling in silence. Blank. Numb. Her fingers curled into the thin hospital blanket like she was trying to ground herself in something. Anything.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered eventually. “I don’t know who I am without it.”

Mark sat beside her bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “We’ll figure it out.”

“How?” Her voice cracked. “Volleyball was it, Dad. It was the only thing I was ever good at.”

Mark shook his head gently. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” she snapped, harsher than she meant to. “I’m not smart like Spencer. I’m not fearless like Em. I’m not stylish like Hanna. I can kinda sing, I guess, and I suck at piano. And I’m a mess. I smoke weed and drink and hook up with people I shouldn’t and I just—I needed volleyball.” Mark reached for her hand, but she flinched away.

“You’re allowed to fall apart,” he said softly. “But just because I’m your dad doesn’t mean I’d lie to you. You’re so much more than one thing.”

Lily looked away, eyes glassy. “You have to say that. You’re my dad.” Mark exhaled slowly, then pulled out his phone and fired off a text with one hand. No explanation. Just:

Mark, 3:27 PM

Emergency Hanna call. Pack up.

Less than ten minutes later, the door cracked open, and Hanna Marin walked in wearing leggings, a slightly oversized Rosewood T-shirt, and her blonde hair knotted in a lazy bun on top of her head. No makeup. No drama.

Lily blinked at her. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“Comfy clothes,” Hanna said, deadpan. “Because we’re going to investigate Garrett Reynolds, and I refuse to run from shady men in heels today.”

Lily snorted—actual, real laughter. Just a little. But it cracked through the storm cloud hovering above her chest. And for the first time that day, she smiled.

---

iykyk, 11:08 AM

Lily

Okay someone tell me something interesting before I lose my mind and pull my IV out for fun

Hanna

You’d make it five feet. Six if you drag the pole dramatically.

Emily

So… Spencer and I did a little late-night sneaking

Spencer

Understatement. We broke into Jason’s house.

Kind of. Not really. But sort of.

Lily

Please tell me he’s not building a bunker. Or a sex dungeon.

Spencer

Worse. He’s building a darkroom. Like, full blackout, chemical-smelling, sketch city.

And we found photos.

Emily

Of Melissa. Of Alison.

And… of you, Lily.

Lily

Me?!

Hanna

Okay but WHY

Spencer

They weren’t new. We think they’re from the party the night before Ali disappeared.

But they were hidden. Like, tucked away in an old envelope. Labeled with initials.

Lily

That’s not normal. That’s serial killer behavior.

Emily

We don’t know if Jason took them or found them or what, but it’s off.

Hanna

Can’t we just ask him why he’s got a stalker scrapbook?

Spencer

We don’t have enough to confront him yet. Not without sounding completely insane.

Aria

So in conclusion: love that for us

Also—Mike’s still acting weird. Avoiding everyone. Slammed the door in my face this morning.

Lily

Send the boy over. I’ve got nowhere to be and an impressive amount of guilt-trip energy.

---

The door creaked open and Mike Montgomery appeared, all hoodie and hunched shoulders, as if this was a punishment instead of a favor.

“Why am I here?” he asked flatly.

Lily didn’t look up right away. “Because I can’t leave. And because your sister is worried. And because I’m bored, and apparently the only thing more depressing than hospital food is watching you self-destruct.”

Mike shifted awkwardly, but didn’t leave. “I’m not self-destructing.”

Lily finally looked up. “You don’t have to lie to me, Mike. I’m not your mom. Or Aria. I’m… also a mess. So you’re in good company.” He didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor.

Lily patted the edge of the bed. “Sit. I’ve got time. And enough emotional trauma to make whatever you’re going through look like a spa day.”

Mike sat. And for a second, just one, it felt like maybe neither of them was totally alone in it.

---

The nurse wheeled Lily down the hall in a chair, Noel walking beside her with one hand resting on the back like he was resisting the urge to take over completely. Mark trailed a few steps behind, arms crossed, the familiar look of tired father exasperation written all over his face.

They stopped in front of room 212. Lily’s heart was still racing, her foot bouncing anxiously on the footrest. The second the nurse opened the door, she practically launched herself out of the chair—not quite gracefully, but determined—and made a beeline for Emily, who was propped up in bed with a nasal cannula and an IV. Her eyes were half-open, hazy and slow.

“What the hell, Em?” Lily snapped, crossing the room in three long steps. “You couldn’t have texted before collapsing?”

Emily blinked at her. “Hi to you too.”

“No,” Lily said, folding her arms. “Don’t hi me. You scared the shit out of everyone. You scared me.” Her voice cracked for half a second, but she caught it, swallowing hard. “Are you okay? Do you feel sick? Did you eat? Are you on fluids? Are you—”

“Lils,” Emily interrupted, half-laughing, half-drowsy. “You’re literally in the hospital too. Stop hovering like someone’s mom.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Lily muttered, yanking a chair closer and sitting down at Emily’s bedside like she was about to launch into a formal interrogation. “But I’m already broken. You don’t get to break now. It’s not allowed.”

Mark leaned against the doorframe, exchanging a glance with Noel, who was trying—and failing—not to grin.

“She’s in full mother hen mode,” Mark said under his breath.

“She always is,” Noel murmured. “It’s cute until she starts making us eat protein bars and threatening our lives.”

“You say that like it hasn’t happened.”

“It’s definitely happened.”

Back at Emily’s bedside, Lily tucked the blanket tighter around her friend and glared when Emily tried to move her IV line. “Stop fidgeting. You’re supposed to rest.”

Emily just smiled, small and grateful. “You’re really bad at being mad at me, you know.”

“Yeah,” Lily sighed, brushing her hair out of her face. “I’m working on it.”

---

Justin was sprawled on his bed, one leg hanging off the side, phone to his ear while Asher sat at his desk, flipping through a sketchbook and pretending not to eavesdrop even though he definitely was.

“Hey, Hanna,” Justin answered, voice already knowing. “What’s up?”

Hanna sat cross-legged on her bed, bare-faced, tshirt and pajama shorts on, hair in a loose braid. Her phone was balanced against a stuffed bear she definitely did not admit to still sleeping with.

“I’m so confused,” she groaned. “My dad is acting like we’re a real family again, and my mom is pretending not to notice, and I feel like I’m in some weird suburban soap opera where I’m about to walk in on them making out over a casserole.”

Justin snorted. “Jump ship.”

“I can’t jump ship,” she said dramatically. “Lily’s in recovery, Emily’s down the hall getting pumped full of saline, and if I leave, Spencer will guilt me into organizing her filing system again.”

Justin looked over at Asher, deadpan. “Vandalism?”

“Tempting,” Hanna said. “But it would cost money and I just bought a new pair of boots I don’t actually need.”

Asher finally chimed in, still doodling something with sharp corners. “Kick your dad out.”

There was a beat. Hanna blinked. “Huh.”

Justin raised a brow. “Now that’s a thought.”

“I mean,” Asher shrugged, “he doesn’t live there. And it sounds like he’s creeping around like it’s 2004 and nothing happened.”

Hanna flopped back against her pillows. “You think I could?”

Justin grinned. “You’re Hanna Marin. You could burn the house down and convince the fire department to apologize.”

She laughed for real this time. “God, I miss you idiots.”

Justin smiled. “We miss you too. Especially Lily. Especially when she’s high on painkillers and making dramatic speeches about how she peaked in eighth grade.”

“Ugh. Tell her I love her.”

“I will.”

“…And that I might be kicking my dad out.”

Justin and Asher said in unison:

“Do it.”

---

The room was buzzing in that quiet way it did when everyone was too tired to shout but too full of emotion to leave. Lily was propped up in bed, hoodie draped over her shoulders, hair in a loose braid that Hanna had done earlier. Justin and Asher were sitting in the window nook, passing a bag of trail mix back and forth while pretending not to flirt. Noel had claimed the chair beside Lily, hand lazily tangled in hers like it was second nature.

Caleb walked in holding two iced lemon waters and a paper bag from the café downstairs. “I come bearing gifts.”

“I knew I liked you,” Lily said, grabbing one with a grateful sigh. “Is it garlic bread?”

“Yup.”

She beamed. Caleb glanced between them, cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, uh… figured this was a good time to mention… I’m dating Hanna now.” Asher paused mid-chew. Justin looked up with a curious tilt of his head.

Noel just went, “Oh?” Lily blinked. Then slowly—dangerously—raised an eyebrow.

“Excuse me?” she said, deadly calm. “You’re dating Hanna Marin?”

Caleb nodded, suddenly looking very unsure of himself. “Yeah. I mean—she’s amazing. And it just kind of… happened.”

Lily folded her arms, full mom mode activated. “Okay, first of all: if you hurt her, I will personally cut off your dick. I’m not even joking. Sean was a wet rag and she deserves actual joy, not someone brooding in corners pretending to be mysterious.”

“Dude,” Justin muttered, trying not to laugh. Asher was already smiling way too wide.

“She likes chocolate in small doses,” Lily continued, eyes narrowed. “She’s weird about cake. She likes garlic bread more than she’ll ever admit, and she drinks lemonade like it’s holy water. And she doesn’t like big declarations unless they’re real. If you’re gonna show up, you show up.”

Caleb blinked. “Noted.” Lily took a breath, satisfied.

And that’s when Noel, who had been watching her like she hung the damn moon, leaned closer with a half-lidded, almost dazed look on his face and murmured, “I’m gonna marry you one day.” Lily turned bright red.

Justin groaned. “Jesus.”

Asher clapped once. “I live for this dynamic.”

And Caleb, stunned, just held out the garlic bread. “So… this is peace offering slash emotional bribe?”

Lily took it. “Smart move.”

[piastrinorris]

copying ur 2 titles: all your pictures on the floor / this dizzy dreamer

all your pictures on the floor: oh god. i never thought i'd choose to write cheerscoops angst. but that's what that's become

this dizzy dreamer: hmmm. i've been thinking about this one for a while now. and we're getting a chrissy cunningham double feature here bc i wanna talk photocheer!!

send me a fake fic title and i'll tell you what i'd write based on it!

all your pictures on the floor: chrissy's mum and jason's mum had like practically arranged for them to be childhood sweethearts turned eventual spouses and during chrissy's Teenage Rebel phase (at 18) she's like "and why can't i choose who i want to date, huh?! what's to stop me from dating whoever i want anyway behind all of your backs?! isn't that worse?" so laura is like "if you won't agree to a relationship with jason, you're not living under my roof"

so she ends up dating and running away to live with steve. charming, goofy, totally reformed former playboy steve. everything's a dream, at first. she even opts to not go to college so she can just start her domestic life with steve as soon as it starts. but they're both still way too young to be starting a lifestyle like that, and neither of them have had good role models. so even though they do have really good times together, the in between bits are full of little insecurities. any time one of them is home late from work, the other assumes that Something must be happening behind their backs, but they're both so inexperienced in adult relationships that neither of them talk about it. chrissy's fed up of working and being a homemaker but steve never had to lift a finger so he doesn't know how to cook or clean and chrissy doesn't want to have to teach him.

stuff like that builds up until eventually steve cracks and is like "look, you chose to live here, so if you're not happy, you can get out." and maybe this is just before chrissy goes off to work for the day, and when she gets back all her stuff is in boxes outside the harrington house. her family won't accept her back. jason's got a fiancée who he's obsessed with. so she gets a motel room for the night, looks in one of the boxes and sees that steve's given her all of their photo albums, too. so chrissy puts all the photos out across the room, of all the good times that they had, reminiscing of them, wondering where it went wrong, wondering if the "good" times even were that good. and she realises she's faced with the option of either trying to fend for herself with no support network, or going back to steve with her tail between her legs and repeating the cycle of being just like her mother, who she starts to realise was only setting her up w jason bc jason was the safe option she never went for as a kid. and she was hoping not to let history repeat itself. but it did

this dizzy dreamer: au in which chrissy is a popstar, and jonathan works for a music magazine. he takes photos for a piece on chrissy, and they are. stunning. they capture her vibe perfectly, even she loves how she looks in them, and that feature really helps her career kick off. she's about to do her first major all-american tour and she seeks jonathan out to be the photographer for the whole thing. (idk if this is a thing for everyone, but i've been seeing a lot of harry styles' tour on my fyp and he apparently has a photographer called lloyd so that's what i'm basing this off of)

anyway as they're touring, chrissy realises how introverted jonathan is and desperately tries to get him to open up around everyone so that he feels part of the ~tour family~. and ofc he does Not want to do that. but some nights when chrissy can't sleep, jonathan is up, too. except he's sitting on the roof of the tour bus, getting high. he offers to roll chrissy a joint, but she tells him that if she smokes a whole one all by herself it makes her dizzy and throws her off. but she'll stay up with him and talk to him.

he tells her he's up bc he worries about his brother back home. she tells him she has a little brother too. he tells her he knows, they've grown up together and she's never even realised it. that's why he's completely okay with this just being a professional relationship. but chrissy feels bad that she doesn't remember jonathan. but she still finds ways to connect with him through anecdotes like "remember when mike lewenski started that huge food fight in middle school?"

as the tour goes on, she starts getting stressed. people keep writing about her, and being a female in the public eye, a lot of tabloids are judging her, setting expectations for her she doesn't know how to keep. and so to help her calm down between shows, jonathan offers to share a joint with her. she opens up to jonathan on a deeper level about how she's worried that she can't hack it, and that she's gonna have to give up on her dreams. jonathan tells her that it's admirable that she even has one, let alone one that she went for. it makes chrissy sad to hear that jonathan's never had a dream, but he tells her he doesn't mind, he only never thought to have any bc he spent so long taking care of his mum and brother.

chrissy swears that she'll help him come up with a dream to aim for. but, as tour goes on, his work gains notoriety, and he starts genuinely enjoying taking photos of the girl he's falling in love with, he realises he's already living it :)

[veronica-17-hood]

headcannon that jason always has a spare room ready for any of his siblings in your shared apartment.

so when you had asked him he wanted to stop going to safe house to safe house or climbing in and out of your small studio apartment. he immediately said yes and started sending you listings to apartment after apartment every second of the day and even facetiming you every now and then during patrol when he sees a building going up or a for sale sign.

the two of you finally went house hunting and he was honestly like a kid in a candy store, asking questions about amenities work, if animals are allowed, parking, he was a full blown homeowner at this point.

once the two of you settled on an apartment, it ended up bigger than the two of you even wanted but it stayed within budget. 3 full bedrooms and baths, walk in closest, and a beautiful kitchen which sent the two of you wild, it was perfect mix of modern and homey, something jason never had before he found you.

a home.

and jason couldn’t be happier.

he was going furniture shopping, calling you often and asking how exactly you wanted everything to be set up (he never really had a good eye for decorating, have you seen his safe houses?)

he wanted large couches because even though he claims his siblings annoy him and he would be better off without them, he doesn’t mean it, and he wants room for his family to be at HIS home with HIS soulmate.

but jason did make it a priority, it didn’t matter what you wanted or said, he wanted one of the extra rooms to be for his siblings. no one used it for anything else but them.

he picked the whole room out himself and he had never been prouder (except of his reading nook that he had in the corner of your master bedroom, he showed everyone the work he did). he picked out the bed, brought timmy to get a mattress and they agreed on one, painted the walls, and stocked the bathroom with the usuals, shampoo, face wash, first aid kit, extra anesthesia, ya know the normal things everyone has in their guest bathrooms.

he always kept the room neat and clean, changing the sheets and vacuuming the carpet every week, never openly offering it to his siblings but they all knew that it was open for them at all times. 

the first time timmy stayed over he was over the moon, of course he only expressed that to you not to his kid brother. he cooked tim’s favorite meal (was very bummed when he didn’t come out when dinner was called) but he kept it warm for him whenever he decided to come out.

he waited from 5 pm to around 9, worried sick as to why tim hadn’t come out of the guest room yet. he didn’t know if he got sick, hurt, or crashed finally from the caffeine jay watched him consume during patrol the night before.

finally mustering up the courage and knocking down the walls of ‘i’m a tough man’ act, jay finally grabbed the warm plate of spaghettini and gently peaked into the spare room seeing his younger brother working too hard on Wayne Enterprises bullshit (thankful he wasn’t the one who inherited the company as a teenager).

jay looked back at you with a smile, nodding that his kid brother (both of your favorite sibling of the many bruce wayne had adopted, well yours is obviously jason, tim’s a close second) was perfectly fine and he watched as you headed back to the two of yours bedroom, book in hand now waiting for your soulmate to eventually saunter back to spend time with you.

and of course jay annoyed timmy for hours after that, eventually getting him to eat, stop working, and thankfully sleep, and you could swear that jason slept with a smile on his face that night.

since then tim spend most of his time at your home, most of the time because he genuinely loves you and jay and your home, but other times because of fights with bruce or breakdowns he can’t have, or just for some quiet, something you and jay love endlessly, quiet.

after a while damian would come in between the visits of tim. he always said he just needed quiet or a place to think and draw without intrusions but what he really means is he loves hanging out with his big brothers partner, who actually paints with him and loves his animals (you take him to shelters and museums every time he’s free and at your home). but he also loves his brother (he will never admit that aloud) but he loves jays food and hanging out with him, if it be silence of speak just eating and watching tv, or having heated debates about books, help with homework (which dami will never admit he needs) or even going to get new ear piercings and books.

then cass started coming, she got the second spare bedroom that you had just decorated simply with decor and furniture from your old studio apartment. but that style changed as cass started to stay more and more and soon stef was coming with her after patrol and the third bedroom became theirs. purple and black with posters and flowers across the whole room on stef’s side, knifes and weapons laid on the dresser in cass’s side but lots of comics and school work on the desk too. (cass also has been loving the baby pink color and sage green so that’s been making appearances).

then of course lastly dick and duke started to come, more so for movie nights and adventures or anytime after patrol. dick really only sleeps on the couch because jay couldn’t fit a third bed in the room where tim and dami normally sleep. this three bedroom house is now housing at least 6 people and 5 different beds for the people to choose from. duke will normally take the couch as well unless tim or damian decides to actually sleep at their own house for once, then he grabs the spare bed.

but dick and duke tend to come less often, dick goes through phases (mainly because the two of you are best friends and when he visits gotham he ends up loosing track of him and just crashes at yours) and duke enjoys the manor, especially as everyone is now in your house more time than not.

of course jay and you need a break so he’ll close the doors for a few days, the longest was a month. he explains that you and him need some time and all of his siblings respect that no issue. they all go back to their mad house until jay sends a short sweet text saying ‘it’s a go’ to the group chat and they all come back to the silence that is apartment.

there are no fights or drama at jays place, it’s always calm and everyone gets along (leading bruce to almost selling the manor because the energy or feng shui is off so it makes everyone crazy; everyone yelled at him and damian threatened him and the thought was suddenly *poof* from bruce’s head.)

jason loves having everyone there and he loves that you and him are the ones to provide it. he feels like he’s apart of the family again after everything he’s been through and with all the work with the outlaws that he thinks has been spreading him from the bats (not on purpose, which is why it makes him sad) and when he tells you that, gosh your heart swelled so it barley fits in your chest.

and don’t worry, roy, donna, and bazaro spend time there as well. the outlaws have a monthly sleepover with you and jay, no other siblings.

but jay never thought he could be so happy, but he is and truthfully he can’t stop smiling.

[savanir]

Batman, Robin and Nightwing crash into the big Wilson family feud for which the family has picked a nice abandoned apartment complex.

  It is absolute chaos, Deathstroke is bluescreening, there are two Ravagers only one is inverted with a black metallic cowl that goes down over part of his chest and his left arm. The scales that pattern said arm glow with the heat of barely contained flames hidden underneath and the rest of the suit is an ashy grey except for the boots and gloves, which are black. 

This Ravager’s eyes are blazing and he’s only barely being restrained by a younger boy who has his arms around his shoulders and is using everything he has to drag on fire and inverted Ravager back.

Also that boy is floating, and the inverted Ravager is also slightly floating now that they take a better look.

Rose has both her swords out, yelling at them to stay the fuck back causing inverted Ravager to shout question her what she’s planning on doing, killing him? and then Informs her that, “you can’t kill something that’s already fucking dead you stupid Bootleg Ravager Bitch!”

prompting the boy that’s basically on his back to shout, “R what the hell is your problem!?”

which is quickly followed up by inverted Ravager trying to make another move to… probably stab, potentially shoot Deathstroke and letting out a shout of rage when he finds himself unable to wrench himself out of the younger boy’s hold.

“Joey let me go! I am ending this right here right now!”

Deathstroke is still not doing anything, Batman and Robin notice Nightwing stiffening beside them.

Danny doesn’t have the time to correct Ravager on his name slipup, or whatever that was, cause after that the newcomers show themselves and Ravager goes, “oh fucking great, the whole bat-tillery has shown up, well in that case-” and he unlatches the belt of shells that instantly bursts into uncontrollable flames and makes a move to slam it onto the ground.

"No!" Danny screams and then his eyes glow a blazing toxic green as he uses all his strength to drag Ravager with him through the wall.

The group still inside then hear a deafening explosion happening outside, causing the building to shake, plaster rains down and several windows shatter.

Deathstroke doesn’t hesitate to throw himself out of one of those shattered windows with Rose shouting, “Dad!” after him.

this is probably the messiest and most dramatic father son reunion Bruce has seen since that time where Jason was trying to get him to kill the Joker.

A fight between Danny and Skulker within the ghost zone carried them to a section that Danny wasn't familiar with. It was near a floating island that was overgrown much like Skulker's that the two of them suddenly got ambushed by a third party.

The new ghost seemed more interested in fighting Skulker than Danny, and he didn't hesitate at all to pull out a green glowing serated knife and a matching gun. Their snarling and growling was like nothing Danny had heard before and the insults were also a lot more vicious than what Danny ever heard from Skulker.

It was clear to Danny that these two hated each other.

"Whatever!" Skulker twists mid aerial dodge into Danny's direction, "This isn't over whelp, I'll have your pelt next time!" Skulker shouts before promptly flying off.

The new ghost then approaches Danny, all the while sneering at Skulker's retreating form. Talking with the new guy is... uncomfortable, Danny has to carefully navigate the conversation because it seems like the slightest thing sets him off, aka the guy's masked eyes start glowing brighter and get this smokey effect, and the belt of bullet shells he's wearing over his shoulder catches fire.

But Danny learns that the ghost goes by Ravager and that he's the son of the greatest mercenary there is, was, will be (according to him of course).

Danny also learns that Ravager finds his close combat skills to be atrocious and offensive to look at, "your hand to hand is shit. No wonder you're dead," and the next thing he knows he gets dragged towards the floating chunk of land for an impromptu cqc lesson.

Ravager shows him various fighting skills at a cleared stretch of land nearby a half demolished building that looks like it might have been a T shaped tower at one point.

In fact the whole island has the look of a post apocalyptic city, overgrown ruins of buildings everywhere.

When Danny asks, Ravager tells him it suits him just fine like this and with a name like his Danny is inclined to believe him.

Ravager is disappointed that Danny is a hero and some parts of his personality remind him of his younger brother who he rather not think about at all, other parts of Danny remind him of Robin, who he really doesn't want to think about at all.

In the end though, curiosity gets the better of him and he asks Danny if he can take a look around, see if he can find a guy named Deathstroke (very reassuring name) and report back what he's doing nowadays.

Ravager is not happy with what Danny finds out for him.

"So there was this girl and she apparently also goes by Ravager so to be honest, I'm a little confused now"

"He Fucking replaced me!!?!" flames burst out around Ravager as he shoults.

Danny tries to placate, "... okay now, maybe it's more a passing on the torch kinda thing, keeping your memory alive or something?"

"Where is that portal you've talked about, I'm gonna fucking kill him," Yeah this guy is not listening.

"Now that seems like a rash and poorly thought out thing to do, maybe instead-"

But Ravager is done listening and instead he just yoinks Danny with him in his hunt for vengeance.

Meanwhile on the other side Rose is telling Dick and Jason about a spooky white haired meta kid that popped out of nowhere, asked her if she knew where Deathstroke is at and when she attacked him he deflected all her moves as if he'd done it a thousand times before.