#i love dustan

[questersrest]

one ancient dwarven automaton turned to a pile of junk and second minor key emblem acquired

[mother-of-pain]

Art dump timmmeee

Last two images are @healdeals oc yote :D

Everyone else belongs to me!

Forgot to say here's Fintan! She's Rispers adoptive mum, and a recovering alcoholic. The one with the bundle is her 19 years in the past with little infant Risper, who she was trying to warm up enough so he could eat. She found him abandoned in her cave, and because she's a sea dweller, she just instantly adopted him.

She gathers quite a lot of scars through the years raising him, all from the lovely very nice sea life.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this one came out of no where.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands. 

Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely. 

A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach. 

The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place. 

You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within. 

You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin. 

“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes. 

“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit. 

“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.” 

“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp. 

“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.” 

“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads. 

There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’ 

“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!” 

“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.” 

You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching. 

Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?” 

You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.” 

“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?” 

Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.” 

“I do not know, lady,” you answer. 

“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.” 

“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.” 

Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.” 

You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded. 

The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies. 

“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!” 

The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings. 

“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.” 

“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--” 

“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.” 

“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--” 

“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!” 

“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries. 

“Father, please, is it a husband?” 

“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.” 

“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.” 

“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.” 

The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa. 

“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?” 

“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.” 

“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.” 

“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.” 

“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.” 

“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.” 

⚔️

Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner. 

You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers. 

The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment. 

Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s. 

“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt. 

You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost? 

The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow. 

“One of ya,” he grits. 

Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women. 

The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate. 

Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows. 

The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance. 

His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia. 

You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top. 

“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces. 

The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it. 

“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...” 

“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--” 

The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you. 

“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.” 

“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.” 

The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight. 

“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?” 

Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor. 

A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down. 

You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch. 

[noihavenosanitythanksforasking]

OKAY I COULD BE REACHING HERE BUT

im sure u remember this iconic scene from st3

so in this scene lucas is drinking a new coke and he gets in an argument with mike about it.

this scenes blocking groups all our couples together as has been pointed out over and over. lumax, jancy and byler with el on her own.

now the first thing i thought was interesting about this scene is will expression. he glances at mike as soon as the shot cuts to them and before mike asks him how he can drink it.

throughout the scene will doesnt really say anything but he looks a bit amused and almost excited? which is like fine his friends are having a dumb argument and its funny

however i am a byler and i read into everything so

lucas is in a happy heterosexual relationship. hes straight. he enjoys new coke. he likes women. mike does not like new coke. mike does not like women.

now theres two different way i read this scene.

the first being

in lucas' explanation he describes the old coke as

"the original is a classic. no question about it. but the remake-" *takes a long sip* "sweeter, bolder, better"

originally it was just the party. mike will dustan and lucas. the og party was a classic. it was great. but now lucas is with max. which is even better because he is in love with max.

mike immediately calls lucas insane. he cannot understand how being with a girl could be so great, he doesn't understand the appeal.

"so you prefer the original thing?"

"what, no. im not talking about the thing. im talking about new coke."

mike gets defensive. mike ALSO has a girlfriend whom he should be in love with. lucas is calling him out. what do you mean you dont understand micheal?? mike redirects this to talking specifically about max, who he has expressed distaste for in the past. deflecting the topic

"its the same concept dude"

okay well theyre both our gfs

"actually its not the same concept"

your relationship with max is nothing like my relationship

they go back and forth until el interrupts them and they both apologize

the second why i could see this scene is lucas is talking directly about will and el.

will is the original. he was mikes favorite person. his go to. but now theres el. sweeter, bolder, "better". but mike doesnt want the the new version. he likes the old one. theres nothing wrong with the old version.

"its the same concept"

"no, its not the same concept."

the way mike feels for el and will are very different. even though el is "better" he wants will. he is in turmoil about this.

then el interrupts and shuts down the train of thought. effectively pulling mike out of his thoughts of will and shoving him back into his closet.

tell me you see the vision and im not insane

[jobrker]

small canonical details in sweeney todd:

i've been obsessed with this musical for far too long. i will likely be making a second post. enjoy.

lucy could have married up. whether this is due to her family being better off than benjamin or just because she was beautiful, the line in poor thing, "had her chance for the moon on a string" implies that she could have married better than she had. someone who could "afford" to buy her the moon.

lovett's first name is nellie. this comes from a line of dialogue before not while i'm around where she says, "sit here by your aunt nellie like a good boy and look at your lovely muffler."

lovett has an aunt named nettie. nettie lived near the sea and lovett would visit her as a child, explaining her desire to move there. we do not know if aunt nettie is still alive or not.

mr. lovett's first name was albert. he developed gout and possibly passed away due to complications with it.

toby is implied to be an alcoholic. he grew up in a workhouse and he claims that is what they gave to the children.

catholicism was extremely controversial in england during the victorian era. it was just becoming legal in the 1840s. so the fact that pirelli mentions shaving the pope probably isn't very impressive to the crowd of londoners. pirelli, being irish, was probably catholic himself which explains why he brags about it.

during the competition scene between todd and pirelli in the 1970 bond play, todd uses anthony during the tooth-pulling segment and yanks out one of his molars. anthony immediately forgives him, being the good boy he is.

pirelli sees a tailor. this may imply that he makes enough swindling people into buying his elixir that he can afford such an expense whereas a lot of people of his background likely couldn't.

saint dustan's church is what's actually at the address of 186 fleet street. in a string of pearls, the tunnels underneath are used. this explains the bells we hear throughout the show, before not while i'm around and johanna (quartet) and this is the church anthony plans on bringing johanna to in order to marry her.

johanna was a year old when benjamin was sent away.

turpin works at the old bailey. this courthouse has since been destroyed (due to a fire). the "old bailey" was actually a nickname for it because of it the street it was on. it was actually called the central criminal court. it was renamed in 1834. todd was in australia by that point so he likely doesn't know the new name.

lucy sewed, as most victorian women/housewives did.

anthony is from plymouth, a (then) fishing town in south-eastern england.

lovett is uneasy at the idea of discussing what goes on in asylums when todd and anthony begin forming a plan to get johanna back. potentially, this has to do with lucy and knowing her fate.

lovett mentions visiting aunt nettie and the seaside during the august bank holiday. however, this bank holiday wasn't established until 1871. sweeney todd takes place in 1846.

despite knowing that lucy had been prostituting herself, todd still calls her virtuous in his last moments.

todd has some knowledge of engineering and construction since he was able to turn his barber chair from just a chair to one that connects to a chute and can send customers to the bakehouse. he would have to make that chute himself. he possibly learned this from his time in australia.

lovett adopts a few birds between act one and two. they are in a cage outside of the pie shop for customers to enjoy. she also has a garden out there.

act one takes place in august.

[citationsavenue]

Sh*t, hindi naman ako tanga. This was truly the love that I had not even thought I'd feel. The kind that I knew would make me finally be truly happy and really afraid at the same time. Oh my f*cking god, I was in love with Dustan. I was in love with the hudas na super vain.

Thespian Tragedy (Wonderland, #2) by Selina Matias

[dstrachan]

'VIEWS FROM THE EDGE' - w/c 8th July 2024

Captain Sensible ‘Glad It’s All Over’

Joy Division ‘New Dawn Fades’

Fat Les ‘Jerusalem’

Heart ‘Voodoo Doll’

The Jam ‘News Of The World’

Propaganda ‘Duel’

Fall On Your Sword ‘Gunship Video’

Pitbull feat. Jennifer Lopez & Claudia Leitte ‘We Are One (Ole Ola) [The Official 2014 FIFA World Cup Song]’

Bob Dylan ‘Turkey Chase’

Best Themes Collection ‘Super Mario Bros Theme’

Chumbawumba ‘Tubthumping’

I, Doris feat. Dustan Bruce ‘Not Done Yet’

Heather Peace ‘Fight For (Jack Guy Remix)’

Beau ‘Fight For The Right’

Cheryl Cole ‘Fight For This Love (Crazy Cousinz radio edit)’

K’Sandra ‘Come Up Fighting (feat. Durga McBroom)’

Nervous Twitch ‘Another Fight’

The Rolling Stones ‘Street Fighting Man (live, Get Yer Ya Yas Out)’

Elton John ‘Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting’

Bullet Height ‘Fight Song’

Kala Chng ‘Fighter (Dr. Moody remix)’

Christina Aguilera ‘Fighter’

Todd Rundgren ‘Zen Archer’

Billy Connolly ‘Cripple Creek’

Billy Connolly ‘Talkin’ Blues’

Erin Bennett ‘Never Give Up The Fight’

Delivery ‘Fighting It Out’

Disturbed ‘A Reason To Fight’

[queenscharacters]

"It's the only picture I have of myself from when I was little..." Farrah to Dustan

“You’re so stinking cute.” Dustan murmured, pressing a kiss to his girlfriend’s temple. If he had known she had been in the middle of a moment of reminiscing, he probably wouldn’t have crept up on her like he did. It was too late, though. His chin had been on her shoulder, eyes on the photo, as soon as he wrapped his arms around Farrah’s waist. He could only see the side of her face; and he wasn’t trying to be too obvious about gauging her reaction.

He knew her past was a delicate subject. Dustan wasn’t trying to make light of that. As much as he would do anything in his power to change things for her, he also realized that without all that crap, he might not have met her how and when he did. They might never be expecting their girl; he might never know what true love felt like. He want being dramatic, either. This pregnancy was expediting things, but Dustan knew that she was the love of his life. Penny might’ve be an accident, but she was no mistake.

He was keen on keeping her happy. Not just tonight, but for the rest of their relationship. “I’d say were, but you still are today. Like, on top of being the most beautiful woman alive.” He spoke earnestly. Dustan gave her bump a gentle tap, his hands already against their growing daughter.

“I hope she looks like you…” Dustan continued. She couldn’t see his face, but she could surely hear the dreaminess in his tone. He pressed another kiss to her collarbone. “If there’s any way of recovering more photos of you, I’m ready to invest, Far. Our whole family could use more of them.” He mused. At the end of the day, he knew he would appreciate more photos of little her, but so would Penny, and, obviously, so would Farrah.

[botanicalmuses]

My boy dustan growing up and joining cults. *sniff sniff* Im so proud.

[a-tale-of-legends]

On a totally different note, I'm playing Blaze Black 2 and recently caught a dwebble. His name is Dustan. He has a lax nature and given the op -ness of the last Pokemon that had a lax nature, I know he will become the MVP of the team. Even if he isn't, I love and cherish him a whole lot.

( and is probably gonna make me love bug types a whole lot more, cause Unova went wild with their bug types)

[jae-writes-fanfiction]

I loooove your plus size reader stuff, for the freakyficks can u do one of those with Hopper from stranger things activities 4 and five???? <333333333

A Good Thing Here

Chief Hopper x Reader - 803 Words - More Freaky Fics

Notes: Activity 4- trick or treating, Activity 5- decorating for Halloween. I really love Hopper with an s/o of a comparable size it just makes me feel all warm and happy. Part 2

Warnings: 80’s movie typical swearing, kissing, alcohol use and description, someone only wearing a t-shirt.

- - -

You got home from work late, the box of decorations heavy in your hands as you nudged the door open with your hip. Inside Hopper sat with an impatient El and her typical gaggle of friends around your coffee table.

With all the drama associated with growing teenagers, and the typical government conspiracies and cover ups- you’d never gotten around to putting up any Halloween decorations. Hawkins’ Trick-or-Treat started in three hours. Judging by the empty Pizza boxes, the kids were ready to turn the tiny lawn in front of your home into a Halloween haven. After all, it was El’s first real Halloween and you wanted to make it a good one.

“I wanna set up the yard zombies!” Dustan yelled excitedly pulling the fold-out cutouts out of the box. Mike, Will, Max, and Lucas were equally excited and the group tore through the box and onto the lawn in an impressive display of chaos.

You turned your attention to El who still looked a little reserved, “you were late.”

Her little voice sounded older, and for the first time, you realized she was growing up. “I know honey, I’m sorry. But I’m here now,” you softly smiled before tossing a conspiratorial grin towards Hopper.

You grabbed a box of orange twinkle lights from the bottom of the box and pulled El closer to show them off.

“Honey, do you think you might be able to help your daddy get the lights up around the porch while I finish up your costume?”

He groaned and pulled himself out of his chair. You couldn’t help smiling as he wrapped an arm around both of you. “Save it, kid, I can’t tell both of you no.”

El laughed and enthusiastically hugged back before pulling him outside with the others.

You quickly stepped back into the living room proper to fox together the last few pieces of El’s costume. You’d taken the time to sew it yourself so you knew it would be perfect. It just needed some ironing, and a little nip here, a slight stitch there... You’d just gotten the thing finished when the kids burst back inside.

You shoved the pieces into a paper bag and waited until it was El’s turn to get dressed. For a moment El looked confused, the costume fit her perfectly and you were pleased to notice how well it matched with Mike.

Carefully El double-checked the paper bag before looking at you in wonder, “no mask?”

You grinned, “not any more honey.”

Once that was sorted you waited for Steve to come pick them up. Then you watched the kids pile into Steve’s car and you pulled Hopper over to wave from the window as they drove off. Once they were out of sight you set out a bucket of candy, leaving the twinkle lights on for any visitors, and locked the door.

Hopper had quietly moved into your shared bedroom to change out of the day’s clothes which gave you the opportunity for a little trick of your own. You ducked quietly into the bathroom and slipped into something a little more comfortable before slinking back into the kitchen.

You stood behind the kitchen island, smiling as he emerged dressed in stretchy pants and a soft t-shirt. Hopper paused, you hadn’t been wearing that shirt before had you? He puzzled over it as he walked towards you, certain it was one of his shirts. Although, it fits you pretty well too.

“Care to trick-or-treat chief?” You asked with a teasing lilt to your voice.

“After almost falling off that damn roof in front of that Wheeler kid it better be a treat.”

You hummed in agreement before pulling a cold bottle from the fridge and turning down the room’s lights. It made the small disheveled place feel a little cozier.

“For a treat...Pumpkin beer,” you said walking around the counter.

“Christ,” Hopper said, swallowing thickly as you walked out and around from behind the kitchen island. He was happy to notice he was right, you were wearing his shirt, just his shirt. The fabric fits you well and the hem rested just below the soft edge of your stomach.

You giggled softly as you watched him take note of the particular way your hips moved the shirt as you walked. You handed him one of the cold bottles, and set yours on the side table before walking him back into his favorite chair. You sat on the chair’s armrest, and tossed your legs over his lap, pressing yourselves together in the already restricted space. His free hand found your body immediately, and you wrapped an arm around his shoulders to keep you steady as he downed the drink.

“That’s good shit,” he said evenly before tossing the bottle onto the carpet, “want a taste?”

[des-roses-souterraines]

I’m very bad at having an opinion. I tried. I could never voice anything by like...being a film critic, and I don’t think I could earn a living with it anyway.

I’ve always preffered mysterious figures to “too” analytic artists. I like when someone give tips about how to craft things though. But I like when artists keeps things secret. OR nothing is a secret in their life but they create mystery on the other hand. For example, I like how Guillaume Dustan believed in Ghosts and had all these bizarre syntax sometimes, like a naive mystic. But the reader also knew every details of his private life. He had a real taste for obscenity.

In general I love artists who are close to the death, I mean proximal with death while being alive.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: we vibing.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Jazlene comes to with a wispy sigh. You back up and stand as her mother helps her to her feet. The king is back at the table, unbothered by the overcome maiden. Lord Dustan hovers between, torn by loyalty to his liege and his family. New liege, that is. Only yesterday, he was toasting to good King Waleran. 

“My apologies, your highness,” Jazlene fans herself with her hand, “I was only surprised. I didn’t... How could I expect this? To marry a king?” She reaches down to grip her mother’s arm, shakily stepping forward towards the king who doesn’t even glance up from the table of maps, “I promise to you, your highness, I will be a good wife to you.” 

The king tilts his head, tracing a finger along a ridge of mountains, then leans in to examine the riverbeds below. Jazlene looks at her mother, an expression of concern on her pretty features. She is rarely ignored, if at all. She will make sure that she isn’t. 

“Lord Dustan, I expect the dowry will be served along with your men and my kingdom,” the king declares, “but now, I find myself fatigued. A hard day’s ride sees me in need of bath and a bed.” 

Dustan bows his head, “and so you will have it, your highness. I will send down for water--” 

“Have the maid see to it,” the king waves his hand vaguely in your direction, “certainly a servant is a servant.” 

“Yes, your highness, how wise,” Dustan simpers, as he often does to men with titles above his own. “You,” the duke turns and snaps his fingers, “you heard the king. He requires hot water in his chamber.” 

You keep your head down, “yes, my lord.” 

You spin without hesitation. You’re all too happy to be free of the noble intrigue. It is rather easier to be unseen and unthought of. It has ever kept you from envying these ladies and their silks and these lords and their golden signets. 

Your flight is fleet. You rush down the corridor and to the wide stairwell. You descend with your mission and pass Merinda as she paces listlessly outside the kitchens. She stops you with an arm across your path. 

“There are whispers,” she says lowly, “of who visits. Is it true?” 

You look at her. You don’t know if you should say. It isn’t her place and you don’t know what they say. There is rather much gossip in castles. 

“It is,” she hisses, “you don’t need to say it. You are a poor liar and when you say nothing, I know that is the reason.” 

Your lips pinch and you give her a look, “I have been sent to draw a bath.” 

“Oh, is the lady in need of her evening boil?” Merinda snickers. 

“Not her.” 

Merinda quiets and tilts her head, “...him?” 

“The king,” you answer thinly. 

She nods and steps closer, “is he... I don’t understand. His soldiers, they mill about with our own, they cavort together. Not as enemies. Are they not invading? Do they not mean to take the castle?” 

You tear your eyes away. She’s right, you are a poor liar. You lean in, lips right by her ear, you whisper, “Lord Dustan has new allegiances.” 

She claps her hand over her mouth as you back up. She stares at you with wide eyes. She slowly drops her arm and her lip quivers, “he means to get us all killed.” 

You push your shoulders up, “think only of today. It’s all we can do. Oh, do you know where the king’s chambers would be?” 

“Mm, they took his saddlebags to the ivory room. I think there,” she answers, “do you require assistance?” 

“Stay here,” you gird, “he is a brusque man.” 

That only seems to worry her more as her face twists. You can’t help but feel the same inside but you do your best not to let it show. You leave her and carry on to your task. 

You put the kitchen hands to boiling water and send a few others to find a tub to bring to the king’s chambers. You help where you can and take the first bucket up. You pour it into the large tub in the ivory room and return for second, a third, a forth, and fifth. There will be many more even as your arms ache and your nap slickens with sweat. 

Upon the eight, when the tub looks near halfway, the chamber is not empty. You’re surprised by the king’s presence as the door remains ajar. You pour the water with a low apology and diligent ‘your highness.’ He doesn’t respond. 

There is much to go still. Back down, up again, hot water splashing on your sleeves, singing beneath, dumping it over the edge as you keep your eyes on your work. Do not be more than a piece of furniture. You are only air. 

At the last bucket, you pour slowly, careful not to slosh over the edges. As you right the empty pail, you hear a metal chink. The king growls into a long exhale. You turn towards the door. 

“Close it,” he commands, “you will remain.” 

You’re happy he cannot see the look on your face. You obey and close the door. You turn back, standing by the pillar of the door frame, as you often do, and begin your vigil. It should not be unexpected that he may require you to fetch something further for him. 

Your eyes catch the bottom of his mail as he lifts it over his head. No, don’t look. He undresses, leather creaking, fabric rustling, pacing as he strips away each piece. You grip the rope handle of the bucket. He circles the long tub and nears you. You cower, bracing. You are not noticed, you are not approached, unless it is for rebuke. 

He grabs the bucket by the brim and tugs. You let it go. He turns and sets it on the floor away from you. You push your hands together, stilling a tremble. He wears only his breeches and you catch a glimpse of the thatch of hair along his thick stomach. You gulp and twine your fingers through each other. 

He turns away and crosses the room. You listen to the fabric fall from around his hips. Your eyes bore into the floorboards. The water shifts as he climbs into the tub and you listen to him groan as he lowers himself into the depths. The steam mingles with the tension of his silence. 

He sighs and stirs the water. The lull persists as you wait. He will need wine or food.  

“Come,” he bids and your eyes flick up. The tub conceals much of his lower body as his thick shoulders and arms stretch around the brim. “I have a knot.” 

You approach hesitantly, unsure where to aim your eyes the closer you get. He gestures around his head, “stand behind me.” 

You do as he tells you. 

He sits up slightly and bends his head forward, lifting his white hair out of the way, “here.” 

He points along the muscle beside his neck. It’s thick, just like all of him. You’ve never seen a man built like that. There are stringy barn boys and tubby cooks.  

You stare and raise a hand, hovering it over his muscle. Are you supposed to touch him? He is a king and you are a servant. You are a servant sold out of pig shit into servitude. 

His large hand reaches for yours and he guides it down. You shake before he lets you go. You feel the muscle, almost curious, and rub lightly. He makes a noise but you’re unsure of its tenor. 

“Harder,” he demands, “squeeze,” he shows his hand, making a kneading motion, “you cannot hurt me.” You do as he says. You squeeze and he rests his hand against the tub, “harder,” he repeats. 

You obey. 

His head hangs as his long strands touch the water. You bring your other hand up as your efforts make your tendons sore. He lets out shallow breaths and hissing groans. Your chest thumps at the sounds that rise from him. 

“Your master has broken his oath and sworn a new one to me. And you, does that make me your master as well? If I am your master’s master?” He asks slyly. 

You focus on your hands, “your highness?” 

“Answer, don’t be afraid. Liars bore me.” 

You sniff and mull your reply. You don’t know. You don’t have much of a choice in the matter. 

“Lord Dustan is my master. I am bound to serve him.” 

He snorts and lifts his head. You rescind your touch but he reaches back to latch onto your again. He tugs you forward, placing your hand back on his shoulder. 

“Softer now,” he instructs. You rub his damp flesh as he bends a leg, his knee poking above the water. “You, a servant, so low, and you are more loyal than any man with a title.” 

“Your highness, I must serve.” 

“As he must. Did he not swear himself to the old king? Eh? War does muddy the waters,” he muses, “coin does test old ties.” 

You say nothing. Your comment isn’t warranted or wanted. You know better. Jazlene taught you only to answer when asked. 

“Very well,” he taps your fingers, “I feel better. You have a kind touch.” 

You back away and wipe your hands on your apron. He hangs his head back and puffs. He closes his eyes. You watch the white waves made wilder by the humidity of the bath. 

“I hate sleeping in strange places,” he says, “you will stay for the eve.” 

You tuck your chin down and fold your hands together. Your scalp sweats beneath your cap, your shorn locks itchy with the heat. You wet your lips and force out the air trapped in your chest, “yes, your highness. As my master bid, I will serve you.” 

He says nothing more as he leans back against the tub completely. His large arms frame the metal and his hands wrap around the edges. He closes his shining eyes in recline, the water still and steaming. He stays that way until the damp heat dissipates. You stand locked in his thrall. 

He sits forward suddenly, the water stirring with his movement. He turns his hand and beckons with his thick fingers. 

“A bath sheet,” he demands. 

You go to the chest in the corner and open it. You retrieve a folded swath of fabric and bring it to him. He stands as you unfold the length of linen to obscure his form. Your eyes are on the ceiling as the water slakes from his figure and he looms large above you. 

He steps out, close to you, and puts his hands over yours. He pulls the sheet around his body, your arms too. He releases you only as he adjusts the fabric around his waist and you retract with humiliation nipping in your cheeks. You lean back on your heel as you shrink in his shadow. 

“Your highness, do you require refreshment? Wine? Sweetmeats?” 

“I did not ask for it,” he says, “I am tired.” 

“Apologies, your highness.” 

“Do not apologise for doing your duty. Would be a fairer world if more were so diligent.” 

He turns and strides away. There’s a knapsack and bedroll against the wall. He keeps one hand on the sheet and unbuckles the flap, reaching within and tugging out a bed shirt. He drops the sheet away and your eyes flit away from his nakedness. He has no shame but you are merely a servant. He shouldn’t care for your witness. 

He swipes the fabric over his head and it falls just to his thighs, concealing just enough to have him decent. His thick legs are trimmed in dark hair and the muscles are taut beneath his skin. He faces the bed and pulls back the quilt and linen. He pauses and looks up at you. 

“Will you sleep afoot then?” He wonders. 

“Your highness?” You wince. “I must...” you peer around, “empty the bath.” 

“Must you? Stagnant water can wait,” he insists. “Come.” 

You waver, skirts rippling around your legs. You step forward and stagger. 

“The lantern, your highness?” You inquire. 

“Douse the light if you will,” he allows. “And come.” 

You do as he bids and snuff out the flame. Your vision is left blackened and formless. You reach out blindly, realising your error too late. You can’t see much as you walk warily towards the bed. The heavy curtains are shut and block out the sliver of moonlight. 

Your knees hit the bed and you gasp. You catch yourself before you can fall forward, leaning against the mattress. You’re stuck like that, uncertain if you should go forward or back. Something wraps around your wrist, a stolid heat. 

“I often sleep with my horse,” the king says as he draws you onto the bed. “I need a warm body close.” 

You go rigid as you let him command your body. He guides you to lay down and tugs the bedclothes over you. The damp specks on your dress and apron cling to your skin. He leads your head over his thick arm as he lays on his back neck to you. You stare into the endless void of the canopy. 

“The horse smells much worse and snores,” he muses, his arm curling around your shoulders, offering a more comfortable rest for your head and neck. You quiver at being so close. It is an odd request but you daren’t decline it. “Be still,” his other hand comes to touch your sleeve, “and sleep. I only mean to ease my own unrest.” 

You close your eyes and exhale. Your heart is pounding and your body is tingling. You don’t think you can sleep with the surge flowing through you. He sighs and shifts slightly. You lay there, in silence, only the noise of his breath and yours to fill the castle walls. 

“I am awake,” he says. “Speak to me, maid. Tell me, where do you lay your head on nights where a king does not trouble you?” 

You wiggle slightly. Your spine is uncomfortable at the flatness but not worse than your usual fare. You bring your hand over your chest and fist your fingers tight. 

“On a bag of hay with Merinda,” you utter smally, pushing your legs together as you arch your back slightly. Your hips are tight. 

You’re startled as the bed jostles and he grips your hip. He rolls you onto your side, his touch lingers as he pulls you against him. He is as hot as a hearth. 

“Merinda?” He repeats. 

“Another handmaid, your highness.” 

He hums and drags his hand away from your hip. He blows out a great heavy and grunts. His arm curls around you snugly. 

“I hope I am preferable to that bag of hay,” he mutters and the tension seeps away from his form. “Though perhaps just as prickly.” 

[kymchiwrites]

London Winter Travel Guide

This post is really late, but I just wanted to share some of the things I did while I was in London. I had already done all the major tourist-y things when I visited in 2016, so I wanted to see what else there was to discover. And since I went during the winter season, it gave me a few more options that I wouldn’t otherwise have been able to do or see if I went during another time. 

So without further ado, here are a few things you can check out during the winter and also some things to do for all seasons :3 

1) Visit the artwork at St. Pancras International station.

Located below the St. Pancras clock are the words “I want my time with you”, a text piece created by Tracey Emin. In an interview, she said “I cannot think of anything more romantic than being met by someone I love at a train station and as they put their arms around me, I hear them say ‘I want my time with you’,” but she also says that the piece is dedicated to everyone from Europe arriving in London. If you visit during the winter time, the train station will be decorated with more lights and you might even run into a caroler or two (or three or a group singing the classic All I Want for Christmas is You). 

2) Enjoy wine, pie, and music at the Sky Garden.

Every year, Sky Garden hosts a Christmas Hits, a live music night. For ~ £17 (~$22), you gain admission to the Sky Garden after hours, a glass of mulled wine and a mini mince pie. The event starts at 7 pm and goes on until midnight. The band started playing around 8 pm and alternated between Christmas and current music hits. There was a lot of people that night and I had a hard time finding a place to sit, but it was nice to see a glimpse of the city at night. 

3) Take a break among plants and see the city from a different vantage point.

Just in case you visit London at any other season, you can still pay a visit to the Sky Garden! Their normal hours are Monday - Friday from 10 am - 6 pm and 11 am - 9 pm on weekends and holidays. Admission is free! Tickets can be booked on a weekly basis up to three weeks in advance via their website. Just in case you weren’t able to book a ticket, you can always take your chances by heading there the day of. But beware, there’s probably going to be a long line. A tip: you have to go through airport-like security so prepare to take your jacket/coat off and empty your pockets. 

4) See a Broadway show.

This option is for all seasons, but I found it an especially good option for a winter night because it’s a nice place to stay warm and enjoy a good show hehe. There are a number of different Broadway shows running in London including Wicked, Hamilton, Aladdin, and Les Miserables. I’ve seen three shows in London so far and they’ve all been quite good. I stumbled upon the cast exit as I was heading back to Covent Garden. There was only one other girl waiting outside and we got to meet a good number of the cast and crew including Zazu, Scar, and Simba (pictured above). It was worth shivering in 6°C/42°F weather hehe.

5) Shop at Covent Garden.

I feel like Covent Garden is always a good place to visit no matter what the season, but it truly comes alive during Christmas-time. There’s lights and trees, and mistletoe everywhere. My favorite decorations were the big silver ornaments that showered the main hall with light once the sun set. There’s also always someone singing or playing music in the main market hall near the bathrooms.

6) Chase Christmas lights.

I gotta say—no one does Christmas better than London (okay, maybe the Philippines but the cold-wind turning your cheeks rosy pink in London along with the glittering display of lights really makes me feel like Christmas is truly in the air). These lights are located at Oxford Street, Regent Square, Seven Dials and Bond Street, respectively. 

7) Discover unique gifts and eat amazing food. 

No one does Christmas like London part 2 featuring Christmas markets! There are several around the city and my favorite ones were the markets at Leicester Square and South Bank. They have delicious food as well as beautiful gifts--including handmade star lanterns and carved wood ornaments from Germany. What better way to finish your Christmas shopping and keep your tummy warm and happy? 

8) Go on a food adventure.

Since we’re on the topic of food, I would like to introduce my favorite place to go on a food-venture: Borough Market! You can literally taste food from all over the world. They have baked goods, fresh produce, different cuts of meat and seafood -- basically everything and anything you would want to eat. My favorite stall is Khanom Krok, which sells authentic Thai streetfood and of course, khanom krok, a coconut pudding-pancake (pictured above).

9) Admire architecture.

To be honest, sometimes I do things or go to specific places for the gram. This is one of them LOL. The first two pictures are of Leadenhall Market—a covered shopping and dining market. I loved how the four hallways converged into a central shopping square, complete with a Christmas tree. The next two pictures are of Hay’s Galleria, another covered shopping market. Since it was Christmas time, the center hall had a little Christmas market set up with handmade gifts and specialty foods. The third set of pictures are of the ruins of St. Dustan-in-the-East, a church bombed during The Blitz. It’s now a public garden, but since it’s hidden on a secluded side-street, it’s remained a well-kept secret. Last, but not least, St. Paul’s Cathedral. It’s a more tourist-y place to go, mostly because Princess Diana and Prince Charles got married there. When I visited in 2016, I was able to go inside for free during one of the services. But if you prefer a full tour, tickets are £20 (~$26) at the door or £17 (~$22) online. They are open for sightseeing Monday - Saturday from 8:30 am - 4:30 pm. Take note that no picture taking or filming is allowed inside.

10) Have a good ol’ cup of tea.

Is any visit to London complete without having tea? I think not. There are so many different places you can have tea, but I found that the Wallace Collection had the best bang for your buck (or pound pala). The Wallace Collection is a national museum with a restaurant, free admission, and fast wifi! It was a really nice place to sit, admire artwork, and rest my feet after walking around in the cold and rain. The museum and restaurant are open daily from 10 am - 5 pm, but afternoon tea begins at 2:30 pm. You can either walk in or make a reservation online. For £9 (~$11), I got a pot of fine loose leaf tea, and a freshly baked scone with Cornish clotted cream and strawberry preserve on the side. 

-------

Hope this guide gives you a better idea of what to see, eat or do in London on your first (or next) visit! :3

[bioticgoddess]

Songbirds and Baby Bats (XI)

Series Summary: Jason Todd returns from the dead and, after the events of Under the Red Hood, he goes from Gotham to Bludhaven in search of himself...and an old friend. But getting your life back is never easy and Black Mask has enlisted the aid of Gotham’s other Crime Families as well as a few ghosts of Batman’s past. He’s coming for the Red Hood and everyone of his allies.

Always fun to play with photo editing when you need a pic off instagram. I don’t own any of the images of Ian Lang/CD828 as Red Hood. None of them. As per usual, save for my OFCs, I own nothing. That said...Welcome to the show and donate to their Season 2 Kickstarter - there are only 7 days left! 

--

PART XI

Jason sat at the workbench with his helmet in hand. It had been designed to take significantly more punishment that the last fight alone had done to it. He had, however, also been derelict in maintaining his gear since sliding back into the void he’d left in the lives of Dick and Amy. Sighing, he plugged the helmet into his laptop. Watching the two pieces of hardware talk to one another, he tapped absentmindedly at the keyboard. At least the problem didn’t seem to lie with the software. That was a small favor,  he had no desire to sit and fix code.

God that could be boring. He’d much rather reinstall a microchip with a set of tweezers and a soldering gun. 

“Hardware. That’s not...so bad,” his voice trailed off as the door to the bed room swung open. Looking up treated him to a view of Amy in an over-sized shirt and running shorts. The former stolen from his duffel bag. “Hey,” he smiled, nodding for her to come over.   

Holding up a hand, she turned the corner into the open kitchen. “Coffee first,” she yawned, nearly tripping over their boots. It had been over a week since the incident at the construction site and they still hadn’t moved those from their place in front of the freezer door. “Shite...balls…feck.” 

Chair scraping across and nearly crashing to the floor, Jason shot up. “You okay,” he called, taking a step towards her. One of her hands was on the counter, the other held up to stop him, she tiptoed around one of his boots - laying on its side like a fallen domino. At least he’d made a fresh pot of coffee when he got up...before dawn. The cabinet clanged open and she nearly dropped one of the mugs as she drew it down from the shelves, cursing again. It was a process and the woman had visible not slept well. When she finally finished the voodoo that was pouring herself a cup of coffee and padded from kitchen to workbench, Jason asked, “How late did you end up working on this stuff?”

Their gear, armor and base layers aside, was spread out on the workbench. That included his firearms, neatly stored in cases of different materials that spilled onto the floor and formed a row against the wall.  “Too bloody late,” she yawned over the rim of her mug. It was his way of saying he didn’t remember if or when she’d crawled into bed and expressing concern for her that tugged at the back of his mind.

“The discharge mechanism diagnostic is done by the way,” he thumbed at her dismantled gauntlets and heard her mutter something that sounded like an okay before dragging the rolling chair along behind her. He watched her spin the chair around and straddle it. Her arms were propped against the back, coffee in hand. Dropping back in his own chair, Jason sat facing her. “I looked over our intel. All that data we followed to Black Mask and then...Dustan.”

“Aye?”

“It was bait. Meant to get us away from doing what we do best: Cracking heads and...re-purposing the mobs’ shit.”

“Back to basics then?”

“You know it.”

“Destroy the drugs, turn in the guns, and so on.”

“The drugs I can get behind. Was wanting to keep the weapons though.”

“You’re mad love.”

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and throwing his arms behind his head, nearly knocking his laptop off the table in the process. “AH!...You know you want to rob ‘em blind to!” A broad, sparkling smile beamed back at her. It had a disarming quality that worked on everyone except his adoptive family, and Barbara Gordon.

“Dia ár sábháil**,” she muttered, taking a swing from the black and gray striped mug in her hands. The eye roll she gave him included the fully involved head bob for effect. Jason laughed almost despite himself. A half second later, coffee warming the length of her throat, Amy continued, “Someone has to make sure you, ya know, stay alive.”

His face clouded over for a split second. He knew she was teasing, knew it was meant to be in jest, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t kicking himself for getting killed all those years ago in for the first place. Then it was gone. The Broadway smile that had faltered snapped back into place, his blue eyes looked like clear sapphires, and all that remained was a puzzled look on Amy’s face. “Jaybird,” she coaxed, a hand on his knee, “Love, where did you go?”

“Hm?”

“It was quick but you...you weren’t here were ye?”

“I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”

“Okay…” She’d resolved not to press when that kind of dark shadow fell over him. There’d been a professor in her gen-ed psychology class who’d made a point of impressing upon the students that pressuring someone with obvious PTSD or similar potential issues would likely end with them being not only shut down but also out. That was the last thing she wanted. Jason was back, provided he stuck around (in every way that implied) then it meant he’d inevitably open up. She patted his knee as he turned his attention back to the readouts from his helmet.  “Why not tell me what’s going on with that?”

 He’d started clicking through the screens, visibly furrowing his brow on the third one. “Um...well, some of the circuits on my HUD aren’t working right.” Flipping the red egg over in his lap, Jason’s fingers glided along its seams until he found the internal release. A pop echoed in the room and it separated into three loosely conjoined parts: a front and back of the helmet itself and the inner lining used to both cushion it and protect the internal electronics. “Looks like,” he followed a trio of wires that traveled along the jawline to the lenses and hung his head. “I found it.”

 Withdrawing his hand from the cluster of red and black, a section of frayed wire and snapped plastics filled his palm. “That, is part of the the circuit and wiring harness that actually lets me see.” Hanging his head he tapped the computer keyboard with his other hand, the ocular lenses lighting up. “It gives me biometric feedback like what the old man has in his cowl, not as complex as his gear but more so than your mask or Dick’s. Unlike you guys, if this is broken, I’m pretty much walking around in the dark with sunglasses on. This,” he set the circuit and wires down, tapping the brow of his helmet, “Thing has no peripheral vision, what so ever.”

 “Where did you get it,” she’d scooted forward and was leaning in to look at the small circuit boards and frayed wired as best she could against the chair back. “These are…”

Chuckling to himself, Jason answered proudly, “I broke into the R&D facility for Wayne Tech’s Korean offices. Knocked out the security, whole deal. It was fun.”

“Dunno about you,” her eyes were locked on the one-inch squared chunk of circuit board in her hand. Turning it over, the crack and separated or corroded components painfully visible. “But this is beyond my ability to fix.” That knowledge sat like a knot in both their stomachs. “And breaking into the main offices of Wayne Enterprises is-”

“Next to impossible. I know.”

“It’s the only place that’s actually meant to keep us out.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” He had no point of reference to promote this kind of confidence. “Hack a few consoles, override the computers -”

She laughed, sparing a glance from the circuit assembly, “I repeat: You’re mad.”

--

“How did I let you talk me into this,” Jason could hear Wren paced back and forth on her  perch. She’d taken up position  the roof of the office high rise across from Wayne Tower. Her voice was edged with concern and knew that, despite her walking a rut into the roof, her eyes were him. He’d given her his sniper scope for just that purpose. When he didn’t answer, preoccupied with the roof access console, the Irish woman's’ voice chirped in his ear again, “You sure that patch job will hold for this?”

Chuckling across their comms he offered, “ Yes it will; also this is fun and you’re an excellent partner.”

“Well, provided we don’t get caught. How are you planning to thank your partner?” 

“Dinner,” he promised, overriding the pass codes finally. The lock popped open with a soft click. “Steak, I’ll buy and cook.” Pulling the door open, he drew a pre-cut strip of duct tape across the bolt to prevent it re-engaging. He also put a thin piece of rubber in both to top and bottom corners so it would appear closed on cameras, all while remaining ajar a few millimeters.

“I’m sorry, you cook now? When did this happen!?” There was level of incredulity mixed with the disbelief in her words, he was amused. It wasn’t unwarranted. Pre-Lazarus pit bath, he’d been unable to make more than general breakfast items, spaghetti, and a few simple meals. Chili was the most complicated thing he’d dabbled in at the time. Post-Lazarus pit, he’d had to figure out how to prep a wider array of meals in order to survive.

Trailing back over the awful black and red calendar that served as the last several years Jason pinpointed at least the location where it started. “Somewhere on the Mediterranean coast. Not sure what country though,” he whispered, splicing and cutting the wires on one of the door leading from the roof access stairs to the executive suite level. “Memory serves,” he grumbled, changing the subject,“There are some spares in the Old Man’s office”

He could hear Wren sputtering on the other ends of their communication channel. Clearly the news he’d learned to cook had her spinning. “And it’s edible?”

“Yup,” he chuckled, the locking mechanism chiming as it disengaged. A gentle twist of the knob, another strip of duct tape across the lock to prevent it from catching. Once more he left it partially ajar, unlocked and closed softly enough the weight didn’t force it closed. Ahead of him stretched the corridor that included two the offices of the CEO, CFO, and COO as well as Bruce Wayne’s own. The spotty telemetry helping him skip past and around the security cameras and sensors.

Getting into the offices was the easy part, especially Bruce’s own. Never failed to surprise him that the old man didn’t take greater precautions. And, as the grand wooden doors swung open, he realized why. “Fuck.”

“Jay?”

“There’s enough security in this room that it makes Luthor’s look like an open bar,” he grumbled, getting the fractured scan of the room. It was big and equipped with everything from retinal to pressure scans. “Also I can make baklava now too.”

She giggled and he grinned, tip toeing past a number or laser sensors. “A nice dinner date will be perfect then.”

“Glad someone’s going to appreciate my cooking,” he had three safes to choose from. One, he remembered, held spare electronics for the Bat family gear. Another held a handful of emergency weapons and grappling guns. The third, behind the portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne held company relevant documents and information.  “You got any ideas Irish? The telemetry scanners are just functional enough that I -”

“The one behind the portrait of Bruce with Dick and Alfred,” she cut him off, still watching from across the the alleyway. “You’re cute when you puzzle over something.”

He chuckled, “Of course you know. Alright, let’s hope the part I need is there.” Carefully he crossed to the large portrait, the urge to take out his combat knife was strong but he knew slashing the damn thing was going to get them caught. Gingerly he slid it aside, turning so his back held the stupidly heavy portrait and it’s ostentatious gold painted frame back. It gave him access to the digital lock staring at him from the wall. “Oh shit.”

“Everything alright?”

Nervously he answered her, uncomfortably admitting this lock was beyond him, “He...uh...yea...no. I can’t open this.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I have seen this lock once and it nearly got me caught and killed.” He laughed nervously frustrated, “The short version: I tried to get into the Batcave when I first got back through the vehicle access. That was, um...a mistake.”

“Story for later. You want me to come over?”

“Hahah,” he reached into his jacket, pulling out a small explosive device, “No, I have another plan. Just, um, just be ready to run like hell Little Bird.” He affixed it to the locking mechanism keypad, tapping a four digit code into its interface and shifting to grip the portrait he added, “On my mark.” He hefted the painting off the wall, it was longer than he was tall and nearly sent all six-feet of him falling backwards with its unwieldy size. Leave it to Bruce to have something overwhelming in such a prominent place. He set it on the opposite wall, near a painting of Wayne Tower. Go figure.

Wren didn’t have a real opportunity to respond before Jason dropped on the far side of Bruce’s giant desk. No sense playing fast and loose with this little gadget. His need for the circuit board out weight even the shrapnel of a desire to reconcile with Bruce. The old man would get over it. Not like what was about to happen could really be considered unexpected. After all, this was how he did things. “Mark,” he hissed over comms, squeezing the small detonation switch tucked in his left hand.

The following explosion was enough that Wren saw it from her point across the way, peering in the window with the sniper scope. The average person on the street wouldn’t see or hear it. That didn’t mean, however, that the security personnel half a dozen floors down were unaware or that Batman hadn’t been alerted to the intrusion. “Shite Jay,” she cursed.

“Get going.”

“Not til you leave that building.”

Shaking his head, Jason stalked back to the now open safe. Putting his legs into it, he yanked the heavy steel open. There were two shelves: One holding waterproof strong boxes with microchips in it, the second held a full utility belt for a Robin. Oh yea, that was coming too. He slung it over his head and let the belt drape awkwardly around his chest before tucking the two small boxes into the pockets of his jacket.

It took him a minute to get situated. “Okay, and out the window,” he answered the silent panic coming from Amy across the way. “Please tell me you’re moving,” getting the windows of the executive suite open was the easiest part of their night.

Grappling hook engaged, it dragged him across the street and onto the next roof a heart beat before the security personnel opened the door. At least there’d be nothing in the safe to out their dysfunctional little family. They couldn’t have that happen. “We’ve got incoming,” she warned.

“Well that was quick.”

--

They’d narrowly gotten away from Downtown Gotham and Batman without issue. There was no guarantee Jason hadn’t, towards the end, been caught on camera but it was something he’d deal with later. At the moment, getting them the rest of the way back to Bludhaven was his top priority.  He could fix his helmet later, now that he had the parts. Right now, he had a promise to keep. Sitting in the passenger seat, whole body leaning against the door and head lolling forward as she slept, was the one person in the family he knew he had to make amends with.

Alfred would forgive him. The man probably already had. Dick had basically done the same, surprisingly. But Grayson had always had the over-protective brother complex. As for Bruce? That was still no loss.

He changed lanes, left hand on the wheel while his right came to rest on Amy’s thigh. Their haul and their masks were in a backpack in the seat behind them. Not for the first or last time he smiled and whispered, “It’s good to be back.”

 ----

Dia ár sábháil. = Lit “God Save us” But it could work of “Good Lord” and “Oh my God!” Source:  https://inirish.bitesize.irish/3649

[shaydixons]

For example Eliott referenced my own private idaho (one of the 1st movie with a non stereotypical gay character) on his ig and on Mika's ig they referenced Guillaume Dustan a controversial french author who was openly gay and HIV positive. It's like really small nods but I like that it makes younger ppl discover these references :)

ohhhhh nice!!! yes i loved that he referenced my own private idaho 💓 non straight kings