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emmyrosee · 1 year

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YALL BASED ON THIS VIDEO HERE IM SCREAMING-

It’s been hours since you’ve smiled at Rintaro.

Not since this morning when you left. He was home today, all day, left to watch your three year old, and be home to see your nine year old. You’d kissed the side of his nose, reminded him of some chores, and everything was fine for you to go out and do your own set of errands.

But to come home to a trash bag sitting outside of the door and not in the barrel that got emptied today?

Oh. Screw smiling.

There may have been a small argument that broke out once you told him, about how he assumed you’d take the trash out since you were leaving the house- of which you snapped that it’s not your responsibility to automatically take out the trash when you leave.

Your son, Akito, was only left to watch the chaos, setting up the console he and his father were about to play on.

“I forgot, okay!” He snaps, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take it out later, it’s fine!”

“It’s not fine!” You yell back. “The trash was already taken! It’s worthless at this point to do it!”

He looks like he’s about to say something back, but you see him bite his tongue. “Good choice,” you snarl. Leaving him and Akito, you make your way upstairs and into your bedroom where you get changed into something that doesn’t emit outside-world feeling. You take a quick shower, wash your face, and when you step out still angry, you’re quick to make a new game plan.

Once you’re done with your small dose of self care, you stomp into the kitchen for something to eat, hoping that it’ll help curb any further anger coming from you both.

Crackers and cheese, some little slices of fruit which you intend to pair with they jelly you got on your last visit to the city.

You grab the jar and with a deep, frustrated exhale, you grip the cover and try to twist.

When it doesn’t budge, you feel your eye twitch.

You try again, to no avail. You grab the nearest towel in an attempt to get a better grip. No dice.

You sigh, tossing the rag to the side before stalking your way into the living room, grimace etched on your face.

“Can you open this?” You ask, and just as Rintaro pauses the game and tosses his controller aside to reach for the jar, you slip right past him and pass it to Akito, who takes it in his hands to pop open the lid.

With a small grunt he manages to open the lid, passing you the jar with a small smile, “here, ma.”

“Thank you, handsome man,” you hum, blowing him a kiss and blowing a raspberry at Rintaro when you make your way back to the kitchen. There’s a pause of silence, a question you don’t quite catch from your son, and suddenly, you hear your husband jump up from the couch. You smirk. It doesn’t take long before feet quickly pound their way into the kitchen, and a disgruntled Rintaro stands, pouting, in the doorway.

“What. Was that about?”

You shrug softly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” he says, brows furrowed in frustration. “You’re seriously going to use my own creation against me?”

“Your creation?” You scoff in disbelief. “First off, I don’t remember you carrying our two children around for nine damn months. Second of all, our children are not creations. They’re children.”

“Point one,” he begins, quickly walking over to you. “You were hot as fuck carrying around our spawn. Secondly? Last time I checked, our baby machines only worked when together.”

“Feral!” You snap, giving him a grossed out look before turning towards the snacks you’d been making. “Get the hell out of my kitchen, I don’t want you here- HEY!”

Before you can think, Rintaro reaches past you and grabs the jar of jam, quickly raising his arm above his head to get it out of your reach. You would’ve tickled him for it, but the jam was from a small business three cities over. And the fuckhead knew that, and you hate him for it.

“You’re such a pain!” You growl, making a jump for it. You barely come close. Your fingers wrap around his shoulder in an attempt to yank his arm down, but he tightens it up completely to make it immobile. You’re rendered completely helpless to your husbands cruelty.

“Akito!” You call your son in hopes for assistance, snarling up at your husband. Instantly, socked feet slip along the floor, and at the sight of his figure in the doorframe, Rintaro bears his teeth.

“Don’t help your mother, she has to learn a lesson!” He snaps.

You growl back, “don’t listen to your father, you and your sister’s snacks depend on it!” Akito’s green, confused eyes flick back and forth between you both, and if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d think about how absolutely hilarious this is.

Rintaro, in all his 185 cm glory, holding a damned jar of jam above his head, so much so a sliver of his side pokes out from his shirt, and you, crossing your arms childishly after making extreme reaches for the jar.

It’s ridiculous, it’s childish, and it’s perfect for your marriage.

Akito gnaws his lip, “I mean… Ma is the boss, dad-“

“If you scram, I’ll double your allowance this week.”

“Bye mom!”

With the last bit of hope you have, you watch as he skates his way back into the living room, eye twitching in annoyance. “Kaiya wouldn’t betray me like that!”

“She’s three, mom!”

“She’d still help!”

Left to your own pity, you once again make a reach for the jar, only for him to reel his arm back a little bit more. “Give me a break, I have snacks to make,” you say, voice pitched in annoyance and defeat.

“Tell me you won’t go to our son for husband jobs.”

“Tell me you’ll take out the trash when I tell you to!”

“I thought you were throwing it out!”

“Why would you not check!”

“I didn’t think I had to!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll check on your waking daughter,” Akito calls annoyed from the living room, the only thing breaking up your argument.

With a deep, exhausted breath, Rintaro slowly lowers his arm, though still keeping a slight distance between you. “Cant we both say we’re wrong?”

“I’m never wrong,” you snip.

“I know, but for the sake of waking our three year old up, please just cave with me. Please, baby. I’m-“

He’s cut off by your quick lunge for the jar. He yanks it out of the way, and you’re left chasing it like a dog with a treat. You do, however, hear your husband laugh, but it’s not the laughter of victory from a few moments ago.

It’s laughter of adoration.

“I will leave you.”

“Gotta get the jar first.”

You, once again, for the nth time in a row, make a reach for it, but this time, Rintaro’s free arm quickly wraps around your waist to encase you in a hug, and he leans you back into the most ridiculous dip you’ve ever been apart of. You can’t begin to fight your own laughter that bubbles past your lips, fingers instinctively gripping his collar for stability.

Once your titters are finished ringing in the air, he straightens you both up, relaxing as you thunk your head against his chest. The jar gets put down on the counter, and he kisses the crown of your head sweetly as his arms tug you close.

“You’re annoying,” you purr.

He chuckles, “I know.” He closes his eyes and gently breathes in your scent, “and I’m sorry about the trash my love. Even if I thought you took it out, I really should’ve just. Checked.” Long fingers gently smooth up your neck to gently massage the nape, and he hums as you melt like putty against him.

“Now it’s gonna sit,” you pout. “In the trash outside. And it’s gonna smell. And we’re gonna be the house with smelly ass trash.”

“I know,” he repeats, trying not to laugh at your concerns. “I’ll take care of it princess- and worst case scenario, I’ll write letters apologizing to the neighbors for our rotten trash.”

You snort softly against his collarbone as you continue to nuzzle closer, “I’m sorry I went to Akito to open my jar,” you confess, angling your head up at him. He smirks and leans down to capture your lips in a kiss, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks lovingly.

“You wanna know a secret?” He asks against your lips.

You hum in intrigue.

“I’m pissed because I tightened them all when you were in the shower, so you’d have to talk to me.”

“SERIOUSLY?”

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chaoswarfare · 1 year

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dp x dc prompt #36

i’ve seen a lot of prompts about de-aged danny running around gotham from the GIW, and one of the bats find him and practically adopt him on the spot.

what i want to see is a very self sufficient four year old danny that has already been successfully escaping for a while with just some minor help from gotham, and is only found because he’s doing something stupid while running away from someone.

i want danny getting chased by the GIW through the city, and the bats only notice when he tarzan swings by them with laxer fire chasing him.

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deadsetobsessions · 26 days

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Pt. 3

Again, the timing is icky but pretty much everything about it is icky.

——

Bruce wondered when Talia al Ghul would stop upheaving his life.

He loves Damian, but one surprise child was a lot, considering the cult deprogramming they’d had to do.

A second, older, surprise child? That was a bit overkill.

At least this time, the conception was consensual.

Bruce cradled his head in his hands, still-gloved fingers gripping onto sweat-soaked hair. The glow of the bat computer shone on his lone figure, sat huddled before endless screens of investigations and the unraveling threads of Bruce’s sanity.

How was he to cope with the knowledge that a child- his child, like Dick and Damian and Tim and Jason and- suffered so at the man he thought he had beaten so soundly?

It was his fault, Bruce thought, that Ra’s al Ghul tortured his… Bruce��s… daughter so brutally. It was no doubt, a way to assuage his anger at Bruce’s denial of being his heir.

His mistakes always came back to haunt him, but it never laid its furious eyes and hands on his own person. No, when Bruce made mistakes, his loved ones paid for it.

He tried his best, pushed harder as Batman, in penance. But this… his unknown daughter, trapped in the shadows of the league where it is cold and cruel and brutally painful…

How could he repent for the sin of letting his daughter suffer and chained at the hands of Ra’s al Ghul? How could he show her that the shadows could be kind? That he would rather break his own spine and get lost in the time stream again before he could even fathom hurting her? He found himself stuck in the same loop of thoughts that plagued him when Damian first came into his orbit.

The screens turned black, and Oracle’s call sign flashed onto the dark pixels.

“Oracle. I hadn’t finished looking at the cases.”

“Go to sleep, Bruce.”

“No, there is still work to be-” his voice, dipping into the growl, died a quick death when Barbara cut him off.

“Your daughter is coming tomorrow. So, unless you want to look like a disheveled grease racoon when you meet her, go shower and get some actual sleep.”

Bruce paused, feeling oddly offended. His eye bags weren’t that bad.

Bruce caught sight of his reflection in one of the blacked out monitors.

…Nevermind.

He sighed. “…Thank you, Barbara.”

“Anytime, Bruce. I’m always here to kick your ass into gear.”

Bruce huffed, but obligingly got up to change and shower. Alfred silently appeared at the elevators, polished shoes tapping against the stone floor as he raised an imperious eyebrow at Bruce.

“I see Miss Barbara has managed to persuade you to retire at an hour common to regular man, Master Bruce.”

“Ah, yes, she… did.” Bruce felt the urge to apologize, because if Alfred’s up because of him, it’ll wear down harsher on the older man’s health. If there was one thing he took seriously, it would be the health of his loved ones. “Sorry, Alfred. I’ll head up to bed soon.”

“See to it that you do, Master Bruce. I will warm dinner that you had missed by many hours and bring it to your room.”

Bruce lingered as the butler turned around and began making his way back to the main house.

Alfred paused and turned around once more. “If I may offer you some advice?”

“Please. Always.”

Alfred sniffed delicately, most definitely thinking of the times Bruce decided not to take his very well reasoned and seasoned advice. “You have done well with Young Master Damian.”

“Most of that was Dick,” Bruce interrupted, man enough to admit that he wasn’t a present or a particularly good father figure before his jaunt through time and space. Alfred shot him a chiding look, reprimanding him for interrupting. Bruce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Perhaps, but you have put in effort towards all of your children in a way that I have yet to see since Master Jason had… gone.”

“I’ll never make that period of time up to Tim.” Bruce whispered. Another thing he was guilty of. Tim still avoided some spaces in the manor, even when Bruce had-

“That is because you sit here, wallowing in your guilt,” Alfred returned. He added a belated “Master Bruce,” and it sounded like ‘you utter buffoon.’

“But…”

“You must take the first step, Master Bruce.”

“What if she hates me? What if I’m not ready- what if I can’t help her?”

“You will try. She deserves that, at the very least. You must try. Even if you are not ready for the day, Master Bruce, it can not always be night.”

“… You’re right.” Bruce straightened his shoulders. Time doesn’t wait. He, of all people, knew that.

“You will find that I am hardly ever wrong.” Alfred primly rested his hands atop each other.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course. It was also meant literally, Master Bruce, for the sun shall try its best to peek out of Gotham’s smog in approximately three hours and fourteen minutes.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Bruce grouched.

——

Her mother gave her a slow, cautious hug, akin to approaching a wild animal.

She huffed, and pulled her mother into a crushing hug. She allowed herself, for the first time in a long time, to linger and cling onto her mother’s shirt. Another tendency that Ra’s had thought he’d beaten out of her.

“Be careful,” the reincarnation whispered.

“You as well, my beloved daughter.”

‘You do not have to remind me that I am beloved, mother. I know.’

Talia al Ghul tucked a strand of the reincarnation’s curled hair behind her ear. “No, I do not believe that you do. But that is… my own fault. I will tell you and remind you that you are beloved to me as long as I can. I have two decades of it to make up to you, habibti.”

The flight attendant- a League operative- returned from placing her bags onto the private plane.

——

A sleek car made its way up Wayne Manor’s winding driveway. She’d declined the offer to pick her up from the airport. She had wanted a vehicle of her own, and some time before she met every one else. No doubt, knowing what she knew of her brother and Bruce Wayne, not to mention the little photographer, they were most likely tracing her path to Wayne manor obsessively.

She tapped her nails on the wheel as she drove towards her brother. Brothers. And… Bruce Wayne. On one hand, she’s kept them safe. On the other, she’d sacrificed years of getting to know them. It was odd, to feel this intensely awkward and nervous after years of intense hatred or apathy sprinkled by the the occasional love and fondness for Damian and her mother.

“Hmmm.” She hummed, slight smile spreading a bit more as the sound came out without pain. Two weeks, and the novelty of freedom had not worn off. She thinks that it would never wear off. She cherished it.

The gate had opened without needing a code, so they most definitely knew she was here. It’s a good thing she had prepared gifts in advance. Dodging Gothamites as they drove and jaywalked had been a rather unforeseen ordeal that she was not looking forward to repeating.

She rolled to a smooth stop at the front doors, giving the intricately carved oak doors a passing glance. She huffed a laugh as she saw Damian, flanked by Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth, staring proudly outside at the front door. They’re anticipatory of her arrival. Warmth spread through her heart, and for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t the heat of rage.

She opened the doors with a quiet click and hiss, stepping out onto the heated paved driveway, and closed the door. At the steps, the two older men had frozen but Damian had come walking quickly towards her.

“Damian,” she whispered as he came near her, suffusing as much fondness as she could into his name. Her little brother all but sprinted towards her, screeching to a stop in front of her with excited eyes.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, ukhti.” He said formally. Her eyes softened and she pulled him into a hug.

(yā waṭawāṭī alṣṣḡīr is the phonetic spelling.) ("وطواطي الصغير" is the actual spelling. I think.)

“I have missed you, ya wat-wat alssgirr,” she whispered. The familiar endearment, “my little bat,” rung warmly like a warm crease ruffling his hair. The silks of her clothes and the ever present warm sand and candle scent wrapped around him like a hug… like the hug she was currently giving him.

(Her clothes were in blues and silvers. It suited her, she who had been forced in green and golds and cuts of black.)

“I still can not believe you all but told me who father was and I still could not figure it out until mother told me.”

She pulled back. ‘Damian, you were five.’

“I have little doubt you were smarter at my age, ukhti, so do not lie to me.” Damian grumbled. Nevertheless, he stepped back.

‘No, you were smarter.’

And to her, he was. It’s not like Damian had the edge she did, and he wasn’t the one trapped for twenty something years. She had foolishly thought that Ra’s wouldn’t dare to harm her too much, seeing as she was his blood, but Damian knew from day 1. She made sure he did. If she was half as smart as Damian, she would have bent her knee and obeyed, no matter how she felt about killing. She would have taken warning Ra’s issued and soaked in the poisonous praise to bide her time to escape. She could not- she did not- do what Damian found effortless, and paid the price for it.

“Unlikely,” Damian said, turning around fully, but she could see the tips of her brother’s ears burning. Ah, perhaps she had been to stingy with compliments if he was shy hearing a mild one, sincere as it might have been. “This is Alfred Pennyworth. He is the butler, and an integral part of the family.”

Damian glanced at her, taking in her suddenly impassive face, and nods. Good. His attitude towards Pennyworth when he first arrived was… mildly shameful. His ukhti was smart enough to know that and therefore he won the argument.

On her part, the reincarnation followed along like she hadn’t mildly stalked this family for decades. It was nice to see excitement rearing on her brother’s face. It was rare in the league and Gotham’s gloom had ironically cheered him up far more than the suns of desserts ever did. She nodded at Alfred Pennyworth, who had admirably recovered from his earlier shock.

“And this is… Bruce Wayne. Our father.”

She tucked a strand of curled hair back, impassive blue eyes meeting her… father’s.

She offered him a short nod.

——

“My word,” Alfred Pennyworth muttered as his charge’s (his son’s) daughter step out of the car. Her steps were silent, graceful, and lighter than a gazelle.

The way she moved, even as she hugged young master Damian, whispered of leashed lethality and treacherous waters. She moved like if grace had a form and Alfred was willing to bet his entire career that not an iota of air got close to her without her knowledge of it, and it reminded the aging man of the young Miss Cassandra. He knew then, that she could have pretended to be unassuming and that he would have had a hard time equating her with danger. That she showed them her potential for death was a sign of trust.

But it was not the way she claimed death as her own name that caught the former spy’s attention.

No.

It was her blue eyes and the way they ever so slightly crinkled fondly as she laid eyes upon her younger brother. It was the way her hair, curled in a nostalgic style, that curtained her face as she spoke to the young Wayne heir, though he could not hear her voice. It was the way that she tucked Damian against her side, protective but encouraging.

It was the way that she, despite Talia al Ghul’s features, resembled his dearest friend, Martha Wayne, in her every movement.

Alfred Pennyworth felt like he was decades younger, standing before Martha as she fondly tucked Bruce against her side and successfully needled Thomas into going to see Bruce’s favorite movie.

It felt like he had his best friend once more, just a little.

From the way Master Bruce stared, it seemed as though he thought the same.

Alfred straightened when young master Damian introduced him. He was the Wayne Family Butler. And she was definitely a Wayne.

Master Bruce stood there like a lout as his daughter greeted him. Alfred shot him a scathing look- he had taught Master Bruce much better manners than to gape, the nerve!- before smoothly directing the attention away. His hands moved as he spoke.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, Miss-”

She made a sharp motion to cut him off and signed something. Alfred might be a tad rusty in Arabic sign language (like he and the rest of the family hadn’t spent the last two weeks frantically memorizing and brushing up on their sign language) but he knew a name sign when he saw one.

“al Ghul.” Damian recognized. He did not use regular Arabic Sign Language with her often, vastly preferring their own established sign, but that did not mean he slacked. “You may call her al-Ghul.”

‘Or nothing at all,’ Damian’s sister signed. She looked at him like she was waiting. A test, Alfred realized.

Alfred pushed the slight twinge of disheartening disappointment away. He had wanted to call her Miss Wayne, to perhaps indulge in a bit of nostalgia for a while longer. But he shan’t do it at the expense of his charge.

“Miss al Ghul,” he continued, not missing a beat, imitating the name sign with pin point accuracy. She lifted her chin. Alfred sighed in relief. He passed. And now, perhaps he should revive Ra’s al Ghul and have a nice, entirely civil conversation about Miss al Ghul’s expectation that her wishes would go ignored.

Alfred will bring his shotguns and most likely would abandon pretenses as soon as that old goat got into his crosshairs. Old as he might be, he was still a very good shot, and civility was reserved for those with honor.

“Please head inside. I am sure young master Damian would love to guide you on a tour,” Alfred continued like he didn’t think of violent second deaths for Ra’s al Ghul. “Perhaps Master Bruce will join you, if you are amendable, once he has managed to stop imitating the rather life like form of a smooth brained sloth.”

Alfred congratulated himself on the small crinkle of humor that graced Miss al Ghul’s otherwise expressionless face. Well, expressionless to those that did not know where to look. Fortunately, Alfred and the rest of the family were used to stoic caveman micro expressions, courtesy of Bruce, and therefore it would not be much of a problem.

“I will bring your bags up to your room.”

She scrutinized him and then dipped her head.

‘Be careful. There are dangerous things in there.’

“I assure you the utmost privacy in regards to your belongings,” Alfred said.

“Pennyworth will not peruse your belongings, ukhti. He has more honor and respect than that.”

Alfred would like to interrogate Talia al Ghul to see who he must introduce some lead to, that clearly disrespected Miss al Ghul’s privacy like so. But for now, he will bask in the warmth of young master Damian’s implicit trust.

Miss al Ghul nodded. She opened the trunk of the car- the interior of which Alfred could now perceive to be entirely customized and of extremely quality material. She handed the keys and gave him access to her luggage. Then, placing her hand at young master Damian’s shoulder, followed the young master into the halls where she ought to have been raised. Or, at the very least, ought to have taken a step in at least once before today.

Master Bruce lingered at the doorway, torn between following the siblings and helping Alfred with the luggage (read: running away.)

“The daylight is wasting, Master Bruce.”

Master Bruce skittered in behind them like a newborn colt, wobbling and anxious.

Well, it’s time for Alfred to do his job. There was only a single duffle bag.

Hm. He’ll have to tell Master Bruce to take her out for necessities. He hardly doubted that a single bag could last her very long. And Alfred Pennyworth was hellbent on convincing his granddaughter to stay, may the gods have mercy on whichever poor soul that tried to convince her otherwise for he won’t.

——

She followed Damian as he led her deeper within the walls of a home she knew by heart from afar. She was like the little photographer in that way. Bruce Wayne trailed behind them like a particularly awkward ghoul, and she found it amusing to equate this turtle necked man was the illustrious Dark Knight. How dangerous.

“This is the first parlor. It is for guests of the… regular persuasion.”

Ah, for the civilians. She nodded.

“Ah, the silverware was selected by Alfred.” Bruce interjected, gesturing to the display silverware by the door. Their cabinets were intricate without taking away from the paintings upon the delicate ceramic.

She looked at him, wondering why he was following before giving up and nodding. It was his house.

(Bruce, for his part, felt like his daughter had laid judgement upon him… and found him lacking.)

‘It is… adequate.’ She sighed to Damian. Damian tutted.

“It’s fine to say quaint, sister. It could hardly compare to the palace.”

Bruce jolted, plans for converting the manor into a palace already in the making.

No, he couldn’t. Alfred would murder him with his favorite dish.

‘I like it, even if it is smaller.’

“….you do?”

‘You are happy here. It is warm to you. I like it.’ She repeated.

Damian latched onto her sleeve. “I- I shall show you my art. And then introduce you to the rest of the bumbling fools we have for brothers-”

She tilted her head. Bruce paused as well when Damian’s words cut off.

“If… you want them as brothers. It would be… helpful, to integrate.”

She waited.

“But… I am the first. Your blood. And-”

‘I will make room in my heart for them, if you wish it. I already know some of them.’ She allowed a small smile to show. ‘But that does not mean you will ever lose your place, little bat.’

Damian felt extremely thankful that father had not managed to pick up their version of sign language yet.

“Well… as long as you’re aware.” He marched further into the manor. She followed, once more, a look of fond indulgence gleaming in her eyes.

——

She stood in front of a painting her younger brother had done.

‘I made it two weeks ago,’ he’d told her, fingers curled into her palm.

It was green. She hated green. And gold. And ominous. Rage. Harsh, bold strokes and spots where the texture of the canvas were either globbed over or painfully showing through.

Her hands traced the single stroke of blue amidst the turbulence of green.

She tucked Damian against her side and realized that perhaps he understood after all, what it felt like. Perhaps not all of it, but enough.

——

“Here is your room, ukhti.” Damian stood watch as his sister scanned the room. She quickly removed three listening devices as Damian sighed.

‘You’ve gotten better.’ She crossed the room and plucked the listening bug from its place on the door frame.

“Clearly not good enough.” Damian huffed. “But I have beaten your knife game record. What do you think of the room?”

His sister rolled her eyes and handed him a blade she pulled from somewhere on her person.

An implicit challenge.

“No cutting your fingers off, please.” Father interceded.

“Begone, father. We are doing sibling bonding, something I remember you insisting that I participate in.”

Damian shut the door on his stupefied face, matching his sister’s sharp smirk as he splayed his hand on the dresser and raised the blade.

——

Alfred walked in with a covered plate and paused at the sight of the dresser.

Then, he looked on as Damian sat at the desk, rapidly signing to his sister in their own version of the language as said sister pulled out an entire wardrobe and a half to fill in the walk-in closet.

Alfred made a note to study some more magic.

“Miss al-Ghul. I bring you a snack that young master Damian made and to inform you that the others will be arrive en masse, within an hour.” Alfred paused. “Might I interest you in a mat before the two of you decide to… take a gander at furniture redecoration in the future?”

“Of course, Pennyworth. Apologies.”

“I’ll try to make sure they won’t overwhelm you. They can be a lot, at once.” Bruce said from the doorway. Miss al Ghul glanced at him and dipped her head in thanks. Her eyes wandered right back to the dessert.

Alfred made another note.

‘You made this for me?’ She asked, switching to standard.

Damian grumbled. “Do not eat it. I could not get the spice quite right, no matter how many variations…”

‘I am sure it will be good.’ She took the plate from Alfred’s hand and uncovered it.

They all had the fortune of witnessing a true, genuine wide eyed smile from a stoic face.

Alfred inhaled sharply. He had thought Master Bruce and young master Damian had inherited Thomas’ dimples. But she had inherited his entire smile.

‘Bstilla!’ She turned to Damian. ‘My favorite! You made this?’

“I know that. I am not incompetent as to not notice when you snuck three of them from the palace kitchens. You must give me the recipe from the cooks. I could not get it to taste like the spices they used. I even imported spices!”

Miss al-Ghul, like she had forgotten he and Master Bruce were there, stabbed a fork into the pie and put it into her mouth.

“Ukhti! Don’t- do not eat that! Spit it out! The pastry is too thick and-”

She held up her hand. ‘It’s good. I know what it is missing.’

She strode to her magic bag and pulled out a bottle.

She sprinkled flakes on top and offered a forkful of b’stilla to the young master who, shockingly, did not insist on his own utensil.

His expression lightened. “This is it. What is it? You know of the chefs’ methods?”

She sprinkled the mysterious spice on the food. ‘You’ve never eaten anything the chefs have made. I made your food by hand to prevent assassinations and inoculate you against toxins. Also, this is poison.’

Alfred stiffened.

“It’s what?!” Bruce spoke up, rushing into the room, finally to try and look Damian over.

‘It is fine. He has been immune since he was three.’

Miss al Ghul placed a piece of poisoned b’stilla in her mouth and ate. Young master Damian batted his father off, saying that poison inoculation was hardly a surprise. What was a surprise, though, was something else.

“That is- you- you’re the one who made my meals?” Young Master Damian demanded, looking guilty. “But- I- why did you not tell me? I made all of those demands in the middle of the night- what about the time I sent back the knafe fifteen times?”

She nodded.

“Why would you- why did you not tell me?”

‘You knew what grandfather thought of women. And besides, it was the only time I was allowed sweets. He did not want me to ruin my figure as it would lower my marketability.’

Alfred itched for his gun.

“You are not a commodity,” Master Bruce stated, intense as he tended to be. Miss al Ghul blinked at him.

‘… I am aware. But… thank you.’

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” And there went the emotionally intelligent Master Bruce. May he rest in peace until the next time he decides to make an appearance.

“I believe today is a chocolate chip cookie day, do you not, young master Damian?”

“Yes, Pennyworth, I believe it is.”

‘I have never tried it before.’

“You will love it. Pennyworth’s cookies are the best in the world, as is expected.”

Alfred watched as young master Damian tugged his sister out and marveled. The sides of his grandson they rarely get to see was so easily pulled out by his older sister.

——

Y’all I wanted to write her meeting the siblings but Alfred came out of no where and went haha nope feel the angst of a man who lost his best friend and had to raise her vigilante child.

Alfred, seeing Bruce put on the bat cowl for the first time: martha, why have you forsaken me

——

Me: what would baby assassins play as a binding game?

Me, remembering my past as a kid: I Spy, but with trackers and bugs. oh wait… THE KNIFE GOES CHOP CHOP CHOP

——

Also, I think B’stilla was food meant only for royalty and was probably rooted in slavery, so I thought it would be a meaningful nod to her position of privilege and how she are like a king but was treated as a… bed warmer and a slave. Yeah. If anyone knowledgeable on food history wants to school me on b’stilla, feel free to do so. I did like, a cursory research at best.

#Bruce Wayne #Bruce Wayne’s guilt complex #Bruce ‘everything is my fault’ Wayne #no Bruce not everything in fact is about you bby #ras al ghul #Ra’s was a jackass long before you were born #oc in dc #batman #tim drake #damian wayne’s older sister #damian wayne #Bruce took his guil and fucking sprinted with it #he’s also making a lot of (very fair considering the circumstances) assumptions about oc #did I write that entire first part so I could make Alfred quote a poem?#yes yes I did #technically it’s also a part of a Kanye west song or whatever #oc: my brother is so cute look he’s so excited to see me #everyone else: what? hes walking so elegantly and calmly???#sleep deprived me did not do the difference between habibi and habibti #Alfred Pennyworth #Alfred Pennyworth was besties with Martha Wayne #Martha Wayne coming back to haunt the Waynes via her granddaughter #Alfred calling Ra’s and honorless goat #a couple thousand words of Alfred being sassy

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pettyprocrastination · 27 days

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Silent Treatment

Word count: 941

Warnings: angst, lack of communication within a relationship, that's about it? Anyways silent treatment is bad communicate with those you love this is purely for fiction purposes don't do this in real relationships.

An: wrote this on my freewrite for a word sprint whole heavily sick on the couch (still am🤧) so if there are any major spelling or formatting errors blame my Samsung and the tumblr app.

Pairing: Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

If there's one thing Simon Riley can't stand it's the silent treatment.

He's used to anger. Knows it well and knows his own. Something nasty and rotten that boils inside of him, festering until he can extract it from his veins through the catharsis of violence under the command of his captain or splitting his knuckles open in an empty gym late in the night.

A man who spent his childhood fed insults and violence at the hand of his father has no qualms with a belly full of rage.

But oh, your silence all but starves him.

It isn't passive aggressive avoidance. There's no tight lipped smile as you insist everything is fine when the truth is standing before you both, because that'd give him plausible deniability. There'd still be that surface level communication no matter how empty it rang.

You offer him something so much worse.

Absolutely nothing.

At first, he's content to roll his eyes and let you stew. You want to act like a petulant little child? Fine by him. You can't beat Ghost at a game of solitude, he'll win every fucking time, sweetheart.

But then you slip by him in the hall, turning your shoulder to avoid his own brawny frame when before you would reach your hand out by just a millimeter so your fingertips would graze his own if only for a second.

By Christ, you might as well have backhanded him.

It makes him feel something ugly knotted deep in his chest. His body begins to itch down to the very bone when days past and you've yet to speak or for fuck's sake acknowledge him in anyway.

It's stupid and immature and childish.

YOU are stupid and immature and childish.

He's content to simply sit in his own silence and be done with it. He's left men and women for less than a passive aggressive attempt at an apology.

But while you slide into your stoic silence like a hot bath after an exhausting day, Simon singes his skin down to the bone on his.

Perhaps it's ironic. That a man called "Ghost" is so uncomfortable with his own silence being gifted back to him that he turns to mild annoyances to gain a reaction from you.

Knocking your shoulder as you pass by one another, looming over you to grab something off of a shelf, entirely invading your personal space when it's unnecessary to press his body to yours in some hope of a twitch, a sigh, anything for you to show him that you're still in there aside from a closed mouth and empty eyes.

He'll find himself scratching at his scalp until the skin is raw and his fingers are tinted red.

Scream at him. Insult him. Hit him. Use him. All that is familiar territory.

Anything but silence.

When you return back to your apartment and find the entire place overwhelmed with the stench of cigarettes, he hopes it's the catalyst. That was your cardinal rule afterall, no smoking inside. One he could only get away with after he's fucked you to exhaustion and you're too comfortable to lift your head from his chest to scold him for indulging his self-destrictive habits in your own bed.

The pack is three quarters finished by the time you get home, the cigarette between his fingers is all but crushed flat as he watches you slip off your shoes and take soft steps towards him until you stand between his knees.

A myriad of comments sit behind his teeth, ready to be spit in your face. Wanting to ask if youre done with your childish charade and gotten it all out of your system, or maybe you've finally cracked because youre so lonely you can't help but come to him for a proper fuck because nobody will make you feel like he does.

But he says none of it. Simon Riley simply waits, and stares at you with tired eyes like a discarded shelter dog.

"I'm tired, Simon."

Your voice, my God had he missed it so much, sounds almost raw to his ears. A rasp to it that makes him wonder if you'd been crying.

Beneath the guilt, a sick part of him, just big enough to whisper above his conscience, feels a satisfaction in knowing he matters enough for you to shed tears in his name.

"I know."

"I don't like this. I don't like feeling like-" your words die in your throat as your face begins to scrunch up, forcing the whine in the back of your mouth to halt so you can uphold the facade of strength and resilience you told yourself you would on the car ride over here.

But then you look down and see the tired eyes of the man you don't know what to call to you and feel yourself wanting nothing more than to crumble in his arms.

“I know.”

A scarred hand gently grasps your thigh, slowly guiding you closer until you fold into his lap. Your own hands rise to cup his face, savoring the way he leans into your touch.

"We can't keep doing this."

"I know."

Despite his lack of words, you hear him perfectly.

You know he'll say sorry. He knows you'll say it as well. He'll tell you he's going to try and you'll accept it.

He knows he'll fuck it up again. As do you.

But now, as you tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder and pretend to not feel him shake and tremble in your arms, he vows to himself to make sure he never drives you to silence again.

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #this is dogshit you guys but it's just a word sprint #also sort of a character study? idk #a peek into this mans brain whole also being heavily theraputic writing for meself

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shares-a-vest · 3 months

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@steddielovemonth Day 25: Love is… Asking, “Do you want a blanket?” (Prompt by @thefreakandthehair)

wc: 952 | Rated: T | cw: Hospital setting, mild descriptions of injuries and general hospital stuff, physical pain, one mention of blood

Tags: Post-s4, Fix-It, Eddie Munson Lives, Hospital

'Hospital Blankets'

“Steve? Hey, Steve?”

Steve is pulled out of a restless slumber by Eddie’s stage whispering. A twinge in his back fully rouses him as he remembers exactly where he is – in Hawkins General, bent up like a pretzel on what is quite possibly the world’s hardest chair, wearing nothing but a hospital gown and his underwear. He blinks harshly, his vision blurry as he looks in the direction of the chattering, dark-headed form lying in the bed in front of him.

“Huh?” he grunts, his voice thick with sleep as he becomes very much aware of the overall pain radiating over his whole body.

His throat burns too, even from a single word. He instinctively reaches a hand up to the reddened scar there – already a formed habit – only to scratch himself with his patient wristband.

“Do you want a blanket?” Eddie continues, his weakened voice indicating he is barely conscious, let alone aware of Steve’s discomfort.

Steve arches his back this time but it causes his chewed-up sides to ache, the bandages stiffening and contorting. Their tacky borders pinching at the already tight skin and scar tissue.

He gives up and slumps back in the chair, clutching the armrests for dear life as a twang shoots directly up his spine to his head. He runs a hand through his hair, impossible to keep from flopping in his face considering all he can do is give himself a goddamn sponge bath these days.

He should have just listened to Robin (and more than a few disgruntled nurses) when they begged him to stay in his own room.

But his room feels empty. Big and dark, just like his family home but a little more white and clinical smelling. It gives him nightmares. If he manages to settle enough to sleep that is…

It’s kinda hard when your friends are scattered throughout the bowels of the local hospital, all in varying states of distress meanwhile, outside the world has half caved in.

“Steeeve,” Eddie whines this time as he repeats, “Do you want a blanket?”

He half dry-sobs his query and Steve has no choice but to shimmy upright – thankfully, the slippery cover of his stupid seat helps him up this time.

Blanket… he finally considers and finds himself stifling a shiver.

He didn’t think to bring a blanket with him as he was much too focused on getting out of bed and down the hall to Eddie’s room. A room that is much colder than his own, which the occupant clearly knows.

Eddie’s fist is balled up in his blankets, offering them up as he raises his shaky arm.

“No,” Steve says softly, shaking his head and waving him away.

Eddie needs it more.

With a herculean effort, Steve moves the chair a few inches closer to the bed, hoping it isn’t scraping the floor or tangling up any of the wires and tubes hooked up to beeping machines – god knows where they each begin and end. His sides all but seize up as he sits back down and forces himself to correct his posture.

“But you’re cold,” Eddie frowns, his voice impossibly small.

“I’m fine,” Steve protests.

Eddie’s weak hand punches at his banket in a haphazard swish motion.

“Get into bed with me…” he mumbles, closing his eyes, “Rest with me, sweetheart.”

His head lolls to the side and Steve huffs out a laugh. Eddie is certainly on one hell of a cocktail of meds, mixed with the overall exhaustion that must come from almost dying. Steve can barely keep his own eyes open and he wasn’t anywhere near as close to it.

His heart thuds in his chest as thoughts of Eddie’s almost lifeless body rush back to his sleepy brain.

Dustin’s sobs… Robin scrambling to tear up clothes and sheets from the Upside Down version of the Munson’s trailer to make bandages… Nancy forcing everyone to focus as she devised a game plan, stopping every few moments to shoot down undead bats…

Steve screws his eyes shut and stands, bracing his arms on the sides of the chair before swiftly moving them to the bed for purchase.

At least Eddie’s right side is a little less banged up – but only just enough, Steve thinks as he hikes back the three warm layers of blankets enough to sit himself down on the bed. He swings his legs up next, clenching his jaw as every muscle in his body aches and pains from what transpired however many days ago.

The bed is a tight fit, but Steve doesn’t mind. The mattress is perhaps a fraction more comfortable than the chair, but he soon warms as he settles down and rights the blankets, smoothing them out for good measure and double-checking he hasn’t disturbed Eddie too much.

His body warms almost instantly as he rests his head beside Eddie’s on his pillow, positioned close enough that he can feel frizzed dark curls tickling his cheek. Eddie’s wispier than he expected and smells of the generic hospital soap – but at least the dried and caked-up blood is gone.

“That’s good…” Eddie coos, turning his head to face Steve, those tickling tendrils now replaced with a soft woosh of his breathing.

He can see the scar on Eddie’s cheek now. The bandage patch has been removed, exposing raw stitches today. Steve sighs, relieved by the smallest of steps forward.

Eddie can’t do much more than reach his hand out. And Steve takes it, interlacing their fingers despite the heart monitor clipped onto Eddie’s right index finger.

“Blanket’s... warm…” he mutters, nodding as he feels slumber tugging at him once again.

Eddie hums in agreeance and lightly squeezes his hand.

#i'm baaaaack (to posting - i've been sprinting my heart out)#big thanks to sandy for checking in and sending the positive vibes that got me back to writing 💖💖💖#steddielovemonth #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie ficlet #healing steddie #(now lets see if i can remember my new tagging system)#tw hospital #tw medical #tw blood

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svtskneecaps · 6 months

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lukewarm take of the evening: y'all care too much about being ""outdated"". fellas this smp moves inhumanly fast. it is ok to CHILL holy shit CHILL. y'all are like "(posts BANGER ART) super late guys sorry" friend i am hitting you with a blanket i am snapping you with my metaphorical towel WHAT DO YOU MEAN SORRY. "(posts BANGER FIC) rip this is outdated now" WHO CARES???? I LOVE YOU, OK. ohhhh woe is us as the fandom at large for having MORE HAPPY PILLS ARC CONTENT oh no how outdated!! how could you be writing speculative fiction about how forever felt during happy pills :( slash SARCASM!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN!!!! THERE ARE SO MANY BANGER ARCS, WHAT, YOU THINK WE'RE COMPLAINING????? FOR GETTING MORE OF THE CONTENT WE LOVED????? oh no we're past the period where everyone thought green gay ninjas were like Dead Dead, my work is now outdated and noncanon :( WDYM. GIMME. A BANGER IS A BANGER IDC IF IT TAKES THREE MONTHS. you think rome was built in a day?? fuck you, baltimore, GIMME. my ass has been cooking a goddamn backflipo family fic since july when it was ALREADY outdated do you think i fear god??? "oh no, you're making an edit of slime's (attempted) egg murdering spree?? how could you, that was months ago it's irrelevant" SAID NO ONE EVER.

save your wrists kidlings ok carpal tunnel is no joke. CHILL!!!!! CHILL!!!!!!!! TAKE YOUR TIME SHEEEEEESH OK LOVE YOU <3

#qsmp #shut up vic #block game brainrot #IT IS OK TO NOT ALWAYS POST SHIT THIRTY SECONDS AFTER IT HAPPENS!!!!!!!#for god's sake we have MONTHS of lore and bangers ok???#i still have a mental image of an art i wish i could make from BOBBY'S NIGHTMARE #HE HAS BEEN GONE FOR M O N T H S and you bet your ass if i can make it I WILL BE POSTING IT #SO. MUCH. SHIT. HAS. HAPPENED. who cares if it was months ago!!!!!!#it's ok to be a few days late!!! it's ok to be a few months late!!!!! don't tell me sorry for feeding me!!!!!!#part of me still lives in I'M NOT HOLDING A FUCKING FUNERAL CHAT #part of me still lives in maxo's final song for his son!!!!#part of me still lives in the day we thought ramón was gone for good #part of me still lives in cellbit sprinting to his son only to be ripped away back to the feds just as richas turns to write a sign #part of me still lives in the flooding of the copacabana ocean #THESE ARE BANGERS. REMEMBER WHEN FIT FOUND PAC E MIKE IN PRISON. BANGER.#oh dear new work expanding on a canon moment i super liked that happened months ago how late smh SAID NO ONE EVER #TWO CAKES!!!!! TWO CAKES MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!! WE LOVE PASTRIES DON'T EVEN WORRY ABOUT IT #COME ON Y'ALL. METAPHORICAL KISSES. LOVE YOU. HAVE A GOOD WEEK.#long tags

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writingdotcoffee · 1 year

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The Copywork Challenge

Copywork is the practice of typing out another writer's work, word by word, as they wrote it. Isn't that copyright infringement, though? Why would you want to do that?

You're, of course, not copying their story to publish it as your own. The goal is to get a feel for how the author works and become a better writer yourself.

For centuries, writers used copywork to learn to write well. Hunter S. Thompson typed out The Great Gatsby in its entirety to practice writing that he greatly admired. Jack London copied the works of Rudyard Kipling. Benjamin Franklin also used copywork to improve his writing.

When you copy another writer's work, you really get to internalise the patterns they use in their prose. You get a much better feel for how they construct sentences and structure their arguments compared to just reading them.

Copying fiction is even more valuable. The best stories immerse you completely in their world when you're reading them. The writing becomes practically invisible. As a result, you miss a lot of the cool things the writer did when reading them.

By typing out the story word by word, you learn how the writer structures their scenes. You'll see how they weave description and action together.

The goal isn't to perfectly imitate a single writer's style — that would be impossible anyway. But as you copy the work of various authors, elements of what makes their writing great will seep through to your style.

Musicians start learning by playing their favourite songs — just listening isn't enough. Artists paint studies of their favourite pieces — looking at a painting isn't enough.

When you want to learn from your favourite writers, do some copywork — just reading their work isn't enough.

The Copywork Challenge

This week, I want to challenge you to copy 1,000 words from a work by your favourite writer. It may be a short story, chapter from a book, essay or blog post.

It should take you about 30 minutes or so to get it done.

Take note of all the little things you will discover about their writing that you would otherwise miss completely when just reading through.

I set up a challenge in Writing Analytics if you'd like to join:

https://app.writinganalytics.co/challenge/6475b5d3e7b6ddfbda1472a9

Let's do some copywork together!

#writing #writers #write #writing tips #writing advice #amwriting #writing challenge #writeblr #writing life #writing sprint #writing analyitcs

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roabythecow · 1 month

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HEY BITCHES, BROS, AND NONBINARY HOES ‼️

ARE YOU A 15 TO 28 AGED WRITER? ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A COMMUNITY OF FELLOW POETS AND WHATNOT LIKE YOURSELF? DO YOU HAVE PETRIFYING LONELINESS? ARE YOU STRUGGLING TO PAY THE BILLS WITH YOUR 9$ AN HOUR?

WELL I CAN SOLVE NOT ONE, NOT THREE, BUT POTENTIALLY TWO OF THOSE PROBLEMS!

Now I know what you're thinking...

I AGREE! 😃 But I assure you, this server is full of pretty chill people, and your typical discord drama is at the bare minimum. Some folks are even so desperate for their drama fix that they make it up when I ask her for a review! ✨️

Thanks Finch, you're really helping our image... /silly

We also prioritize keeping the server small—90 members is our limit—so as not to be overwhelming. We're currently at 45 members (but surprisingly active 🤯), because we took a sit back from advertising since we were comfortable with the size and vibe of our server overall, but we're back at it, and guess what! Since we have a member limit, this is your

"But OP!!! I want to know MORE about this server before joining!! 🥺" You may or may not be saying because you're just so damn impatient and want the link immediately 🙄 /silly

Well, my dear dear Tumblr user, our writing community is diverse, from poets to original authors to fanfiction writers of all genres! And our range of skill levels is just as wide. We have people just stepping foot into the writing scene to folks who've been stuck in the paragraphs for centuries. We chat about our stories, share our work, brainstorm, proofread, and do prompts and sprints. However, I would like to make it clear that our server is more of a writing community, so it isn't as writing-focused as other writing servers out there. I'd say it's 60% fun shenanigans and 40% writing-related. Aside from the writing akin, there's plenty of fandom talk, artwork sharing, fun as hell VCs, movie nights, and speechless music bot VCs if you're feeling extra introverted. /pos

We're also very queer and non-neurotypical up in here. It's a safe space for all races, disabilities, genders, sexualities, and identities. If you're not chill with that, you're not welcome here.

Here are some of our reviews! ✨️

(Please zoom in to read.)

Now my precious ADHD Tumblrina, don't you scroll away just yet if the link doesn't work! You see, because we value a safe environment on our server, we shut down this link once we reach our max amount of members! So please, DM me for a link if necessary, and I'll let you in as soon as there's space! I DON'T BITE! What do you take me for, a horse?

😯 Oh, sorry, didn't see you there, our Tumblr famous server residential horse girl @penciled-palominos

What do you take me for, a toy playing kid?

😯 Oh, sorry, didn't see you there, our Tumblr famous server residential LPS enjoyer @lpsotd

Crazy how I just bumped into those famous people on our server... 🫢

We can't wait to meet you!

#authors #discord server #join my discord #poetry #writers #writing server #discord chat #poets #fanfiction #fiw #fiw ads #queer spaces #beginner writer #proofreading #writing prompts #original story #writing sprints #writing community #introverts

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acmartin · 7 months

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Anyone else's chart looking like this

#writeblr #writing community #writer #creative writing #writer things #author #writing #novel writing #on writing #writers of tumblr #nano 2023 #nanowrimo 2023 #nanowrimo sprints #nanowrimo

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nico-di-genova · 7 months

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Race Engineer! Charles AU

“Leclerc’s position within Red Bull has once again come under question. Is he an engineer? Or he is simply the teams newest promotional tool?”

- SkySports News via X (@SkySportsNews)

“Charles is good at his job, one of the best out there. We would not have hired him if we didn’t think he could do it. This discussion of his talent is not only pointless, but a complete lack of respect toward the results he’s already helped to drive.”

- Christian Horner

#engineer!charles #lestappen #I finished watching the sprint and immediately sat down to go back to writing #this au is quickly consuming me

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aimseytv · 1 year

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#screenshots from my last stream #i thought it was pretty #i like to imagine oaimsey placing the camera behind them on a 10s timer and sprinting into position so it captures them against the light #and then retaking it twenty times because 'it doesnt look right'#but taking a picture of the night sky only once #because the sky is always perfect #and they will never get sick of the sky in the overworld #sleeping under the enderian sky is mundane to them now #but there are nights where they just stare up at the night sky in the overworld #counting the stars and tracing patterns #and #wait i just realised as i was writing this every one of my characters has an obsession with the sky #and the way in which the planets move and the stars and the sun and the sunsets #what have i done #continutity #is key #hahahaha #okay im done #sorry

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vacantfields · 2 months

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The static that filled the room was not a pleasant hum but a sorrowful whine that bounced around the dark grey walls.

On the floor, an old robot sat on its knees. Dressed in soft red pants, something akin to sweatpants. The drawstrings around the waist were long and rested on the floor between the robot's spread thighs. The carpet it sat on was soft and fluffy.

It knew this as its metal fingers dug into the rug, twisting into the long strands of fake fur.

A static sob escaped the robot's voice box as its shirt hung over its fragile frame.

Its black-out screened face was tilted down, looking at the floor as its multicolored limp rays framed its face.

Oh, the agony.

The white dots it had as eyes were firmly on what was on the floor.

A frame, wooden, carved, handmade, and loved. The glass shattered and spread across the furred carpet, the rug that the robot was sitting on. The picture in it had been ripped out and shredded.

The sob continued from its voice box. Its fragile frame shakes from the trembling and the horror of feeling.

Oh, beloved.

"To my bestest friend Sprint!!!" The drawing said. It was a childish drawing of a robot much like himself, along with a kid with blonde hair and a blue shirt.

Who was Sprint?

Sprint.

Sprint...

"Sprint..." the robot muttered to itself. "I'm Sprint..."

He figured, at least. But what happened to the picture?

To the drawing? He loved it, didn't he?

Who ruined it?

Sprint couldn't feel the paper scraps stuck in his fingers in his hidden claws. He couldn't feel the glass digging into his palms or the glass under his knees.

"Need... I need to do laundry... Maybe vacuum." It told itself. "Yes!"

The robot got up from the floor—the static and sobbing stopping like it was all an act.

It's not.

The clarity is getting less and less.

Sprint walked out of the room, leaving the massacred drawing and picture frame on his soft carpet. The frame had a carving that could barely be read due to the shredding.

"Best Friends forever and ever!!"

"Sprint + Reily"

"1992"

#noah writing #dca fandom #dca oc sprint #dca oc #fnaf oc #my writing #writing #drabble #sprint isnt aware of much anymore #):

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fragilecapric0rnn · 1 year

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[series now cross-posted to ao3! stay tuned for more! ] Have been watching a lot FRIENDS lately bc its one of my and my gf's comfort shows and, of course, i cannot stop thinking about Stranger Things-ifying the hell out of it. the vision came to me SO CLEARLY [PART 2]

Sitting around the coffee shop that is basically a second home to the gang.

Nancy sits on the chair across from Argyle, one leg tucked under her, legal pad balancing on the arm, a pen being held between her pointer and middle finger, tapping incessantly on the pad. The other hand tucked into a fist and holding up her chin.

Argyle sits with his legs draped over the arm of the oversized chair, flipping through the latest Steven King book, one arm perched behind his head.

Jonathan has the NYT crossword in his lap, Robin peering over his shoulder, making him nervous.

A normal Saturday afternoon routine for the group of twentysomethings. The rain from outside softly hits the windows nearby, complimenting the soft chatter and gentle clanking of dishes.

But Robin can only seem to focus on Nancy's damn tapping.

"Nance?"

"Hm?"

"I'm gonna need you to stop tapping. I'm trying to beat Jonathan's puzzle."

"Just take it," he hands the paper over to her, annoyed.

"No! It's more fun when it feels like I'm beating you."

Jonathan looks over at Nancy, who is staring blankly at the wooden support beam a few feet away.

"What's going on Nance?"

"Nothing." Her pitch high, grabbing the rest of the groups attention, so much so that they all inch closer to her chair.

"Sounds like a whole lotta nothing," Argyle pulls a nearby chair up next to hers flipping it around and resting his forearms on the back of it.

Robin sits on the ground next to her and Jonathan takes a seat on the coffee table right in front of her.

"Fine!" She takes a look over her shoulder, toward the front door. "I have a date."

"Why are we whispering?" Argyle asks, also whispering.

"Because you know who could walk in any second."

"Why are we whispering and speaking in codes?" Jonathan asks, still whispering.

And as an act of divine timing, the front door to the coffee shop opens, and they all turn their heads to see a slightly damp Eddie shake his hair out and shed his leather jacket in one fell swoop. His face fixed in the same frown that's plagued his face for the last two weeks.

"Hey," the group says in unison, not moving a muscle from where they're still crowded around Nancy.

"What did I say about that tone," Eddie whines, flopping himself down on the couch that previously held Jon and Robin.

"How're you doing?" Robin asks, shifting her body, still sitting on the floor, toward him.

"All of her stuff is gone which means that all of my stuff is gone."

No one says a thing. Not even when the sound of a ceramic coffee cup shatters somewhere in the distance.

"Eddie?"

"What?"

"I don't mean to sound insensitive dude, but shouldn't you be a little less depressed considering... " Argyle trails off.

"Considering what?"

"Considering you're the one that left her?" Robin finishes the thought that everyone is having.

"I didn't leave her." He scoffs.

"No, but when you tell your long-term girlfriend about recently discovering that you're gay, one might see that as you being the one to end that relationship."

"We've been over this." He balls up his jacket and shoves his face into the wet leather. The group share a look, Nancy gesturing to Eddie's state as if to say this is why I'm not talking about the date.

He chucks the balled up jacket at Jonathan, who kicks his feet out in surprise as he catches it with his chest. Eddie's hands are now on either side of his face.

"The love was there! I could've loved her if..."

"If she was someone else?"

He deflates, lets his arms slump down and his shoulders do the same.

"Eddie, my friend, my pal, listen up." Argyle moves seats for the third time, now squeezing himself into the space between Eddie and the arm rest on the couch, draping his arm over his shoulders.

"You have just entered a whole new world, my man. So, you're gay? We're in New York City, so is everyone! Welcome home! All that love you were ready to give to Michelle? You get to hold onto that and give it to someone else. Someone who makes your heart sing."

"But I knew her just as long as I knew you guys." He whines, again, gesturing to Robin, Nancy and Jonathan. "It was easy. It was safe. How am I ever gonna find romance with someone? Where we have an established - I don't know - thing! A connection! A history! How?"

Eddie stares at them like he expects them to answer, forcing the rest of the group to share glances, let the air settle with Eddie's words.

The front door flies open just as a roaring thunder booms overhead, making for a dramatic entrance.

Robin's the first one to swivel her head toward the ruckus, the only one who has a perfect view of the person who burst into the shop.

A man dressed in a tux, drenched, like, just hopped out of a swimming pool drenched. Fighting with his bow tie with one hand and running his other hand through the unforgettable head of hair that sends Robin right back to Hawkins, Indiana. Back to the summer before her senior year.

Huh?

Unable to move a muscle in her body, she watches him clumsily go up to the counter and ask for her and Nancy, by name. The sound of her name sends her up to her feet and pushes her toward the man. An air of chaos surrounds him, drawing an offense amount of curiosity out of Robin as she finds her words.

"Steve Harrington?"

He turns around, his face lights up, and he does the weirdest thing.

He hugs her.

She remains stiff as he pulls back from the hug, hands still on either side of her arms.

They were buddies that summer scooping ice cream at the mall. Nothing crazy, or maybe even that memorable, but they started the summer as acquaintances at best and left as friends.

But then he left for college and she stayed and they never spoke again. A few run-ins here and there. But nothing substantial.

"I knew I'd find you here, I remembered that the last time I was in the city I ran into you guys and you're here!" He sounds drunk, but also like he drank a vat of espresso.

Clearly, it was substantial enough for him to come looking for her. Dressed in a tux soaking wet?

"And you're here, overdressed." She says, taking him in, unable to unscrew the confused look from her face.

Is that a boutonnières?

Oh no. Oh fuck.

"Steve?" Jonathan and Nancy say in unison as Robin brings him over to the couch.

Robin thinks Eddie might have summoned the ghost of hopeless high school crushes past, the way Eddie looks like he's just seen a ghost.

#FRIENDS au #sorry for the typos!#did like no editing. seriously just typed and posted.#i tweaked the characters a bit so it wouldn't be an obvious 1-1 AU but Steve is obvs Rachel and Eddie is obvs Ross #idk if this will become anything more but!!! maybe???#this was just supposed to be a writing sprint #i swear i meant to only write vibes #it somehow turned into this????#sen writes #stranger things fic #my fic #steddie ficlet #ronance as chandler and monica slow burn endgame also bounces around my brain as i finish these tags #argyle is clearly phoebe To Me

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