#so i wrote this instead

[anomalocariscanadensis]

thinking about I Sexually Identify As An Attack Helicopter recently and the role transmedicalism plays in it. the foundation of the story IMO is the question "what if someone really did identify as an attack helicopter?", which leads directly into asking "why?" which gets answered "for the military, obviously". but then the next question is "how does the military change the genders of its members?" if the story rejected transmedicalism entirely and conceived of gender as mental/social, the techniques for modifying gender would have to look essentially like conversion therapy. instead, Fall has "brain sex/gender" be real in the setting, so gender modification is done surgically in a way that's much farther from any real technology. between "transmedicalism is true" and "conversion therapy works" i think she picked the less unpleasant option.

beyond that premise, though, it's not really a transmedicalist text. the usual argument of "brain sex" as a pro-trans theory is, well, it's right there in the brain so it's real, and you can't change the brain so you have to accept trans people as they are! but if technology advances to the point where neural editing is feasible... Barb describes generations of queer activists making gender a self-determined choice, so it does sound like the setting is less transphobic than the present. but those activists are not the same as the medical-scientific research into gender, which does not contribute to trans liberation, rather making it possible to reassign people's gender identities instead of their bodies.

finally, there's Axis, who is transgender in a much more real sense than Barb. Barb's perfectly happy with their assigned gender, even if it was assigned after birth. Axis, on the other hand, is CAGAM (coercively assigned gunner at military) but defies their surgical programming to experience gender dysphoria, i.e. start questioning their role in the imperial war machine. this very much contradicts the transmedicalist narrative: even neural gender isn't absolute, and a transition motivated by one's thoughts and ideals is if anything better than just going along with brain circuits.

[abalidoth]

Shave (a sonnet)

i hold to girlbeard, knuckles white as foam

my lilith’s apple marks the bounds of steel

a tapestry to make this skin my home

the softness of this estrogenic feel.

i close my ears to insecurity

the voices tell me i can’t feel this joy

“just look at real trans femininity.

deluded girl? or valor-stealing boy?”

i grit my teeth and clean up jawline strays

and think of those few sisters that I’m like

of women holding culture’s poisoned gaze

anomalies – the femme but fuzzy dyke.

a war within me as I wash my face

and tidy up this sacred, lonely space.

[alvie2alive]

Unwritten - an original poem

All my life I've written. All my life I've bitten Off pieces of what I know To pull it from being hidden. But my mind has left me unbidden, As if writing is forbidden, As if my breath has been taken Out of the lungs I still sit in. I used to be emotion-ridden, Feelings overflowing that couldn't fit in. Now, my eyes are empty; They are frostbitten. I thought I would be sickened, Or grief-stricken, But I feel simply nothing And the walls thicken. All of my words are left unwritten.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

the fact that shakespeare was a playwright is sometimes so funny to me. just the concept of the "greatest writer of the English language" being a random 450-year-old entertainer, a 16th cent pop cultural sensation (thanks in large part to puns & dirty jokes & verbiage & a long-running appeal to commoners). and his work was made to be watched not read, but in the classroom teachers just hand us his scripts and say "that's literature"

just...imagine it's 2450 A.D. and English Lit students are regularly going into 100k debt writing postdoc theses on The Simpsons screenplays. the original animation hasn't even been preserved, it's literally just scripts and the occasional SDH subtitles.txt. they've been republished more times than the Bible

[frauleiiin]

Thank you so much to all of you for the likes and reblogs! I never expected y'all would love this post this much, I'm very touched! Now, let's dive into the lore behind these two scenes..

Parallels

The Gravestone scene has always been important to me, it showed me where Maverik'a was in her journey. Only a few years ago, she was that Padawan in awe of her Master's will in the force. Aspiring to be as good and as strong as him, not knowing then that she already had that power within herself. Maverik'a wasn't raised like most Jedi. She was found by a Jedi colony slightly before Satele Shan rediscovered Tython and made it the new heart of the order. The Jedi masters of the colony knew she was no average force user, they tried to slow her training so she could feel like a normal child. One might say they didn't prepare her enough for what was about to come but she wouldn't have had any childhood if not for that decision. When she arrived on Tython, she was 17 years old and all she cared about was to become a good Jedi. She was excited to learn more, excited to be in the presence of great Jedi, excited for her future. Throughout her journey as a Knight, things started to get sour. She realized she was becoming an asset to the Order, also that they were using her compassion for their own goals (like forcing her to bring the Emperor to the light, we know that didn't work). After defeating the Emperor for the first time and becoming a Master, it kinda made her reflect on who she was and who she wanted to be. She started being more like an unconventional Jedi, not following everything to the letter and the Jedi Order didn't have a word in that because they NEEDED her. At that point, Maverik'a was more powerful, more confident and more serene than ever... Then, she was put in carbonite for 5 years and everything she had learned was to be reconsidered.

The Gravestone lifting scene was there to remind me how much Maverik'a had changed but also to show me there was more waiting for her ahead.

I actually have her backstory written over here if you're interested! [RefSheet].

''I want to be able to do that someday..''

''And you will, Padawan.'' - Orgus Din.

[windfighter]

Why Windfighter

The wind was dancing and she was dancing with it. Leaves whirling around her as she moved. Yamato leaned against the wall, watched her. She looked carefree, relaxed. What music was playing in her head, he wondered. The trees moved in the wind as well. Background dancers in whatever fantasy she was living in at the moment. Yamato crossed his arms over his chest. How long until she noticed him?

It was relaxing. Listening to the wind and watching her. She seemed at home where she was. In the world of her own music, the wind carrying her as she danced. So often this side would be hidden, pushed away in favor of the ice-cold murderer she viewed herself as. Wind, she claimed, wasn’t her element. The scene Yamato was watching spoke differently. He had never seen her dance with snow and ice in this way.

”Windy”, he said.

She froze and the magic was broken. Leaves fell to the ground. She quickly pulled her fingers through her hair, tried to make it less wild again. It never worked. Her shoulders tensed up.

”Why did you give me wind as element?” Yamato continued.

A question he had wondered but never asked. Windy tilted her head, looked at him. Looked at her feet and walked over to where Yamato was, sat down in the grass. Frost covered the grass as she walked across it. Yamato sat down next to her and she looked at the sky.

”I think… it was because I was desperate to fly away”, she said.

She had been 14. Had escaped the hell of the Factory, of the Digital World, and ended up in another hell in the human world, haunted by her own thoughts and punished for them by the family she had moved in with. Had discovered the world of fanfiction, had found the movies with Yamato’s adventures through the digital world. And she invented Windfighter. An evolution for Yamato, who fought using the powers of the wind.

”Why didn’t you?” Yamato asked.

The air grew colder around them. Yamato shivered, but didn’t say anything. It was… he liked seeing her use her powers casually. Not keeping them locked up inside like she had when they met the first time in the human world.

”It was the capital”, Windy whispered. ”Someone would have seen me, and they’d have taken me to the factories, studied me. Turned me back into a weapon.”

She laughed. Desperation.

”I’m not sure I would have been able to even if I wanted to. The elements are… different here.”

She had explained it a couple years earlier. Said they were thicker, stronger, more resistant. Unused to being bent, being ordered, being moved. Yamato hadn’t even pretended to understand. He leaned against his knees, listened to the wind. It was calmer now, no longer dancing like it had.

”I think…” he thought out loud.

Windy looked at him and the air got warmer again, the cold thawed by the heat of spring. After their latest adventure her powers were just… part of their lives. Normal. Yamato swallowed. He never believed in magic as a child and now this. Windy wouldn’t call it magic, but she didn’t have a better word for it either.

”I think”, he repeated, ”you should practice using your secondary element a bit more.”

For Iceangel, Windy’s evolution, air might be secondary, but for Windy, the person sitting next to him right now? He was pretty sure that if she could just think of herself as something other than Iceangel, the person she grew up as, then the air would listen to her every wish.

And let her finally fly away.

Windy laughed.

”I can’t”, she said. ”It knows what I am, and it won’t listen.”

But Yamato had seen them dancing, the air following her, carrying her, being carried by her. Each an extention of the other, part of them. He wished there was a way to make Windy see it as well.

”Yeah, maybe”, Yamato agreed.

Because it was better not to argue, even if they often did. Friendly banter, teasing. This wasn’t really the time for that.

”Did you know”, he said instead, ”that in some magic cultures ice is the combination of air and water?”

She shoved him to the ground, laughed. Yamato laughed as well.

”Are you saying I’m actually Waterangel?” Windy asked.

Smiling. Yamato sat up again. Shrugged and laughed.

”Maybe you could be. If you wanted to.”

”Hmm.”

Windy looked to the sky.

”Maybe”, she said.

The wind picked up again, whirled around them and continued towards the lake. Yamato wondered if she noticed.

”I haven’t even reached my champion-evolution yet”, Windy laughed. ”Who knows what happens when I go ultimate. Or mega.”

A shiver ran down Yamato’s spine. What would happen? He wasn’t sure they wanted to know. He stood up.

”Who knows”, he said. ”Better to practice your water-magic before that, so you’re prepared.”

Windy laughed again, looked towards the lake. Smiled, but it was a different smile. Haunted, in a way, but still genuine.

”Maybe I will”, she said.

Stood up and started walking to the lake. Yamato leaned against the wall again, watched her as she left. He hoped he hadn’t doomed them all.

[xnyu09]

die your daughter.

[roryy-y]

Aziracrow fanfic.

Its set after Aziraphale went back to heaven. He comes back about a year later and meets Crowley in Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death. I originally based this off prompt 10 for Whumptober but I scrapped that part as I didn't like it. Might try and rewrite it or something.

If you have any feedback/helpful criticisms please share!! If you think Henry VII (he's the original tu-tu-tudor) could write better than say so!!😁

(Didn't read over this so it might be a bit shitty)

"Forgive me Crowley." Abruptly and with no warning Aziraphale grabs them, pulling them in, kissing them like it's the end of the world- and against their better judgement Crowley's hands fist Aziraphale's jacket and they are kissing back. Hard. A kiss dreamt about for centuries.

All they ever needed.

It's all they ever wanted

Cheers and applause erupt from the customers of give me coffee or Give Me Death invested in the argument thinking that this was the couple's happy ending.

Maggie shakes her head and Nina sighs both knowing what's to come.

Sharp wolf whistling cuts through Crowley's mind and they snap back to their senses. Aziraphale stumbles into the wall behind them as Crowley pushes them off. The coffee shop is silent and everyone is aware of how audible their breathing is, chest rising up and heavily falling down.

I want to collapse, lie crumpled on the floor and never get up.

How dare they? A kiss?

He doesn't know what they did to me. They ruined my life. He was my life. The cafe is spinning and and Nina and Maggie's worried faces come into view. I push through them and stumble to the door, it rings as I pass through. A car swerves narrowly missing me as the owner honks and yells to get out of road. I get to my Bentley and lean heavily against trying to get air into my lungs.

"Crowley." It's Aziraphale.

"Get. Away. From. Me." Crowley spits.

Aziraphale walks over anyway.

"Yo-Your glasses." They pressing them into unwanting hands and takes a step back. "Can we talk- not argue- just actually talk?"

"Ok. This" - Aziraphale can hear that faint hiss that he loves- "This is me talking." 

"I love you. That is set in stone no matter what. I don't regret kissing you or maybe I do. I DONT KNOW." That last line came out louder than it was supposed, drawing the attention of many passersby but nevermind that.

"But there never will be an us- it's not something that can happen now. Our side is gone." Crowley raises the glasses to eye level.

"No, please don't say that, please." Aziraphale chokes out.

"This is what you did to me Angel" They say as the glasses in their hands snap in half and clatter to the floor.

"And I will never forgive you. And I will never forget it. Or You."

Aziraphale knows that they have to walk away and they do. Slamming the bookshop door to frighten the world away. The Bentley door slams shut in unison and only then do the the tears spill from those dandelion eyes. Tears that can't be wiped away. Painful tears that stain the cheeks and palms furiously trying wipe them away. Stains that will last forever.

Not even an angel could change that.

[rocceater]

love it when people draw aus differently so some ideas for art styles and designs

ink belongs to comyet fresh belongs to loverofpiggies dream + nightmare belong to joku-blog

[gatoburr0]

The divine, one of a kind bride and the ugly ass groom.

[yeyinde]

Ghost has a thing for fucking you when you're asleep—

(—and maybe one day he'll get around to telling you about it, too.)

noncon/dubcon somnophilia. spit kink. brief anal.

He likes you like this. When you're soft, pliant. A malleable little doll under his hands that he can shape to his will. Bend.

You're so small compared to him. Tiny. The difference unmoors the chains keeping his vile, nasty urges at bay, until they spool—horrific and depraved—around him. Unleashes the need in the back of his head that screams, howls, and tells him to own, possess. Claim.

Ruin you—

And you belong to him. Everything. Every part of you is his, down to your goddamn marrow. Your bones are marked with his name, false starts carved into milky bones.

he doesn't really see the problem with taking what is his.

—and so, he does.

His sweet, sweet girl who can barely take his cock when you're awake—too much, too fat—and so he makes do with slaking his hideous, bestial need on your body when you're asleep. When he can fold your knees up to your ears, and fuck you as deep, as hard, as he wants without worrying about you seeing the want rotting in his eyes, and run—

The stretch, you whine. He's too much for you. The biggest you've ever had. It isn't meant to stroke his ego, he knows this, but still. He preens when you add, liquid and pained, by a considerable margin, Simon—

Like this, asleep, you're relaxed. Liquid. 

And with the sleeping pills crushed into your bedtime tea you always (always) take an hour before bed, he can do whatever he wants to do. However he wants. 

Splits you open with his tongue, fucking into you until you're sloppy and wet. Spitting on your cunt and pushing the foamy glob into your tight hole at his own leisure without having a rain of indignant fists come down across his shoulders, disgusted by the degrading action. Don't spit on me, Simon, that's gross—

(but you swallow it like a good girl when he grabs you by the neck, thumb digging into the dent of your larynx until you open nice and wide for him, tongue sliding out like you're begging for it—)

His little hellion awake. But asleep? 

He gets your pussy messy with his spit, fucking it into you with two fingers—another benefit to fucking you asleep is that he doesn't have to bother with building up, can stretch you out on two fingers without those breathy little mewls spilling out, telling him it's too much. Then three with his mouth glued to your clit, feeling your cunt clench down on him as he bullies it with his tongue. The pressure is too much, too intense. You'd be howling if you were awake, but—

You're not. 

The only sound is the lews squelch of him fucking you open with three fingers, sucking noisily at your pebbled clit. 

Music to his ears. 

And if he's in a hurry. Well. Skipping foreplay all together is fine. Just has to spit on his palm, coat it over his shaft, and make you open up for him. Splitting you open on just his cock. All tight—agonizingly so—around him. 

You can take it. 

He knows you can. You take everything he throws at you—knees pushed to your ears, cock bulging out from your belly. Head buried in a pillow as he flattens his body over yours, and ruts into your cunt while he smothers you under his bulk. Indescribably tight like this with your thighs squeezed together between his own. On your side with your leg thrown over his hip, or held high in the air. 

He likes it best when you're on your back, though. Soft and sweet. Little hiccups leaving your slack lips as he forces you to take every inch he has to offer. Bullying his fat cock into your pussy. Over and over again—

Quenching his unbearable lust on you until it's slated on your flesh, cunt stuffed full of his cum.

Or your ass. 

You're wary about him burying his fat length into your ass. It'll hurt, is the biggest excuse you like to give, hands tucked against the swell of your bottom as if that would be enough to keep him away. You've never done that before and taking him in your pussy was already a lot, you couldn't imagine taking him there, too—

It's a problem. Too bad for you, he has always been task oriented. Someone who likes the squash issues under his thumb. 

And that's exactly what he does. 

Starts with his thumb shoved inside your hole when he's fucking your pussy. Then a finger. Two. Likes to lick at your cunt before shoving your knees to your chest, lifting your ass in the air, and devouring it with the same rapacious appetite. Tongue fucking into you, getting you all sloppy and wet, stretching you open so he can seat you down on his cock. All the way to the base. Stretching your rim wide around his girth. Pounding your tight little ass until he cums inside of you. Filling you over and over again until it leaks out, soaking into the sheets below. 

His pretty little doll. All fucked out and messy. 

With you asleep, Simon can take from you—as much as he needs to fill this greedy, gaping maw inside of himself—without burdening you. Scaring you away. 

And he'd rather not have to chase you down like a dog—

It's the perfect arrangement that lets him exorcise himself of the horrible, awful, things he wants to do to you. Quench the bloodlust, the violence, that drums up in the back of his head, ugly and noxious, that leaks poison into his blood. Makes him see you torn to pieces by his enemies, wrenched away by the people who think they know what's best for you. Taken. The urge to claim you is animalistic. Primal. 

This—

This is bloodletting. It's spilling the rot from inside himself so it doesn't fester. Turn septic. Gangrenous. Eating at his tissue until his hands no longer belong to himself, but to the mercy of his monstrous need. 

It lets him ruin you, tear into you like a beast, without worrying about you running from him. Fleeing from this rapacious green he holds deep in the fibrils of his chest. Hewed into his essence, subsumed into his marrow. 

Simply put: he needs this. Just like you need him. Simon. Need him like the air you breathe—

(And sometimes, sometimes, you get this peculiar look on your face before bed. A frisson. Unease, pensive. It splits over your brows, an evanescent tremor. He thinks you might be more aware than you let on. That you know about this hideousness inside him, this putrid greed that sloshes around the edges of his eyes sometimes, trying to bleed in, trickling down over his periphery before he can stop it. 

But it dissolves into complacency before he can chisel into it, leaving nothing behind but a faint stink of stale smoke. Acrid—like doused embers. Burning his nose, his lungs—)

And when he's had his fill—stuffed that chasm inside his belly with your flesh—he cleans you up, and pulls you tight to his chest. Satiated for the time being. Falling asleep with the taste of you on his tongue, locked tight in his embrace. Tenders to your aches the next morning, as soft and supple as he can ever allow himself to be. 

There’s a place for him, he’s sure, when he lies to you, and says that you must have slept the wrong way. That maybe he was a little too hard on you the night before. And maybe if he were a better person, a better man, he might have felt some sense of guilt for it. Shame.

But instead, he coos at you and says:

It’s his fault, pet, but don’t worry he’ll take such good care of you. Licking your sore cunt all day until you grab him by the scruff of his neck, and tell him no more, please, Simon, stop, stop—it doesn’t hurt anymore, please—

He relents an hour before bed and takes you to the kitchen where you sit and drink the tea he made without a word.

Like a good girl—

And then you slip into bed in nothing but his old shirt, curling up against his chest, and whispering—soft and sweet—into his ear, "good night, Simon."

(his sweet, sweet girl.

like you're fucking begging him for it—)

[lazylittledragon]

'i'll just do a couple of doodles of mombin™/platonic stobin parents' nevermind, borderline graphic novel

[megumismyhusband]

rin itoshi acts stoic, pretending your affection doesn’t faze him, but his body betrays him. His ears turn red when you kiss his cheek, and his lips quirk into a faint smile when you hug him. If you skip a hug or kiss one day, he’ll brood about it, replaying every moment to figure out if he upset you.

rin who secretly adores seeing you in his clothes. he'll sneaks extra jerseys and hoodies into your wardrobe, pretending they "must've ended up there by accident." he can’t help but smile when he sees you wearing them.

rin sucks at cooking but will attempt to learn how to make your favorite dishes so he could cook them for you whenever you'd like.

the keychain you gave rin? It’s clipped securely to his bag or shoved deep in his pocket when he’s on the field. He touches it before every game for luck, and if he ever loses it, he’ll go into full panic mode.

wanna do his makeup? deal. wanna paint his nails? go ahead. feel the need to put your pretty boyfriend in a dress? he'll let you. but only as long as you agree not to show anyone his baby pictures.

pda isn't rin's style, but in private? he’s all in. he’ll pull you close, tuck your head under his chin, and let you trace random patterns on his chest while you talk about your day.

rin might not always say, "i love you," but his actions speak volumes. from memorizing your coffee order to holding your hand in a crowded room, every little thing he does screams devotion.

[kmesons]

the tgwdlm soundtrack: a visual summary

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake Accidentally Takes Over the World (and Didn’t Think to Mention It)

So, Janet somehow spent decades climbing her way into every government worth a damn, ruling the entire world from behind the scenes. And then, because the universe is apparently wild, she left it all to Tim.

Cut to Tim Drake, the brand-new, completely reluctant secret ruler of the entire planet. And he just… never really thought it was worth mentioning?

The Batfam finds out when Bruce stumbles across an encrypted memo traced to a mysterious Gotham office with Tim’s name on it.

Bruce, holding up the memo: “Tim. Want to explain why this document about, oh, international finance reforms is signed with your encryption key?”

Tim, not even looking up from his laptop: “Oh, yeah. That. Janet left me her ‘global influence portfolio’ or whatever. Mostly paperwork.”

The Batfam stares in total shock.

Dick sputters nearly dropping his coffee: "Wait—you’ve been managing world policies?!”

Tim, shrugging, barely paying attention as he emails the president of Germany: “Well, yeah. I figured someone had to keep things running. It's not that big a deal. I mostly just redirect some policies. You know, keep things running smoothly.”

Jason, absolutely cackling: “Are you telling me that little Replacement here is the reason for half the ‘global cooperation’ headlines?”

Tim, scrolling through emails: “They send me reports; I send suggestions. And honestly, they make it way more dramatic than it is. It's not that hard."

Barbara stares at him, half horrified, half impressed. “How did we not notice this?”

Tim blinks. “I mean, it’s not like I was actively hiding it. I assumed you guys knew I was… kind of managing these things?”

Cue utter disbelief.

Stephanie, laughing too hard to breathe: “Tim, do you have world leaders on speed dial?”

Tim, completely unfazed: “Only the important ones. They text, mostly. Oh—by the way, I might’ve influenced a minor arms control thing last week. Don’t worry; it’s all sorted.”

Bruce, looking like he’s two seconds from fainting: “Sorted? Tim, we're talking about you having global authority here. People notice these things."

Tim shrugs again as his phone buzzes with notifications. “Sure, but it’s not like they’re going to do anything too crazy. I just suggest stuff, and they listen. Honestly, it’s like herding really powerful, really overdramatic cats.”

Damian, scandalized: “You mean to tell me, Drake, that you’re manipulating world politics like it’s a game of checkers?”

Tim, still casual: “Manipulating’s a strong word. Like I said, it’s more just nudging things along.” His phone buzzes again. “Oh, hang on. France is panicking about their energy policy again.”

The Batfam tries to process the fact that Tim—Tim, who routinely forgets what day it is—is now, somehow, running the world.

And then his phone buzzes with a message from the UN Security Council.

Tim sighs, glancing down. “Oh, great. Looks like they’re debating nuclear arms again. Be right back.”

Meanwhile, the Batfam is left absolutely speechless, processing the fact that their Tim—scrawny, coffee-fueled Tim—is apparently one of the most powerful people on the planet. And to him its just another tuesday.

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Writing Prompt #5

Damian does not glance back at Bruce when he knocks on the door. Instead they both wait in silence.

After a moment, the door opens.

"Hello," Jasmine, Jazz, Fenton greets politely, unsurprised to find the Waynes on her doorstep. Damian's expression grows ever darker at this revelation.

"Hello Ms. Fenton, are your parents home?" Bruce asks, placing a firm hand on Damian's shoulder, to ground as much as to restrain. To his credit he does not shake it off.

"No, they're out of town for a conference," the eighteen year-old says, opening the door wider. "But I think you'd better come in."

Bruce would normally decline, but Ms. Fenton is a legal adult and he has already, even unknowingly, waited 16 years. Damian makes the choice for him, striding past the threshold.

"Please take a seat," Jazz says as she leads them to the living room. She ignores Damian's swinging head as he takes in the home. It is deceptively large, a 90s style house filled with modern furniture. The walls are bright, with purple and green accents that would normally feel garish but somehow work. The stairs leading to the second floor are lined with family photos that Bruce yearns to take a closer look at. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"No, that's alright, thank you," Bruce says, taking a seat on the long plush couch. A men's windbreaker lies haphazardly thrown across one of the arms. A closed container of Oreo cookies sit on the coffee table next to a physics textbook open to chapter 16, half covered in highlighter and filled with sticky notes. There's a child's painting framed next to the tv, a handprint made to look like a thanksgiving turkey in bright blue.

For the home of experimental scientists, it is cozy and well lived-in.

Damian repeatedly glances at the stairs through the doorway.

Bruce clears his throat. "We were hoping to--"

"I've texted--oh, I'm sorry," Jazz says, having spoken at the same time. Bruce gestures for her to go on.

"I've contacted Danny, he should be here soon. He was out with some friends." Jazz explains. As she hadn't pulled out a phone in their presence, Bruce can only deduce they have some sort of camera at their front door. This also explains Ms. Fenton's complete lack of surprise at their appearance.

"So you know who we are." Damian says, the first words he's spoken since they arrived at the house and the longest sentence he's spoken since they arrived in Amity Park.

"I do," Jazz says, calm in the face of Damian's clearly simmering anger. Bruce trusts him not to attack Ms. Fenton, but he still watches him carefully.

"He told you about me," Damian says. It is the same question, but it is also not.

"He did," Jazz says.

Damian swallows. "I see," he grits out.

Jazz's neutrality slips and her face softens in sympathy. "Damian," she starts hesitantly, but before she can say anything else the front door opens.

A moment later Bruce's son walks through the doorway, and Damian is on him.

This is what Bruce hoped to prevent, but despite his numerous checks of Damian's luggage his son has still managed to smuggle a small dagger, which he now produces and swings in a calculated arc at Daniel Fenton's jugular.

Danny dodges cleanly, and dodges every swipe thereafter in a manner that speaks to continued practice long after his time at the League. Damian is a perfect product of his training, but it is up against Danny his flaws come to light. He is just as good as he always was, but Danny is better.

In a matter of seconds Damian grows frustrated and sloppy in his attacks, completely atypical for him. Danny takes Damian out at the knees and pins him down with one arm, pressing his face into the carpet.

"Calm down," he orders. His voice is deeper than Damian's at sixteen to his twelve, the accent that still traces Damian's words completely gone from his speech. Damian growls and thrusts his head back into Danny's face, meeting it with a sharp thunk. He rolls up as Danny recoils, putting distance between them. Danny glares at him from several steps away, hand to his forehead. Damian tosses the dagger into his other hand as he charges, and to Bruce's surprise Danny does nothing more than turn his face to the side, allowing Damian to draw a sharp line down his cheek.

Damian stops dead in his tracks.

"Are you done?" Danny asks, blood beginning to pool at the seam of the cut.

Damian's expression is stricken, eyes stuck on the blood starting to drip down his brother's face.

"I said, are you done, Damian?" Danny asks. His voice is cold.

Damian hears him this time, and he flushes red. "I--you--"

Danny sighs. He looks at Jazz, whose expression is back to carefully controlled.

"Are you alright?" he asks her. She nods.

"You left me," Damian accuses, standing there holding his bloody dagger limply.

Danny turns back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"You left me," Damian repeats louder, rapidly blinking.

"Yes. I did." Danny provides no excuse nor any explanation. His stance is unyielding.

Damian's eyes bounce wildly, shifting to Jazz and Danny slides smoothly in front of her, protectively. He looks at Damian warily, not as if he is his brother, but as if he is a danger. Damian flinches.

Hope is the last to die, Bruce thinks, watching as that last bit of hope Damian had is extinguished, the knowledge working its way through every inch of his body like ice in his veins. His eyes darken. He turns and runs from the room, the front door slamming shut not a moment later.

Jazz stands up, pulling a few tissues from the box on the coffee table. She presses them to Danny's face, cupping his cheek until he holds it himself. "I'm going to go get the first aid kit," she says gently. It is a thinly veiled excuse to leave them alone, and Bruce is grateful for it as she heads for the stairs.

They both wait until her footsteps have faded, taking each other in. Bruce looks at his mother's eyes and the sharp turn of Talia's nose. Damian's everything, four years older.

"You shouldn't have come here," Danny says, throwing himself on the armchair Jazz has just vacated.

"You know who I am," Bruce says carefully.

Danny glares. "I've kept your secret. She nor my parents know."

"I know," Bruce says. "That's not what I meant. You know who I am. And who I pretend to be. So you know I am familiar with masks."

"And?" Danny asks, looking vaguely bored.

"And so I can recognize when someone is wearing one. Damian will too, once he's calmed down."

Danny's expression sharpens. "No, he won't. Because you are going to go to back to whatever bed and breakfast you're staying in, pack up, hop in your private jet and fly him back to Gotham immediately before the League realizes you've gone. If they haven't already," he mutters.

"This is about the League then," Bruce says. "Do you not believe I can protect you?"

"I don't need your protection," Danny snaps, and watches Bruce actively extrapolate with a dawning resignation. "So this is the World's Greatest Detective at work," he says, slumping bonelessly into his chair, the first teenager-y thing he's done.

"Damian's in danger from the League," Bruce says. Danny glares from his slump. It's almost cute. "And as long as the League doesn't know about you, he's safe."

"Draw your own conclusions," Danny says, baring his teeth. Damian often makes the same face. "As long as you leave."

"I can protect him. I can protect you both," Bruce says. "Let me help you."

Danny closes his eyes. He centers his breathing in an exercise someone has clearly walked him through in the past. Bruce would bet money on the adoptive sister waiting patiently upstairs.

"Mr. Wayne. You are not my father," he says. "My trust in you extends to the point that I left Damian in your care, but that is where it ends. And that was when it was sanctioned by the League. By coming here you have endangered those sanctions."

Bruce disregards the sting, doubling down on his analysis. Talia had left Damian with Bruce well after Danny had left the League. But Danny speaks as if the decision had been his.

Or perhaps, Bruce realizes, it is not that Danny decided upon it, but that Danny allowed it to continue.

Bruce takes a second to review what Oracle had gone over with him before they left for Amity. Daniel Fenton had by all accounts, since leaving the League, lived a fairly normal life. His adoptive parents were eccentric scientists dabbling in the occult but their findings that bordered pseudoscience circulated a very niche community of like-minded eccentrics. The bulk of their income came from alternative energy, a more viable source of study that they'd veered harder into in the past year or so, a government contract with the EPA currently in the works. This had in part funded a vacation to an all-inclusive resort the family had taken that past summer.

Danny received average grades in school, above average in science and mathematics, declining sharply in his freshman year and sophomore year before evening out around the second semester. He had gotten into fights repeatedly with one student in particular, suspended for two weeks following an incident that resulted in a the student receiving a black eye. Teachers reported him to be highly intelligent but distracted and removed. They had recommended he be evaluated for an attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. He had no social media. He had missed multiple picture days. The ones he had attended he was sneezing, or a blur of movement, even going so far as to fall off his stool, legs flailing. Bruce had drank up every last one as Barbara had waited patiently.

A normal life. A family vacation to Bermuda. Average grades.

His freshman year, distracted and removed. The same year Damian had arrived at Bruce's home. Masks upon masks.

"You have informants within the League," Bruce says. Danny, to his credit, has no discernible tell. But there is no other explanation. "What will you do, if they find out you are alive?"

"That is none of your concern," Danny says, but he might as well be saying whatever I have to.

He never stopped practicing, after all.

"If they go after Damian, it is my concern."

"And that is why you need to take Damian back to Gotham before they do." Danny says. "I will take care of it."

Damian had barely spoken since he had realized Danyal was alive. But Bruce had seen the reverence in his eyes as he looked at the file.

"الوريث الصحيح" he had murmured. The rightful heir.

"You are proposing going after the entirety of the League with no backup," Bruce says. "Even if you think they won't kill you, you won't win either."

"Maybe they will," Danny says lightly. "Kill me. That would also work."

Bruce inhales sharply. "Danny," he starts.

"Go home, Mr. Wayne," Danny says, pushing himself up with one hand. The other still clutches the wad of tissue to his cheek, partially soaked with blood. "Go take care of your son."

"I'll go," Bruce says, "I'll take him to the Watchtower. And then I'll come back."

"Mr. Wayne-"

"I should've come for you," Bruce interrupts. "Sixteen years ago. I should've come for you."

Danny's brow furrows. "You had no idea I existed."

"But if I had. I would've come. I never would've left you there. And now that I know, I am not leaving you now."

For the first time Bruce watches Danny be completely caught off guard. He openly gapes at Bruce.

"You would've died," Danny lands on, voice thin. "They would've killed you."

"Unlike you, I would've brought backup." Bruce says, mimicking Danny's lightness.

He's lying. Sixteen years ago he would've thrown himself at the League to save his newborn son without a plan, without a thought beyond rescuing his baby.

Danny barks out a laugh. "You would've laid siege to Nanda Parbat with The Big Blue Boy Scout?" he looks wistful. "That would've been rad."

Bruce sees his opening. "Danny," he stands, eye to eye with his son. "Let me help you."

Danny evaluates him. "The Batman," he says softly. "I didn't want you to come, then. I didn't need one more person I had to prove myself to. All I wanted was to live amongst the stars, in the quiet of the cosmos."

"You want to be an astronaut," Bruce says. At Danny's cocked head, he says without shame, "I read your essay on personal heroes. You wrote about Edward White. Ad Astra Per Aspera."

Danny smiles slightly, sadly. "It is a rough road."

"You can be whatever you want to be," Bruce says. "I won't stand in your way."

"Even if I want to be Danny Fenton?" he asks.

"Even then."

Danny sighs. "I don't need your help Bruce," he says. "No," he says as Bruce opens his mouth. He pulls the wad of tissues away from his cheek. Underneath the splotches of dried blood the gash in his face has cleanly knit itself together, a faint white line now all that remains.

"I don't need your help," he says clearly. He holds a palm forward, and a green fire grows from its center, until the flames are licking delicately up his fingers.

"I know The Batman does not kill. But I am not a Robin. I am something else entirely," Danny says, his eyes reflecting the green of the flames. Or not, as he looks up at Bruce, his eyes green all on their own. They are sad. This is why he stayed away, Bruce realizes. Not out of fear. Danny is not afraid. Danny is tired.

But for his brother, Danny will wake up.

"And If the League takes one step towards Damian, I will raze them to the ground."