#platonic or not you do you

[egosdelirium]

So yeah I wrote it

-

"Oh, it's alright. It's alright, Harry, please–please don't cry anymore—"

Sirius can barely hear his own voice over the pained wails of the boy in his arms. Harry's little face is currently burrowed in the crook of his neck, small hands balled up into fists around the fabric of Sirius' printed Queen t-shirt. He'd bought it at the Game Tour of 1980 and had gifted an identical one to Marlene for her birthday last year. She died in it.

A sudden coughing fit makes Harry shake violently; his breathing hiccups and stutters but the crying doesn't stop, not even for a second, which only serves to make the coughing worse.

"Harry! Harry, it's okay!" Sirius tries to put the boy down, tries to lower his own tone into something a little less panicked - a little less on the verge of hysteria - but he manages neither.

Harry refuses to let go of him: the moment he feels that Sirius might be trying to place him on the sofa or the colorful playmat on the ground, he starts struggling and writhing like a wild animal. He clings onto Sirius' neck and shoulders even tighter, grabbing onto cotton and skin alike with unbelievable strength for a one year old, and buries his face even deeper against Sirius' collarbone.

It hurts. Sirius forgot to trim Harry's nails - again - and he can feel his little fingers leaving red imprints all over his back in his desperate attempts to cling on. In all of this, Harry is still coughing, and Sirius has the brief yet horrifying thought that he's going to choke right there in his arms, on tears and snot and Sirius' own skin.

"I'm only going to put you down for a moment, Prongslet. I just need to let you breathe. I just need to check on you, okay?"

Sirius finds out soon enough that trying to reason with a crying baby is about as impossible as doing so with a transformed werewolf. Harry thrashes and screams even louder when Sirius attempts to put him down once more and only stops when Sirius eventually gives up.

The cough subsides on its own, thankfully, but the crying doesn't.

Sirius distractedly pats Harry's back and bounces around a little, like Harry usually likes him to, but it's pretty much useless. The sobs persist, and so do the screams. A quick glance at the clock confirms that it's four in the morning and that Sirius has been awake for twenty-seven consecutive hours.

Remus is not going to be coming back for another week; he's gone to Wales to attend his mother's funeral and decide what to make of his newly inherited cottage in the countryside.

And anyway, Remus is... a difficult topic, to say the least. Still not quite able to balance the betrayal / murder of their best friends with the full moons that try to kill him monthly and the fact that everyone he has ever loved thought him the spy. Pretty heavy stuff.

Sirius didn't have any time to even think of sorting through all that (minus the full moons) because he had Harry to take care of. Turns out dedicating all his hours to his godson makes for a pretty good distraction on most days. But not this past week, no. This week, something seems to have snapped inside of little Harry James Potter, something so dark and painful that has been keeping him up in crying fits during the nights and in irritable moods during the days.

Sirius has tried everything: toys, music, soothing spells, massages, cuddles, all of Harry's favourite foods, stories, and even muggle television, but it has all been in vain.

Harry just can't seem to fall asleep. He can't get settled. He can't find peace - and he is sure as hell not letting Sirius find any either.

"Please, please stop crying. Stop, stop, you've got to–" Sirius forces his eyes shut when he feels the increasingly rising panic get the best of him. He is shaking, from head to toe, much like Harry is, and exhaustion is threatening to make his knees buckle and give out under him.

He takes a shuddering breath, then another. Harry is still crying. Harry is still screaming, right next to his ear. The noise penetrates his eardrums and echoes around his brain, jumping from wall to wall inside his head.

Sirius is going to throw up.

"You've–you've got to stop. Please!" Sirius tries to bounce Harry on his shoulder a bit more vigorously. His joints ache; he's been trying to rock a baby to sleep for the past...what, six hours?

Remus is not coming back for a whole other week, at the very least. Sirius is all alone in the house.

Worst of all, Harry is all alone with Sirius.

He shouldn't, he should be with his mother and fathe— No! No Sirius can't go there or he'll crumble.

He's been keeping it together for weeks, an entire month, so he can't give up now. If he goes there, he won't return. If he crumbles now, Harry will have no one else in the entire world.

Remus is not coming back.

Neither is Jam—

Sirius gasps. His knees finally give out like they've threatened to, and he collapses on the floor, with Harry still securely wrapped within the safety of his arms.

Harry doesn't seem to appreciate their new position, though, and his screams only get more high-pitched. His voice is hoarse, and the more he yells, the more his throat will hurt later on.

"Stop! Just stop! please," Sirius begs. "You've got to stop, I-I-I can't, I can't think!"

Sirius lays his head against the wall he conveniently finds behind him with a dull thud, a little more aggressively than he probably should've. If he gives himself a concussion who will look after Harry?

Remus is not coming back for a week, still.

Sirius' t-shirt is soaked. Tears and snot. Marlene's was soaked in dark red blood, so really, some people have it way worse than others.

Harry cries, he cries and cries and cries, and Sirius starts feeling delirious. Twenty-seven hours. Harry napped during the afternoon but Sirius was too worried about him to do the same, and that had been a stupid fucking choice. Maybe, had he taken that stupid nap, he wouldn't be losing his mind now.

Harry coughs again, and Sirius starts trembling all over again. Full body shivers.

He lifts Harry from underneath his armpits and places him on his lap, lifting his traitorous knees to act as a sort of backrest. Harry doesn't like this, either; he crashes against Sirius' chest full force and sobs right on Freddy Mercury's smiling face.

"Please, don't cry." Sirius begs, again. The world around him is starting to blur and his chest feels heavy. Is it Harry? Or is something inside him finally collapsing on itself?

"You should go to sleep, hmm, it's really late. Really, really fucking late."

Harry grabs onto Sirius' face, pulling at the skin of his cheeks and cries, cries, cries.

Sirius is losing it. Sirius loses it.

"Stop crying! I'm begging you, I'm begging you!" He rises his voice and hates himself for it, but he can't even hear it over Harry's incessant fucking sobs. "Just stop, stop! Stop! Stop, JAMES STOP!"

Sirius doubles over and gasps like he's been hit with a stunner. Why did he—why? His thoughts are muddled; Harry's green eyes stare back at him, little face contorted in pain and anguish.

James does not have green eyes. James' eyes are brown. Actually, James' eyes are nothing because James is dead.

Harry is here, and James is not because James is dead and Sirius is alone.

Something shakes Sirius' chest, shoulders, and ribcage. Harry still has his chubby hands on his cheeks, but they feel wet now.

Sirius realises that he's crying only when he hears himself echoe Harry's sobs. It hurts. His eyes sting and his lungs burn. He wants James, he needs James, and Harry wants and needs both him and Lily.

Neither of them can have that, and Sirius finally understands why Harry can't seem to stop despairing. How scary it must be, in the eyes of a little baby. Sirius is terrified and he hasn't been a baby in a long time.

He takes Harry very gently in the crook of his elbows and cradles him to the rhythm of their heaving chests. Sirius places his own forehead to Harry's, lets his tears fall freely just to mix with the boy's and tumble down their cheeks onto the Queen t-shirt.

Onto Freddie Mercury's smiling face.

Thinking so many thoughts about little baby Harry crying and screaming every night because he misses his parents horribly and Sirius, who's so tired he's almost delirious from lack of sleep and all he wants is to make him stop but has no idea how. And it goes on and on for hours with Harry yelling at the top of his lungs, and Sirius aches

But also Harry's sobbing tantrums kinda validate Sirius' own grief so sometimes he gives up on trying to soothe him, he just holds this desperate one year old really tight to his chest and lets Harry cry out to Lily and James for both of them

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I am incredibly serious right now when I beg you all, please, and if you have Twitter or Tiktok or whatever to please spread the word: click on an author's profile on Ao3.

You want to know if an author has written more? Want to know if they're still writing? Want to see more from them? Want to know if they've written a trope or kink or sex scenario you enjoy?

Click on their name. And look at their profile.

I cannot tell you how many times in the last six months someone has read a new or newer fic of mine and said they (a new reader who has read nothing else I've done) "can't wait to see what you do next!" I've written 50+ fics and over a million words already.

"I don't know if you're still writing..." click on my profile. I am. I literally wrote a 128k+ fic for that ship last month.

"Would you ever do X?" "Please do Y!" I already did. Click on my name and look at my works.

Archive of our Own is a library. It's an archive. Not social media. It is your responsibility to fight back against the laziness that corporate algorithms have trained into you.

Click my author name. Just click it. Just click it.

Before you demand more, or ask if a writer will do XYZ, or wonder if the author still writing, or anything - click on their profile. Click on the author's profile.

I'm not trying to be mean or condescending or anything like that. I'm just exhausted. It's disheartening and frustrating to repeat myself ad nauseam, because someone couldn't take thirty seconds to do the tiniest bit of work to see if I've written lately, if I've written more for their ship, or scan my works to see if I've written what they're asking for. Please. Please. I'm begging.

Click the author's name, and explore before you ask.

[blorbosinmyheadcentral]

Supervised Machine Learning

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

*hip checks u*

[greykolla-art]

Alastor: “Now, let’s talk about literally anything else please!”

Me: “Good! Cause I don’t know where you went so I can’t go further with this!😂”

[amalgamezz]

ALT

[cottagedreamy]

They're such a good duo...Pls let's talk about them more.....

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Hedghodg Snugglz

[littlemisssilvermoon]

Reader is implied to like feminine things, though gender identity is kept ambiguous.

Damian was a good brother. That’s what he always told himself. He was a good brother, a good son. He was cold, rude, and erudite, but he was able and willing to help anyone who needed it.

When he arrived at Wayne manor, Bruce told him the general run down of why you were to be avoided when it came to anything vigilante related. You were still pure, a year younger than Damian but without any of the pain. The only one in the Wayne manor that could have a shot at becoming a normal person. Damian envied that, but kept it to himself. His anger often boiled to the top, drops of green venom dripping from his mouth when you tried to annoy him into spending time with you.

Your complaints of him ignoring you was scalding water on his already raw nerves. Why would you complain about not being the center of attention for five damn seconds? He would trade anything for the life you had. A life where you could lay around after school and never worry about a rogue bullet lodging itself in your arm, or a poisonous plant releasing psychedelic spores into an open wound.

You could and would never join the Robins. You were weak; it was in your blood. Always sickly, always the pacifist. You wouldn't survive a day in his life. And you weren't living his life; you were living his dream.

But apparently the effort the family was putting in wasn’t enough.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed that the manor felt… off about two weeks before the fight with Joker. He couldn’t trace it for the life of him at first. When he realized by the second week that he hadn’t spoken to you in days, or really seen you around the manor at all, he wrote off the worms writhing in his stomach. You must’ve been busy with a class assignment and had little time to annoy him with your demands of time together.

After the fight, however, he was a war of a thousand emotions. How dare you leave them? Why would you turn away an easy life fat on nepotism for a group of murderers, con men, the dredges of Gotham’s society?

Were you truly that desperate to be acknowledged that you’d turn your back on the family who did everything for you? He hopes you’re happy there, since you were clearly so upset at not being given attention.

Over time, however, things start to change. A few days after Jason made a full recovery, Damian looked at one of the drones Tim managed to get a chunk of code from. It took a lot of trial and error, and the development of an entirely new program to grab some of the code before it bricked itself, and enough all nighters and energy drinks that any doctor would faint, but it was managed. The code was dense, optimized to work with the least bloat possible, well tagged variables, and even a handful of comments in the code.

//Buy Bane those Boston Donuts from the donut shop on 5th //Why does this code need to be here so it doesn’t auto brick itself. What is in the code protecting it from the wrath of God //Louie likes Texas barbecue ribs. Possible treat? //DO NOT FEED THEM WHOLE RIBS. COOKED BONES BAD. //SINCE WHEN WAS THIS VARIABLE A STRING??? IT WAS AN INT 5 LINES AGO //Help the hopeless lesbians get together. //Would Harley and Ivy dating make Harley my mom or Ivy my big sister? Both???

His eyes skimmed the retrieved comments, laughing at a few. It seems that Bane, Poison Ivy, and Harley Quinn were the most common subjects of the notes, though a few mentioning the Iceberg lounge asking what non-alchoholic drink you’d like added, or Riddler offering you another puzzle to keep your mind active. Even Joker was mentioned, though it seemed mostly transactional.

It was strange seeing you in this light. You seemed to have a lot of spice in you, but a heart made of gold. You were definitely surprised whenever one othe villains offered to take you on some trip to amusement parks, regular parks, even just willingly watching anime with you. It was odd to see. Surely someone at the house did those things with you? He didn’t but he was extremely busy with school and vigilantism. Jason was legally dead, so surely he had all the time in the world.

“How was I supposed to relate to them? They’re what, 12 and into shit like that one with the cat looking dog thing and the robot girl. I have shit to do. Y’know, managing Crime Alley?”

Well, Dick had come over to hang out plenty of times. Surely he’d spent at least a few hours with you every now and then? “I have an entire team and criminals to manage of in another city, Damian. I don’t have as much time as you think to do whatever it was with them they’d wanted to do”

Maybe Tim? “I have college and stuff, Damian. And I don’t have the energy to put into hanging around them. I’d probably just be sleeping most of the time.

Bruce? “I have to manage you, Gotham, and the Justice League, Damian. I barely have time for myself.”

… Alfred? “I tried, Master Damian. However I’m constantly pulled thin between so many tasks. Besides, all you have is school most days, and you’ve had summer vacations and weekends. Shouldn’t you’ve had plenty of time to spend with your younger sibling?”

… He did have the most time outside of vigilantism. And it took him a week to realize you were missing.

You had to realize that they were under extreme stress though, right?He couldn’t spend all his free time with you. He had his own friends to hang out with. How were you two even supposed to relate?

One day at dinner, the thoughts were thrashing in his head, slamming against soft tissue and tearing through brain matter. He aimlessly poked at the food on his plate.

“You alright, replacement?” Jason asked, pausing in his extremely rare dinners with everyone else. Alfred had promised him a tray of fudge to take home this time around, and nobody made fudge quite as good as he did.

“… They were gone for two weeks.”

Everyone stopped eating as he continued.

“Two weeks. Two full weeks before they showed up at that fight. Did anyone here even know? I only noticed after a week and assumed they were just holed up in their room with a class assignment or something.” He was rambling. Everyone was quiet and looking at each other. How did it manage to slip past everyone? They were detectives, for Christ’s sake.

They were your family.

—

Dinner ended with guilt wrapping around their throats and pulling.

Eventually, all of them found themselves in your room. It had been emptied, but showed no signs of struggle. All the small items, the comforter, and your clothes were gone. But what was taken left something behind. Copies of photos of you winning state level competitions, letters requesting your attendance at seminars, photos of gold medals and blue ribbons spread across the floor. Most damning of all was the most recent photo. A certificate by some big time tech company being handed to you. Edward Nashton stood behind you, a firm, reassuring hand on your shoulder.

When had this happened? They never remembered hearing of something like this. A news clipping on the back told them it was maybe a week before you left.

“The Wayne prodigy stated that their family had more important things to see to than such an occasion. I can’t imagine something more important that either of my kids being recognized by a multi-million dollar tech company! I remember postponing an anniversary with my husband to celebrate our child placing second in the science fair. But I guess that’s just the Waynes for you!”

That’s just the Waynes to you.

But it’s ok. He can make it better. He can be a good big brother. He can spend time watching anime with you and decorating your room with lace and fairy lights and go makeup shopping with you. You just need to come home. Now.

---------------- Taglist! Ask to be added!

@jjsmeowthie , @jsprien213 , @ladyrosemone

[yuwuta]

there’s a right and a wrong way to hold hands. you know this, because whenever katsuki extends his hand and you cup his in return, he frowns and releases tiny explosions from his palm—not big or intense enough to hurt you, just enough to tickle—until you’re giggling and readjusting your hands so that your fingers are laced together. he huffs to himself and then keeps walking, ignoring the way you tease him about being a romantic, much too focused on the feeling of your thumb is rubbing against the back of his hand, instead.

[graye]

Rumors say this is what tipped Anakin to the Dark side.

[wtfforged]

save him

bg-less version

[doodledrawsthings]

dont worry about it au kuafu and yi

[noornight]

Long distance besties. This definitely happened after the third movie (source: trust me bro)

Based on this

[acid-ixx]

mild spoilers for chapter six for my series again &. again, but i really feel the need to ramble about this, and i'd love to hear anybody's opinion on this hehe.

as i write outline chapter six (and write for chapter five), i'd like to say i couldn't wait to write the reader's face reveal in bruce's perspective. and it's not just angst, for me, this plays a very pivotal turn for the series— because bruce will spiral to insanity.

to never once see a single portrait of your second youngest child, whose presence has long been erased from the manor, not a single image, nor trace of you is sickening to the heart, even if he scours through the internet day and night for a single memoir of you, nothing— but to find your portrait in alfred's living quarters and seeing you for the first time in forever? graduating a milestone no less?

god, he's in for a ride just analyzing every aspect of your physical appearance.

the color of your eyes, the shape of your nose, the quip of your mouth, the fat in your cheeks; even the length of your lashes! god, does he brand it into the deepest parts of his mind to never forget you anymore. his pearl, his treasure.

the longer he stares, the more he notices and gazes even more, obsessive as he stands lonesome in the room with every bone in his body locking up, his eyes unable to look away from the portrait that showcases his baby child.

and there, there it is that he concludes a detail so small it's unrecognizable for someone who's seen it for his entire life; yet it's all the same triggered deranged emotions deep within him.

— you don't just share him and your mother's traits, no, your smile is also reminiscent of his mother's.

martha wayne, who'd died in his arms, laying in a pool of her blood with a bullet grazed deep inside her body. his loving mother, who caressed his face whenever he'd cry from his nightmares, who'd shown him motherly love that until now he still craves.

she died with her pearl necklace that once decorated her porcelain neck spilling to the ground and stained with crimson.

you wore pearl earrings on your graduation.

the thought alone is enough for him to just snap.

this? this is the child that he's been neglecting far too long? who shares the same, loving expression of his mother's? his child? not even a single memory could be conjured with you but fantasies now do. if your happiest moments were within the picture frame that he holds with shivering fingers at present; could your smile be any wider if you'd be with him?

how come he never once noticed? why is bruce always destined to fail left and right? why, just why is he brimming with jealousy for all the people who must've seen your smile before him, and contempt for himself that he was never there to pick you up from the police station beforehand?

bruce isn't a heckler for favoritism, but a darker part of him is motivated to take you away from wherever you are, and to never let anybody else witness his beautiful, little treasure.

he's gotham's knight, first and foremost. but he's a father, too, with goals to protect his children just like a father should.

and the things he'd do for you, his child, now? anything.

if it means he has to see that smile, then he'll turn the world upside-down.

he has to protect your smile.

[idolomantises]

I was just complaining about Dandadan fans being weirdly against shipping but after seeing the BNHA fandom's behavior uh. i get it now.