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#fi's writing
reachartwork · 8 months
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Samantha "Sam" Small is a 14 year old high school freshman and superhero-in-training, recruited by the Delaware Valley Defenders to protect Philadelphia. Her powers let her bite through metal and smell when people bleed. Her interests include soccer, women, putting herself in danger, and Shabbat dinner with her Pop-Pop Moe.
Chum is a slice-of-life/action web serial, currently around 400,000 words. It has been described as "good enough to spend hours organizing info on it", a "beautiful coming of age story", and "a superhero story to rival worm". It's got dinosaurs in it. *jingling keys*
Go read it on Royal Road or Wordpress and consider joining the Chumcord!
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jpitha · 4 months
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Vocal Mimicry and Ear Worms
Every time the drink machine finished, it played a little song.
It was pretty simple, less than 10 notes, but it was the same song, every time.
It wasn't even that it played the same song every time. It wasn't even that everyone on the ship - except the humans - got a drink from the machine.
The song was catchy.
Peg started it. She just found her self whistling the "drink finished" song one day. "beep beepita beep beep beep beepita beeeeeeep." She couldn't help it.
Then, Kelly picked it up. The song worked its way into her head too. She'd be working at her station and suddenly she'd be struck by an intense need to sing the song.
After about three cycles, every single human on the ship was singing it. Normally, this would be chalked up by the rest of the crew as "just another strange Human thing" but the problem was that it was the 'drink finished' song. Everyone onboard was conditioned to want to go get their drink when the song was done.
The humans could mimic is perfectly.
"beep beepita beep beep beep beepita beeeeeeep."
Captain Flowing River Rapid's feathers fluffed in irritation. Two people on the Command Deck got three quarters of the way out of their seats before they realized what they were doing and sat back down, sheepish. "Desmond! What have I said about mimicing the drink finished melody?"
Desmond ducked his head at the reproach. "Sorry Captain River, I couldn't help it. It's just so catchy."
Captain River clacked his beak. "It wouldn't be so bad if not for the fact that you can all mimic the sound so well."
Desmond turned and looked at the Captain. "What? We are? We're singing it, but it doesn't sound exactly like the drink machine."
The Captain pointed at Desmond accusingly. "Don't deny it! You're all singing the song at all times of the cycle! You know that everyone thinks a drink is ready when you do it. You sound exactly like the machine!"
One of the Sefigans who got partially up from their station nods quickly, their antenna bobbing. "Captain River is correct, Des. You all really sound a lot like the drink machine. How are you doing it?"
Desmond shrugged. "I mean, we heard the song, and it gets like, stuck in our heads. Singing it feels like one way to get it out. Plus, it's fun to sing Kel. Fun to make sounds."
Kel's wing covers clack. "Can you mimic other things?"
"I don't know Kel, I don't really think of myself as a mimic. There are others who can do it much better than me. Some humans made a whole career out of it."
"That sounds like a thing I human would do, yes. But what about your Des? Let's see...." Kel looks down at their station. "What about this?"
Kes runs a test for the collision alarm. It's a warbling rising and falling tone."
Des thinks for a second and sings - for him - a pretty close approximation.
Captain River gasps and leans back in his chair. "How do you do that?"
Desmond wails. "It wasn't even that good! I just heard the tones and repeated them."
Kelly entered the Command Deck just then. She was carrying a pad and her overalls looked stained. "Captain River, I've just come to report tha-"
"Kelly! Mimic the collision alarm"
"What? Um.." Kelly makes the same noise."
Now, everyone on the Command Desk gasps. Kelly is taken aback and looks at Desmond. "What's going on Des?"
Desmond sighs. "They say we're all mimics. It started with the drink machine."
"Oh that. I still can't get it out of my head! 'beep beepita beep beep beep beepita beeeeeeep.'"
Kes starts to rise from his seat again and catches himself, and sits back down swearing.
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bodhrancomedy · 3 months
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If you vote, would you mind reblogging?
Just for
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cy-cyborg · 8 months
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What able bodied authors think I, an amputee and a wheelchair user, would want in a scifi setting:
Tech that can regenerate my old meat legs.
Robot legs that work just like meat legs and are functionally just meat legs but robot
Literally anything that would mean I don't have to use a wheelchair.
If I do need to use a wheelchair, make it fly or able to "walk me" upstairs
What I actually want:
Prosthetic covers that can change colour because I'm too indecisive to pick one colour/pattern for the next 5+ years.
A leg that I can turn off (seriously, my above knee prosthetic has no off switch... just... why?)
A leg that won't have to get refitted every time I gain or loose weight.
A wheelchair that I can teleport to me and legs I can teleport away when I'm too tired to keep walking. And vice versa.
In that same vein, legs I can teleport on instead of having to fiddle around with the sockets for half an hour.
Prosthetic feet that don't require me to wear shoes. F*ck shoes.
Actually accessible architecture, which means when I do want to use my wheelchair, it's not an issue.
Prosthetic legs with dragon-claw feet instead of boring human feet or just digigrade prosthetics that are just as functional as normal human-shaped ones.
A manual wheelchair with the option to lift my seat up like those scissor-lift things so I'm not eye-level with everyone's butt on public transport/so I can reach the top shelf by myself.
A prosthetic foot that lights up when it hits the ground like those children's shoes.
A few additions I remember seeing in the comments on my old account:
holographic prosthetic covers
transformers-style mobility aids that can fold into the shapes of different aids (e.g. a wheelchair that can fold into a cane)
prosthetic covers with pockets/hidden compartments (kind of surprised this isn't a thing already).
find my leg (like find my iphone, but for your legs when you haven't worn them in a while lol)
TLDR: Stop assuming every disabled person would want to be as close to "normal" as possible in your works. Some absolutely would and having options for them if fine, but I rarely see any examples of media showing those of us who don't. start letting amputees in your scifi works have fun with our prosthetics, fix the problems real amputees are already talking about instead of what you think are the issues and make your settings as a whole accessible!
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sergeifyodorov · 1 month
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when hockey players have hobbies outside hockey it's always like, pop songs on the acoustic guitar or the same video games they've been playing since juniors or cooking something slightly fancier than eggs. learn to knit for god's sake
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victusinveritas · 4 days
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hezzabeth · 4 months
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There was someone singing in the greenhouse, someone with a pitch-perfect deep voice. Revati closed her eyes, pressing her ear against the glass door.
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In a field where the paper daisies grow,
Underneath the sun's harsh glow,
I wander through, light and free.
Paper daisies, pink and white,
Your petals so bright.
I sing to you as the world beyond burns.
The smoke coils in the sky far above,
But your petals still dance around me.
Don’t be afraid; soon the rains will come.
Everything lost will grow again.
Paper daisies, pink and white,
Your petals so bright.
I sing to you as the world beyond burns.
The stars begin to rise,
My hands scooping your seeds.
Soon you will take flight
Towards the soft moonlight.
There was an old, prop piano in the abandoned Holly Bush Tavern. The only person who could play it properly was Mr. Gupta. During holiday festivals, he would coax melodies out of the sticky keys while Mrs. Gupta sang in a nasal voice. This was different. The singer’s voice filled Revati in a place she didn’t know was empty. The singing stopped abruptly as Revati’s weight caused the door to creak. Of course, the door creaked. The greenhouse was a wobbling claptrap box made out of welded-together old windows. Miss Grassroots, a tourist who had been dead for almost six years, had built it. Inside lay the heart of Baker Street. The heart had begun as a rose garden. Nanni was the one who began picking up the fallen red petals, drying them, and turning them into tea.
Revati only had vague memories of the first day of the invasion. Mrs. Grasston and Dusk had invaded the kitchens and gift shops. Together they managed to pool together seeds and cuttings in order to grow a small food supply. There was a wall of tomato vines, grown from several seeds found in old slices left in the bin. There were the garden beds where the potatoes and carrots grew. In fact, the potatoes were what kept Baker Street from starving to death. Next to one of the largest windows, the herb and weed boxes grew. Revati’s father was the one who ripped open gourmet tea bags in their home, discovering dried seeds inside. Bridgadeiro Bun was sitting under the lemon tree. “You’re a pretty good singer,” Revati said gruffly. “I was just trying to cheer up Deshia; she’s been feeling a bit depressed lately,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree's trunk. “Who’s Deshia?” Revati asked, faintly confused. “The lemon tree, of course! She said nobody's chatted with her for years,” Bridgadeiro said. Suddenly, the tree shook its branches, causing a fresh lemon to fall into Bridgadeiro’s lap. “Thank you for the gift, sweetheart,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree again. Revati stared at the lemon tree, not quite sure what to think. Could a tree really be depressed? It would explain why the lemons were so withered and small.
“All Buns speak plant; it's the same gene that causes our pink hair," he said. Revati glanced around, her eyes briefly falling on the giant pumpkin vine near the door.
"Are the plants talking right now?" Revati asked curiously.
"Most of them fell asleep hours ago. When they were awake, they just kept jabbering on about a golden lady," Bridgadeiro remarked.
"So, the lemon tree is depressed? I could get Aurora to come in here and read to her," Revati conceded.
"It's more than that. She misses the lady who planted her; she doesn't understand why she vanished and never came back," Bridgadeiro remarked. Revati found her hands stroking the book of fairy tales nervously.
"If she's talking about Mrs. Grassroots, she died," Revati replied flatly. Six years ago. Six years ago, there were over a hundred tourists living on Baker Street. Nanni, who had spent years living with mother, insisted on moving into an abandoned hat shop near the edge of the park.
The day the tornado hit was the same day Nanni decided to tell Revati all about her family history.
"I always carry the death stone in my handbag, along with everything else I'd ever need in an invasion," Nanni pointed out. Technically that was true; Nanni's giant handbag was filled with almost anything.
Outside, Revati could hear her father trying to roll down metal shutters. There was the sudden horrible roar, and Nanni's wall exploded in a cloud of rubble.
"A lot of people died," Revati finished, her voice trailing off. First came the tornado that caused a gap in the mirror walls. Then the trickle of automatic vegetable cleaners who decided to exploit the crack. Finally, the battle on Mansfield Park between the cleaners and a group of tourists.
"The lady that planted this tree was actually a member of the Lost Princess rebel army; she convinced a bunch of tourists to fight with her," Revati remarked, shaking her head. Then she firmly opened the book of fairy tales.
"It looks like some people survived," Bridgadeiro replied.
"I don't want to talk about it; I just want to read! Here, you can read with me; you might like this story," Revati replied.
Once long ago, in a lost village near the foot of Mount Raya, there lived a special little girl. She was known for her kindness and her deep love for nature. Everyone in the village called her Naisha. Naisha had a special gift; she could talk to plants. The villagers often saw her whispering to the flowers; they adored her magical gift.
One day, Naisha learned about a legendary tree called the Kalpavriksha. The old ladies in the village whispered that it had the ability to grant any wish. Drought, fearsome and terrible, had swept through the land. Flowers withered, no longer able to whisper. Trees forgot their songs. Naisha decided she must seek out the tree and wish for one thing alone: rain.
"Wake up," a voice screeched, and Revati's eyes snapped open, the book of fairy tales tumbling onto the ground. Aurora was standing above her, the bright morning sunlight making her hair glow.
"Morning," Revati yawned and then jumped when she realized Bridgadeiro was asleep next to her.
Bridgadeiro slowly awoke, smacking his lips together.
"Juniper said you were in here; she never mentioned the boy," Aurora remarked coldly as Revati slowly stood up.
"Anna made him sleep in here; I must have passed out while reading," Revati said.
It was then that Revati realized Aurora was holding a tray filled with fresh strawberries.
"Hmph," Aurora said, shooting Bridgadeiro a suspicious look as he also stood up, patting the tree trunk.
"Let me guess, Queen Victoria sent these with an apology?" Revati asked.
"Yes, and a request to fill her vodka order," Aurora said, placing the tray on the ground.
"If she was really sorry, she'd give us a strawberry plant," Revati pointed out.
"Oh, you don't need one of those! You have the fruit," Bridgadeiro remarked.
"You can't just shove a strawberry in the ground and hope for the best; it rots," Revati replied. Bridgadeiro merely leaned down, examining the strawberries. After a few moments of careful examination, he picked up the biggest, brightest berry.
"You can; you just need the right formula," he said. He vaguely walked towards one of the empty garden beds that was going to be turned into an onion patch. Carefully, he dug a small hole and placed the strawberry inside before covering it in earth. Then, he reached into his massive jumpsuit pocket and this time pulled out a small vial of portable perfume.
"One pump should do it," Bridgadeiro remarked before pumping a cloud of perfume onto the soil. The earth began to twitch and vibrate, and Revati gasped as greenery sprouted from the soil. The plants quivered and then twisted as white flowers bloomed. The petals then shriveled and fell off as the center of the flowers grew into green berries. A few seconds later, the berries blossomed into a deep red.
"They shouldn't be doing that! Strawberries take two weeks to grow," Aurora gasped.
"I suppose they would in the wild, but I just gave them a pump of my Gene Grow fusion serum!" Bridgadeiro said, leaning down to examine the strawberries.
"They should produce fruit every day, but only if you talk to them nicely," Bridgadeiro added as he picked a strawberry and handed it to Revati.
Revati sniffed it suspiciously before taking a tiny bite. It tasted just like a strawberry.
"Does that stuff work on all plants?" Revati asked curiously.
"It tends to go a bit haywire when you spray it on legumes; you end up with giant beans that have no nutrients," Bridgadeiro said.
"I saved your life; think it's only fair you spray all the plants in here," Revati said firmly.
"It would be better if I planted their seeds outside and created new crops; otherwise, the rapidly growing plants could burst outside the walls," Bridgadeiro replied. Revati nodded crisply.
"I'll be sending someone to check on your efforts later today; I'll be far too busy working," Revati replied with as much dignity as she could muster in a sleep shirt before marching out of the greenhouse. The book of fairy tales lay abandoned on the ground.
Revati carefully changed into her work uniform. When she was a child, her wardrobe consisted of souvenir t-shirts from the gift shop fashioned into dresses. Now that she was almost an adult, Revati had to get creative.
Most of the gift shop sweatshirts had been swiped long ago. Instead, Revati put on the top half of the cafe's old uniform. It consisted of a magenta and purple striped waistcoat with a navy blue blouse covered in tiny clocks. The bottom half should have been a matching bustle skirt. Revati switched it with the men's purple trousers. Revati then carefully redid her braid and applied some more soot lipstick. Aurora, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, was waiting for her in the kitchen.
"You're wearing your second best outfit," Aurora remarked.
"I suppose I am," Revati replied as she grabbed her coat.
"I thought you said you were done with romance after that whole mess with Little Hardi last summer," Aurora said, and Revati stopped walking.
"I am!" she protested, and Aurora pressed her thin lips into a disapproving frown.
"You were sleeping with him."
"God forbid I fall asleep next to another human being," Revati said as she marched through the cafe past Nanni, who was sewing something.
"You kept him! You gave him a job," Aurora added knowingly.
"I didn't keep him! He's not a feral child; he can leave whenever he wants," Revati snapped as they stepped outside, and she put on her sunglasses. Olde Landon was always at its worst in the morning. Like all major tourist attractions and cities, Old Landon had an atmospheric blanket high above the park's surface. It meant that nobody in the park froze to death at night, but it also meant the morning light was far too bright.
"Is that Little Hardi and Queen Victoria standing next to the fountain?" Revati sighed wearily.
"They both arrived at sunrise; I told them you were busy, so your mother made them breakfast," Aurora remarked.
"Sunrise; of course, they sacrificed sleep so they could get here first," Revati remarked, marching towards the two other leaders. Queen Victoria was wearing one of the park's costumes, a stained white lace wedding dress. Little Hardi, on the other hand, was wearing a deep blue doublet with a ruff collar and matching tights.
"Little Hardi, is your brother still unconscious?" Revati greeted him.
"We took a vote last night, and he played Macduff," Little Hardi replied.
Revati, who knew fully well what that meant, had to stop herself from flinching.
"You killed him? That's a little harsh," Revati pointed out.
"It was for the best; we need a strong leader during a time of invasion," Little Hardi remarked practically.
"Time of invasion? Isn't that a little dramatic?" Revati had to ask.
"There must be another crack in the wall; thank Jane, it's probably not too big! You two would be far too young to remember the vegetable cleaner invasion," remarked Queen Victoria.
"I was twelve," Revati said dryly.
"I was fourteen; the tornado destroyed the Hamlet's haunted castle ride, and the appliances killed the actor playing Ophelia," Little Hardi pointed out.
"You're both still tiny children as far as I'm concerned; I can't believe this is who I have to work with," Queen Victoria replied, and Revati brushed past her with annoyance, heading to the dress shop across the street.
The shelves of the dress shop had long ago been stripped bare. All that remained were the three Penny Farthing Bicycles that had been part of the shop's window display. Revati wheeled her Penny Farthing outside only to see Queen Victoria having a heated discussion with Aurora.
"What do you mean she's going to ride to the wall by herself? All representatives from all towns should go!" Queen Victoria was screeching, slapping Aurora's shoulder with her fan.
Revati parked her bicycle and marched towards Queen Victoria, grabbing her hand.
"Slap my assistant again, and I'll break your fingers; you know I can do it," Revati growled.
Little Hardi, who was now sitting by the fountain, laughed.
"I was just speaking the truth! We have a treaty; during times of crisis, we unify," Queen Victoria said, her voice tight and a little frightened.
"I don't see Lady Morganna here," Revati pointed out, referring to the ruler of Medieval faire.
"You know perfectly well Medieval faire cut us all off after the tornado hit! They probably all died off years ago," Queen Victoria snapped back. Queen Victoria was right. Medieval faire was located in the center of a massive fake castle complete with a drawbridge. After the invasion, Lady Morganna had yanked up the bridge and refused to speak to anyone. Anna and Nanni had tried to visit several times with baskets of dried lemons. They were horrified when someone from above threw the contents of their toilets onto the streets.
"My new friend said he saw naked people in the wilderness dancing around a murdered television! Sounds like Lady Morganna to me," Revati merely replied, pointing to Bridgadeiro. Bridgadeiro, who was in the middle of taking several pumpkins out of the greenhouse, waved.
"Could be a coincidence; regardless, you are not going to the wall! We need to have a proper group committee meeting first! Then a vote," Queen Victoria's.
Revati just rolled her eyes and released Queen Victoria's hand, causing her to stumble and fall onto the floor. Revati then reached into her jacket, pulling out her stun gun, shoving it into the queen's stomach. The Queen made a faint whimpering sound as her eyes rolled backward, and she collapsed again. Revati then aimed the gun at Little Hardi, who held his hands up, protesting.
"I'm not going to stop you! I came here to propose marriage," Little Hardi insisted.
"Marriage? To me?" Revati asked dubiously.
"All kings need a consort, and I'm not interested in Big Hardi's husband," Little Hardi said, slowly getting down on one knee.
Revati stared at him and shook her head.
"I'm seventeen," Revati pointed out.
"Well, the wedding wouldn't be for another couple of years," Little Hardi replied.
"I thought we agreed to keep our relationship professional after the handkerchief incident," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi held a hand to his heart.
"I told you dozens of times I had nothing to do with my brother's plot," Little Hardi insisted.
"He accused me of cheating on you using an old prop handkerchief as evidence, and you believed him despite it being the exact same plot of the play Othello," Revati pointed out. The entire incident occurred over a year ago and ended with Revati kidnapped and tied up on the stage in a white fluffy nightgown.
"I'm a very insecure person," Little Hardi pleaded. Dating while trapped in a fun park during the apocalypse was difficult. Before the feral children came along, Revati was the youngest person on Baker Street. All the teenagers in Whistleton were raised to be incredibly prissy. Most of them refused to do anything more than dance or hold hands. Little Hardi had been a fun, age-appropriate choice. Little Hardi was happy to do far more than hold hands.
"No," Revati said firmly.
"No? Really?" he asked, sounding faintly surprised.
"First of all, your legal system involves killing criminals on stage in the middle of plays, which is horrifying," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi shrugged.
"Secondly, I'm not an idiot! You just want to marry me so you can take over our greenhouse," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi gasped as if looking deeply insulted.
"That's not true! If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, but no such roses see I in her cheeks," Little Hardi pleaded as Revati climbed onto the penny farthing.
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sadisthetic · 3 months
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limewire virus
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starry-bi-sky · 4 months
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I saw a post a few months ago (and damn was it really months? In PLURAL?) that was a cracky dpxdc au where the LOS were making Damian clones but the clones kept getting snatched by ghost portals and dropped into Danny’s lap and Danny just goes “ok ig this is my life now” and takes care of each one until he has his own mini army of Damian Clones.
And I remembered it a few days ago, and now I've been thinking about it again. Because I love clone aus (see: clone danny au, the 'danny is thomas wayne' au) because it itches the part of my mind that loves exploring personhood and the exploration of identity and what it means to be clone.
(What do you do when nothing about you is unique? When your face, your eyes, your hands, your hair, your voice, all the way down to your heart, all belong to someone else?)
(When it comes to nature vs nurture what of you came from your environment and your experiences, and what of you was already programmed into you from the DNA that made you?)
(What do you do to make it unique? What do you do to make you unique?)
And if I could remember who made that post I'd @ them right now because it was their original post that inspired this, but I'm just thinking of if the au only had One Singular Damian clone that fell into Danny's life.
(a read more because im apparently incapable of making posts that are less than 1k words...)
One Damian who knew he was a clone and knew that he was to either bring the original back to base or kill him to take his place, who was being trained the same way but kept getting compared to his original over and over again. Like an older sibling who you can never match up to. Who is still a child who craves adult affection and validation and praise, and can't get it because nothing about him is original.
One Damian who, at six years old, in a twist of fate is sucked through a swirling portal and lands in Amity Park, directly on top of, in front of, or in line of sight of one Daniel Fenton, half-ghost extraordinaire and local hero.
What happens next?
Well, for one, Danny recognizes him immediately. He would recognize the face of Damian Wayne anywhere because his best friend was ranting about him all week about Damian Wayne's environmental stuff he does.
And for two, he would recognize that the Damian Wayne in front of him was not Damian Wayne. Because Damian Wayne was a teenager. And the Damian Wayne in front of him is a child. Six years old.
Getting this not-Damian but also-Damian to go along with Danny is not, not an easy task. The tiny Damian is aggressive, regal, and at this point in time, six years old, barely understanding english. He also has a sword.
It takes all day and a google translator to get this Tiny Damian to finally agree to go home with Danny. It's a miracle. Seriously. A tried and true miracle. And its also only when Danny has to fight a ghost does he finally agree, saying something in arabic that Danny doesn't understand.
Danny flies them both home, carrying Tiny Damian like a koala. The ensuing conversation in his room is not any better. It is tiring, long, and exhausting. Tiny Damian is six years old, and every single thing he says when Danny asks where he came from is met with a poorly translated "that's classified".
Danny keeps an eye on the news. There are no reports of Damian Wayne going missing, in fact he's been rather public. Bruce Wayne is not one to lie about his children going missing, and Damian's secretive behavior and young age draws Danny to one conclusion: Damian is a clone.
He doesn't know why Damian Wayne is being cloned. Frankly he doesn't really wanna know, because whatever organization that did it doesn't seem too pure-of-heart if tiny-Damian's immediate attempt of murder when they first met is of any indication. But he's too busy taking care of his city, that he doesn't have time to deal with whatever shady business Tiny-Damian was produced from.
In the end though, he decides that this Tiny-Damian is not going back to whatever place he came from. Tiny Damian disagrees. It is a long, nebulous problem of Damian trying to run away, Danny catching him, and Danny pulling him back home.
In that time, Danny downloads a language app and starts learning Arabic so that they can talk to each other properly. Damian slowly, slowly, starts picking up English.
In that time, Danny also has to inform his friends and his sister about Damian. Tiny Damian is not a fan of this. That is another argument they have. Tiny Damian does not like Sam or Tucker for a long, long while. He only really "listens" to Danny, citing something in arabic that Danny still cannot understand, but has a repeated use of the word "lieazir". It's the only word that Danny can catch in a sentence immediately, because its what little Damian calls Danny.
Tiny Damian, in that front, is very interested in Danny's powers and in his parents work. He finds tubberware of ectoplasm in the fridge once while they're down in the kitchen and calls it something with the word lieazir in it. The other word is something that Danny later learns means water in arabic.
It makes him feel even more uneasy of whatever place little Damian came from.
It takes weeks for little Damian to finally give up on escaping, and then a few weeks more for him to almost entirely lose his spunk. Danny isn't sure what started it. It was as if he'd been flipped with an off-switch.
(Damian had been so confident that the League would go looking for him after his disappearance. He was wrong, and he is crushed. He is still a child, alone, in a country very big and very busy, where nobody understands what he's saying. He feels powerless, helpless.)
(The lazarus boy who calls himself Danyal is nice to him in a way the league has never been, and he's making an effort to learn Damian's language. But he leaves for hours at a time and Damian doesn't have much else to do but wait in this house for him to come back.)
(He tried leaving, many many times, but he doesn't understand the street signs, the roads, the people. He doesn't know where he is, and he feels scared in a way that he's not felt in the League. Danny finds him every single time, hours later when Damian is lost somewhere in Amity Park)
(And he never yells at him. Never. The first time this happens, Damian puffs himself up and prepares himself for this strange lazarus boy to yell at him. Damian feels like he's tripped on the last step of the stairs when Danyal doesn't yell at him.)
(He can tell he's frustrated by the tone of his voice, but when Danyal lays eyes on him he just looks relieved. He gets scolded on the flight home, but Damian doesn't understand any of it other than Danyal just sounds worried. Not angry. He gets a proper scolding once they get back, with Danyal typing into the google translator and playing it for Damian to hear.)
(This happens every single time until Damian finally agrees to stop running away.)
It's with Jazz's help that Danny finally realizes that Damian was depressed. It's with her help again that Danny tries helping with it. It's like trying to get a stray cat to trust him. And with everything else they've done, it takes a long time.
And it is so, so worth it when it all works out.
Tiny Damian doesn't really like Sam, or Tucker, but he likes Danny. And he finally starts calling him his name. His full name, but his name nonetheless. Danny doesn't bother correcting him. He's not looking a gift horse in the mouth. And it's endearing hearing Damian call him Danyal.
Damian in this time, also begins to take more initiative into learning English. And they teach each other words they know. Danny buys flash cards and writes the english alphabet on them, and then finds a book on arabic to teach himself and Damian. Sam and Tucker and Jazz start learning as well.
And then when Danny knows enough arabic and Damian knows enough english, and Damian trusts Danny, Damian tells him he's a clone. It's a quiet moment, late at night when Danny takes Damian up to the ops center to look at what stars they could see through the light pollution.
It'd be very easy for Danny to tell him, "I know. I could tell from the start.". He doesn't, it's not the time nor the place, and Danny's matured enough to know when to open his mouth and when to keep it shut. He lets Damian, almost seven now, tell him that he's a clone of Damian Wayne. Lets him tell him why he was made, what his purpose was.
(Danny will need a minute later to process the fact that Damian Wayne originally came from some kind of... assassin league with an obsession with immortality. But he's focused on Damian.)
In the end, he puts an arm around Damian Wayne's clone and pulls him into his side. Thanks him for trusting him, it must've been hard to tell him, that he's brave for being able to. And if he wants to, they can find a way to get into contact with the Waynes and let Wayne know about him.
Damian hides his face in Danny's ribs and holds him tight, and tells him he doesn't want to. Danny leaves it at that.
Perhaps it would be more morally ethical to alert Damian Wayne that there was a clone of him running around, that his... uh, grandfather was making clones of him. Hell, Danny would have liked it. But little Damian has asked him not to say anything, and little Damian needs someone to rely on; someone he can trust.
And in the end, its not that hard of a decision to make. Danny knows little Damian more than he knows Damian Wayne, and while Danny likes to think he's a good person, he knows he's not a great one. Nor a perfect one. He cares more about someone he knows than someone he doesn't.
If Sam tries to argue with him about it, then Danny will just double down. If Damian doesn't want to tell Wayne about his existence, then it's not their place to say otherwise.
There's a lot more to talk about over Damian's cloning, like what he wants to do moving forward. But that's a long conversation not meant to be one taken late at night. Little Damian is falling asleep at his side, seemingly much more relaxed than he did before, and Danny wasn't gonna ruin that.
And later he's right, it is a long conversation, and a slow one. Talking with Jazz about it helps him figure out what to do moving forward, and their best bet is to let Damian figure out what he wants to do. So he sits Damian down at the dinner table the next morning and tells him before breakfast that he doesn't need to be Damian Wayne.
He doesn't need to learn all the same things Damian Wayne did. He doesn't need to do anything that Damian Wayne does. And little Damian is seven, and he's smart, but Danny still has to word it in a way that's not too complex for him to realize.
And in the end, what he says essentially boils down to "You are not Damian Wayne, you are just you. Don't be anyone else but you." and it'll take more time to drill that into his mind when all he's ever heard and learned from is that he was a copy of Damian Wayne, and he must act like Damian Wayne. But it'll happen.
It's a hard task when Danny's the only person Damian really trusts and he can't be by his side all the time, but he starts to warm up to the rest of Danny's family. The Fenton parents know of him, it's hard to keep a six year old child a secret for as long as Danny did without eventually having to come clean about it. His parents, much to Danny's relief, are very welcoming to Damian.
Damian figures out what he likes. Slowly. He's six years old, almost seven, and nobody expects of him to figure out who he is immediately. No child knows who they are right off the bat. So like any child he begins to explore. His english is better but still rough, and he struggles to read said language, but the Fenton family are happy to help even if Damian learns words that no normal seven year old does. (Many of them scientific.)
Damian realizes he likes stars, even if said interest is influenced by the association to Danny. Danny is all too delighted to tell him all about them, and in the process takes him flying out somewhere where the light pollution doesn't reach and showing him where constellations are.
Damian is six-almost-seven, so he doesn't find all of them, but Danny helps him figure out the easier ones. He tells him the scientific facts behind them, and then tells him about the mythos of the constellations. Later on they make their own constellations and make up stories about what they are.
(Damian adores Danny out of anyone else in the Fenton Family. The name Danyal turns to Dany. If anyone asks, Daniel Fenton is Damian's big brother.)
(He still refers to Jazz as Jazmine, and Danny's parents as Mrs. and Mr. Fenton.)
He realizes that, like his original, he loves animals, and he becomes vegetarian too. Sam is smug and Tucker is disappointed, but Damian doesn't super care about their opinions. ...he's getting better at liking them, even if he thinks Manson is a bit snobby and Foley is too much at times.
Its inevitable that the conversation of school comes into play. Damian can't stay home all day and he needs proper schooling. So after a long talk with Damian, they agree to send him to elementary school.
...And before they can do that the Fenton Family goes through with legally adopting Damian into the family as Damian Fenton. It takes convincing to get the administration to enroll him into the first grade without a proper schooling background.
(On his adoption form, Damian asks to change his birthday to the day he met Danny. Perhaps its not the most responsible thing to agree to, but Danny wants Damian to find himself. And its not like they know when his actual birthday was.)
And despite where he learned it from, Damian quite likes sparring. And he quite likes sparring with Danny in particular. Danny makes it fun, something that was foreign in his old league training, and Danny never hurts him. It's a lot like roughhousing.
Danny tells Damian how he got his powers, and how his parents don't know. Damian wakes up late at night to Danny sneaking out of the room (their house is not big enough to give Damian an individual room, and Danny agreed to share his) to go fight ghosts.
It's upsetting. Damian knows that Danny gets injured in those fights, even if Danny never comes home until after those injuries have been fixed up. He wants to help, and he voices it, and Danny shoots him down.
It becomes an argument, something that has happened less and less over the months.
Damian is experienced.
Damian is a child.
Damian knows how to fight.
Damian is mortal and fragile. He is a tiny, squishy human boy and the people Danny fights are ghosts who are near-indestructible. Who are intimately acquainted with death but also do not remember that humans are capable of it. Especially when they're fighting.
Damian says that Batman's rogues are capable of the same thing, that he lets his Robins help him fight.
And Danny says he is not Batman and he will not allow Damian to fight ghosts with him. Those ghosts will kill him and it will hurt. Dying hurts in a way that is terrifying and unimaginable and he will not risk Damian experiencing it. Not even Sam and Tucker help him in his fights most of the time, they are not able to. Not in the way Danny can.
Damian doesn't talk to him all day the following morning, but Danny does not budge on his decision. Damian tries to follow him out the next night, and Danny catches him and takes him back. Over, and over, and over again.
Until finally he gets intercepted by Skulker while taking Damian back home and is forced to fight him in front of Damian. (If it had been his choice, he would not have let Damian see it at all.)
It's not pretty. Skulker has new weapons, weapons that hurt, a lot. Danny is stuck between trying to take him down and trying to protect Damian from Skulker's attacks at him and from all the debris being created from the fight. It's with Damian's quick thinking and fast feet that finally helps Danny take Skulker out. But Danny is badly injured in the aftermath.
He doesn't have time to take Damian home and get medical attention. So he takes Damian with him to wherever he has his supplies stashed. He doesn't call Sam or Tucker or Jazz, and has to stitch himself up alone, with Damian watching.
Damian is quiet the entire time, he feels awful. Danny's not mad at him -- well, he is. But not because he had to protect him. He's just tired, and a little disappointed in him. Damian doesn't sneak out again. But he still feels helpless.
Danny tells him that that is why he doesn't want Damian to help him. Ghosts, his ghosts, are hard to fight. They are powerful, and his 'rogues' are mean. They will not care that Damian is a mortal child, if he picks a fight with them, they will fight back. And Damian is not immune to certain ghost powers like Danny is.
Damian is silent. He wants to help. But Danny is right: he is a squishy, mortal, living child. There is not much he can do to help Danny. Not without any gear to do it. Not without any powers to do it. He wants to help. He cannot.
Damian, almost-seven-years old, begins to cry. It is the last thing Danny was expecting, and for a moment he is at a loss of what to do.
Damian reaches for him -- in the Fenton family, physical affection is expected. Damian is getting used to it, but Danny is the only one he likes touching him -- and then stops, cringing away like he only just remembered that Danny was hurt.
He only cries harder.
Danny meets him halfway and pulls him into his arms, situating Damian between his knees from where he's sitting. Through his tears, Damian says he wants to help. He wants to help. He doesn't want Danny to get hurt anymore. He doesn't want Danny to fight ghosts alone anymore. He's scared that Danny will stop coming back.
Danny doesn't have anything to say to reassure him. Can't say anything to reassure him. It'll all just be lies. He's not going to stop fighting ghosts, he can't. He's not going to stop getting hurt, he can't. He's not going to bring Damian with him, he can't. He'd never be able to live with himself.
"I'll always come back." He says though, because that is something he can promise. Whether dead or alive, he'll come back.
When the tears finally stop, Damian doesn't say anything again. He sniffles, and presses his ear to Danny's chest, listening to the steady, slow heartbeat. If he puts his ear to his sternum and strains his ear, Damian would almost hear the low hum of Danny's ghost core, like a small dwarf sun.
"If you die, I'll drag you to the Lazarus pools myself." Damian mumbles eventually, his voice sleep-full. It's spoken in arabic, and Danny only understands half of it.
He laughs quietly, and smoothes his hand over Damian's hair. He hasn't had a haircut since he arrived, it's gotten long and there are curls beginning to form. "Okay."
Damian falls asleep shortly after, and with much consideration to his own injuries and Damian's sleeping form, Danny flies them back home.
It's hard to say, but not much changes in routine afterwards. Damian hovers close to Danny, more than usual. Danny still goes out at night, he still stitches himself up before going back, he still goes back home where Damian is waiting worriedly for him. Damian doesn't like falling asleep without knowing Danny is there.
Now the hard question is: when does little Damian finally meet the Waynes for the first time? There's plenty of ways to go about it, both easy and hard. Perhaps we go this way:
The Fenton family are visiting Maddie's sister in Arkansas. And Damian is dragging Danny around through the surrounding forest. It's his first time being in a forest this large since he moved in with the Fentons. Safe to say he is delighted by all of the nature, and he's dragging Danny along with him.
Danny likes the peace and quiet it gives him, he's found that he enjoys the rural area more than he likes the city. He's happy to let Damian point out every plant he recognizes, even if some of it is in arabic.
They walk around all day until Damian gets tired, and then at night when the sky is clear Danny and him go look at the stars. It's peaceful at first.
On the third day of their visit, Damian drags Danny out far from the house. It's slightly worrying, but Danny can always fly them back if it gets too late.
It's in the woods that Danny and Damian stray much too far from Alicia's house, and from there in the early evening that they run into Batman and Red Robin, both of them in rough 'just got out of a fight' shape.
Safe to say, it was the last thing any of them expected to run into. Damian and Danny had stopped at a small crik to rest, and the two vigilantes came through the tree line on the other side.
It was... quite the staring contest.
Damian, now seven years old at this point, forgot to mention that the Waynes were vigilantes when he told Danny he was a clone. But he was told that Batman was his original's father.
Before anyone can say anything, little Damian wraps his arms tight around Danny's middle and stares Batman and Red Robin down. His sharp edges have softened around the Fentons. But he makes no exceptions to anyone else outside of Danny's immediate social circle.
Danny's arm automatically goes around Damian's shoulders, and he looks between both Red and Batman uneasily. If they were here then it meant that there was something unsafe nearby. Danny did not fight the living, and he wasn't going to put Damian in the crosshairs of anything that does.
"Should... should we leave?" He asks, brows knotted together with a frown. He stands. "Is there something going on nearby?"
Batman suddenly grunts, and looks at him. "It's been handled." He says, and his voice is gruffer than Danny imagined it. Lower. Danny is not all that comfortable with that answer.
"Do you guys live nearby?" Red Robin asks, and Danny can't help but notice that he keeps looking at Damian. Warily. In fact, so is Batman.
He pushes Damian behind him slightly, and Damian's grip tightens on him. "Not... exactly." He says, his eyes narrowing slightly. "My family's visiting my Aunt and my brother wanted to explore since it's his first time out of the city, I guess we wandered too far away if we're running into you."
There's no visible indication of whether or not both Bats reacted to him calling Damian his brother. But he can all but feel little Damian preen at the title, it makes Danny's mouth twitch into a smile as his hand finds Damian's hair.
"Would we be able to go back with you?" Red Robin asks, startling both Danny and seemingly Batman, who looks at him instantly.
"Red Robin." He growls out, and Red Robin throws Batman a look of annoyance.
"We are lost, B. They jammed the comms and our trackers back there and it hasn't come back on yet, his aunt may have the signal we need to let the others know where we are."
They end up walking back with Danny and Damian. It's silent, and awkward, and Danny has Damian walking on his opposite side so he's not near the vigilantes. Red Robin is fiddling with a phone but still can't get a signal.
Batman is silently brooding.
Red eventually gives up and shoves the phone into a pocket on his belt, then turns to make conversation with Danny. "I never thanked you for letting us walk with you. Thanks, by the way."
Danny blinks at him, and smiles awkwardly. "No problem, man," he says, "I'm uh, Danny." He glances down at Damian, who looks up at him with big green eyes, and Damian nods quietly.
He looks back at Red Robin, and says, "This is my little brother, Damian." And Damian peers over his side and glares at Red Robin -- and Batman, who looks over when Danny says his name.
"He looks like Damian Wayne," Red Robin notes, head tilting like he's inspecting him.
Danny huffs dryly, "We get that a lot."
Red Robin smiles at him, its a tilted thing. It makes Danny uneasy. "Where did you say you were from?"
"I didn't," Danny says bluntly, and he really doesn't want to tell them where he's from. Not when Red Robin was acting strange, but they're vigilantes and notorious for their detective skills. If he's suspicious, they'll look into him. "But I'm from Amity Park."
Damian in that moment, peers around Danny again and scowls at Red Robin. Full on scowls at him, as if it were the first months when he met Danny. "You're being nosy." He sneers, his hand squeezing Danny's.
"Damian," Danny hisses, suppressing a smile. Damian jumps like he's been startled, and looks up at him with big green eyes. "He's just being curious."
(He lets his smile slip through briefly, just to let Damian know he's not that upset. A tension leaves his little brother's shoulders.)
"But he is." Damian continues, a whine leaking into his voice. Danny jabs him in the ribs with his fingers, and Damian jumps, swatting away his hand with a squeak.
"Would you rather have us walk in dead silence, Dames?" He goes for Damian's ribs again, a grin stretching across his face as Damian jumps back again and swats his hand. "Hm? Hm? We could just walk in awkward silence for the entire trip back, I know you just love awkward silence, little brother."
(It's funny, saying little brother always sounds so uncomfortable when he reads it in books and watches it on tv. But Jazz always makes it sound so natural when she does it, and Danny finds that he sounds the same too.)
Damian continues to bat away his hands, but it's not enough to prevent him from squealing with laughter when Danny gets a good hold on him and starts tickling him. Danny's grin only gets bigger, and he swoops Damian up with his arm and holds him like a football.
"Is that it? Huh? Me, you, and two vigilantes walking back to Aunt Alicia's cabin in complete, utter silence." He says, "You won't get to hear any of my amazing jokes."
Damian's wriggling, trying to pound on Danny's ribs, he's giggling uncontrollably. It's the best sound Danny's ever heard. "Your jokes are awful! Laeazir! Put me down!" He cries, grinning from ear to ear.
(From the side, both Red Robin and Batman tense up.)
Danny chuckles, and through a short series of flips, has Damian sitting on his shoulders. "I will not. You're sitting up in air jail for insulting my hilarious jokes."
Damian tugs on his hair in revenge, harrumphing at him but making no move to get down. Danny squeezes his ankles playfully, and looks back to Batman and Red Robin.
Both vigilantes look at him like he's grown a second head.
....Red Robin looks at him like he's grown a second head. Batman just stares, and then looks away. Danny tilts his head at them, his smile waning. "You guys look like you've seen a ghost or something."
(Damian tugs on his hair again. A silent boo at him.)
Red Robin jerks, "Oh, sorry." He says, not sounding all that sorry. "It's just... I've lost count to how many times I've saved Damian Wayne from the occasional kidnapping and he's always been very... serious. It's just weird seeing a kid that looks like him be... not serious."
From his shoulders he feels Damian hide his smile in his hair, that's another thing they can put on their "Things That Damian Does That Damian Wayne Does Not" list. It started as a joke, but it's been surprisingly helpful for when Damian is questioning himself.
However, Danny is not a fan of the comparison, and he smiles widely, perhaps a tad passive-aggressive. "It's a good thing that my Damian isn't Damian Wayne then." He says, giving him the slight stink eye.
Red Robin picks up on it quickly, and nods.
The rest of the way is spent in idle conversation. It's oddly casual, even if most of the conversation is Danny talking about himself. It's annoying, but he unfortunately understands the reason. Secret identities and all that.
Damian interjects a few times, some parts to talk to Danny, and other parts to throw shade at Batman and Red Robin. Mostly Red Robin, who seems begrudgingly used to it.
("I'm surprised you haven't asked me much about myself." Red Robin says at one point into the conversation. Over his shoulder Batman glares at Red Robin. "A lot of civilians do when they're able."
Danny stares at him. "You're a vigilante." He says, frowning, "Isn't it superhero 101 that you don't ask superheroes for their secret identity?"
"You'd be surprised."
"Huh. Well, no. I'm not gonna ask you about yourself. I quite like talking all about me.")
When they finally reach the cabin, it's late into the night and Danny has moved Damian from his shoulders to his front in a koala-like carry. Damian's fast asleep with his head on Danny's shoulder.
His family was also frantically searching for him, and Jazz sees him first. She immediately turns behind her and yells "I FOUND HIM!". And then sprints over to him, his parents thundering not too far behind.
Both vigilantes are subsequently ignored as Jazz dotes over him and Danny, and soon enough so is his mom and dad. They're all talking all at once, asking him where he was, they were worried sick, did he know how late it was.
He shushes all of them, loudly. And whispers that Damian is sleeping. His family then immediately quiet themselves, and go back to yelling at him in a more appropriate manner.
"Me and Damian walked too far by accident." Danny finally says when he can get a word in, and then he jabs his thumb in Red Robin and Batman's direction. "We also found two superheroes who need assistance."
The speed of which his family all snap their heads over to the direction he's pointing is almost comical. As is all of their expressions of shock.
His mother is the first to regain her senses, and she sighs at him. She sighs! "Only you, Danny." She says, and Jazz snorts into her arm.
#dpxdc#dpdc#dpxdc crossover#danny fenton is not the ghost king#danny phantom au#dpdc danny fenton#i am incapable of making short posts it seems. heavy sigh#this post is open to add ons if anyone's interested 👉👈#this entire au is essentially the song 'Strange Sight' by KT Turnstall from the Tinkerbell and the Neverbeast#This post mostly goes into how danny and damian's relationship develops because i think that's the more important part of the au#also damian's like six i firmly believe he wouldn't know much english#no no he's learning arabic first and then english LATER. if he would ever even get there with the league#iirc all the damian clones liked Danny so i wanna explore how their relationship got to that point. Like what happened for Danny to get eve#getting one Damian clone to like him enough to go up to bat for him? that takes time and patience and i wanna explore that lol#danny's in his late teens here btw.#Clone Damian is a 7yo child and I'm writing him as such because its fun. I thought about having Clone Damian change his name but nothing fi#little clone damian is also A Tad Clingy. Danny is the First Person to have shown him a kindness and Damian Imprinted On Him Like a Duck#i love clone aus and clone aus love me#clone damian and danny are bROOOTHEERSS#i thought about making clone damian's name damon bc its close to the name damian but also i like the idea that clone damian keeps the--#original name and then makes it his own. something about taking the name you were given thats not really yours and MAKING it yours
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charliemwrites · 1 month
Text
A reader x Simon commission piece I just recently finished for my sweet bean N.W. I had a lot of fun writing a little scenario I never would have thought up on my own!
(Reader is described with FAB anatomy, but no gendered pronouns are used. No sensitive content warnings, just spice.)
It’s a perfect day.
The sun is a bright golden marble in a perfect jewel sky, toasting the sand into a powdery bed. There are only wisps of flossy cloud to interrupt the light, a feathery salt-soaked breeze to soften the edge of heat. The water is nothing but lazy ripples, foamy waves crawling up the coastline before slithering back.
And your coworker is soaking wet.
When you first signed on as a lifeguard, you didn’t expect more than some extra pocket money. A little financial cushion while you finished working through your master’s program. A chance to get some sunshine instead of holing up in your room. Maybe the occasional bit of eye candy while you fished children out of the shallows and fussed at families for littering around the barbecue grills.
You didn’t expect Simon “Walking Wet Dream” Riley. (Okay, that’s not his actual nickname – apparently it’s “Ghost.” Because of course it is.) You didn’t expect his big, fuck-off muscles, or his perfect sun-bleached hair, or the dark ink of his tattoos, or…
Well.
You got more than just eye candy when Mister Price hired you. Simon is a whole damn feast. Especially when he’s fresh from a cool-down swim, red trunks weighed down by water and tides, revealing the tantalizing curves of his hips. Droplets skittering over the bulges and divots of his body, sparkling in the sun…
“Excuse me?”
You try not to jolt, head jerking to the guy that hopefully hasn’t been standing there too long. He looks about your age, maybe a bit older. Wavy, chin-length brown hair and eyes nearly as blue as the water. Pretty, in a young Instagram prince kind of way. Maybe your type in another time – the time Before Simon.
“Hi,” you say quickly, “did you need something?”
“Do you have any plasters?” he asks. “My little brother scraped his knee.”
You glance at the kid shuffling just behind him, his knees dirtied and one red with a bit of blood. Nothing serious, you determine, but could use some first aid.
“Oh, poor thing!” you say. “C’mon, we have some bandages in the shack.”
You wave to get Simon’s attention, make the quick hand-sign indicating you’ll be gone for a moment. He notices you, the two boys, then nods and makes his way back to his usual lookout spot.
The shack is a quiet, cool oasis away from the heat. You’ve dozed off next to the mist fan more times than you care to admit, only to be woken by Simon pressing a cold water bottle to your cheek. It used to annoy you, but now you appreciate the reminder to hydrate.
There’s a robust first aid kit in one of the cabinets, though you groan a bit when you see how high Simon’s stashed it this time. Damned tall man; you could swear he does it on purpose. You try to reach it on your toes, but when that doesn’t work, you jump a bit. Still no luck. You’re going to have to get the stepstool at this rate.
“Here, I’ve got it.”
You jump a bit as Insta-Prince comes up behind you, sliding in close before you can scoot out of the way. He stretches his arm over your head, tugging the kit down from the shelf. When you glance up – concerned about something falling on you – you find him smirking down at you.
“Thanks,” you say trying not to snatch it out of his hands.
“Seems like an… inconvenient place to put that,” he muses.
You sit the younger brother on a plastic chair near the door and kneel, kit open on the floor. “We usually keep it lower… I think Simon forgets I’m shorter than him.”
The kid winces a bit at the sting of wound wash but puts on a brave face when you smile at him.
“Seems pretty rude. Is he hard to work with?” Insta-Prince asks.
You hesitate, trying to think of how to respond. Simon was intimidating, at first. Dark eyes and stoic expression, he was difficult to read. Always within a stone’s throw, you used to feel like he was hovering. Like he didn’t think you could do your job right.
Over the months, though, that insecurity has bridged into a tentative friendship. Even if he’s not talkative himself, he lets you chat to your heart’s content. Keeps you hydrated, reminds you to eat snacks and apply sunscreen. Even handles the rowdier beachgoers when they break rules, his bigger stature and sharp glare enough to cow even the most entitled people.
“No, he’s—”
“What’s the hold up?”
You glance up at Simon’s broad form angled in the shack’s doorway. His eyes aren’t on you or the kid, though. They’re on Insta-Prince – standing a little close to you, now that you’re not focused on the younger brother.
“Just finishing up,” you answer, smoothing a waterproof bandage over the scrape. “You did great, buddy, high five!”
That earns you a little smile and the requested high-five as the kid hops out of the chair. When you stand, Simon’s eyes flick to you. Darker than deep water, something swimming within that you can discern from the surface. It makes you fidgety, like you’ve been caught out doing something you shouldn’t.
“Remember to log it,” he rumbles.
“On it!” You lean over the wooden counter to pluck the clipboard from the wall on the other side, relieved that someone put the pen back for once.
“So, you have to write down all the injuries people get?” Insta-Prince asks, trying for casual conversation. The air feels oddly stifling, and gets worse when he settles closer, peeking around to see the sheet.
“Just if we use medical supplies,” you answer, scribbling quickly.
“Lifeguards only in the shack, kid,” Simon interrupts. “Get moving.”
You try not to snort in amusement. While Simon might tolerate you, he’s got a general disdain for most beachgoers – ironic considering how adamant he is about safety. But he seems to find the average person a nuisance to be constantly monitored and herded away from trouble. Like a shepherd with a flock of particularly stupid sheep.
“My brother was hurt, man, give me a break,” Insta-Prince protests, annoyed.
“And now he’s not,” Simon replies. “You should catch up with him. Kids need to be watched, isn’t that right, sunshine?”
You hum absently in agreement, signing off on the injury log with your initials. There’s a beat of silence that itches at the back of your mind. When you look up, Simon’s arching an eyebrow at the guy, thick arms crossed across his barrel chest.
Sir, firearms are not allowed on the beach, you think, before wrenching your eyes from Simon’s biceps.
“Did you need anything else?” you ask Insta-Prince.
“Just what time you get off work,” he replies, giving you big, soft, hopeful eyes.
You blink, a bit shocked. Flirting happens rarely for you, except maybe platonically with Soap or Gaz. To be fair, you’re not exactly the female lifeguard idol that most people would fantasize about. Half the time you jog around in shorts and a rash-guard, more comfortable in unisex swimwear and keeping the worst of the sun off yourself. Helpful to avoid wardrobe malfunctions if a panicking swimmer grabs at you.
Besides, you’re not really looking to get hit on. Hard to keep an eye out for emergencies if someone’s chatting your ear off for a shag by the restrooms. (You didn’t think people really did that until Farah groaned about it at the bonfire when you first hired.) Still, now that it’s happening… you don’t hate it. This guy is objectively attractive, apparently cares about his younger sibling enough to get him first-aid, and is weathering Simon’s increasingly annoyed scowl.
You figure there’s no harm. Not like someone else is showing a similar interest.
“At sunset,” you answer. “So, uh…”
“6:30,” Simon offers.
You shoot him a grateful look as the kid begins scooting for the door, skirting around Simon’s wider, thicker frame. Christ, the difference is stark. You tug at the front of your rash-guard to relieve some of the sudden heat.
“Maybe I’ll see you then,” he says before disappearing around the corner.
You stare after him for a second. He didn’t even ask for your name. “Huh.”
“The hell was that, sunshine?” Simon grouses.
You turn to him and shrug. “No idea.”
“Really now?” he scoffs.
You shake your head, already agitated by the whole thing for no reason you can pinpoint. Lean over the counter again to hang up the clipboard. “Really.”
“This isn’t a place for your silly summer fantasies and little meet-cutes,” he growls. “This is a real job, with real lives on the line.”
You twist around, brows furrowed as your mouth drops open in offense. “I know that.”
“Do you? Then why the fuck were you in here flirting?”
“I was helping the kid,” you argue, “you saw him!”
“Real convenient, that. When the older one’s been eye-fucking you all damn day.”
Any snappy retorts drown in the shock of his crass language and the accusation. All day? That guy? And Simon noticed? Never mind all that – Simon would seriously think you’d use a kid’s injury as an excuse to… what? Get cozy with an attractive stranger while on duty?
“I don’t know what you’re on about,” you huff, “but I need to get back out there.”
As you pass, a big, rough hand snaps out and catches your elbow. You come up short, half-turning towards him, face hot. Equal parts angry and ashamed for some reason. Summer romance your ass.
“Get it together,” he orders.
You click your tongue at him. “Same to you.”
You wrench your arm back and storm out onto the sand, snatching your floatie from the shack railing along the way. Don’t know what jellyfish stung his ass, but you hope he figures it out. Don’t think your self-esteem can take another round of… whatever that was.
The rest of the day passes tense and slow. Without Simon to talk to, and the beach relatively peaceful, you’re left to fixate on the incident in the shack. What was that about? You thought for sure you’d grown on Simon a bit. Sure, you’re one of the younger lifeguards, which is why Price assigned you to Simon’s post, but you’ve worked hard. You thought you’d proven yourself.
Checking your watch, you find that it’s nearly 6:30. The sun doesn’t seem that low yet, but the beach got empty while you were idly keeping watch. Might as well pack it in, you figure.
Not even thinking of Insta-Prince when you hop up the little wooden steps to the shack. Simon isn’t back from wherever he’s monitoring yet, and you’d like to be clear before that changes. Just in case he’s still in a bad mood.
You shed your blue swim-shorts and rash-guard on the counter, leaving you in the more standard one-piece. Roll your shoulders a bit uncomfortably, itching to squeeze into your binder after a day with tits-out. You’ve gotten accustomed to the sensation of leaving it off for the job, but you’d still prefer to wear it when safe.
You flop onto the counter, reaching over the side to fish your bag out from its cubby. Of course, that’s the exact moment that you hear Simon’s heavy step on that creaky board by the doorway.
“Bloody hell,” you think you hear him mutter.
“I’m just about to head out,” you assure him.
“Meeting up with that knob?”
Your temper flares. You abandon your bag and land on your feet, spinning around. Come up (very) short when Simon’s right there, not enough room to breathe without your chests brushing. But you don’t allow yourself to be deterred.
“So, what if I am?” you challenge.
His eyes darken, then narrow. “This isn’t a game you want to play, sunshine.”
“Maybe I do,” you insist, planting your hands on your hips.
He exhales slow and heavy, boxes you in against the counter with hands on either side of you. Your stupid, traitorous heart skips a beat, then trips into double time. Normally he wears a rash-guard too, but not today. No, today it’s swathes of tanned, scarred skin. And it’s so, so close to yours.
“You won’t win,” he warns.
Your tongue feels heavy and clumsy, maybe because your thoughts feel the same way. Now, you’re not always the most aware of “signals,” but there aren’t many other ways to interpret someone near-pinning you to a counter with smoldering eyes.
You scramble to review the earlier confrontation through a new lens. The way Simon glared at Insta-Prince, not you – until you seemed open to his interest. Oh. Ohhhh.
You wet your lips; the way his eyes lock onto the movement bolsters your courage.
“What if… I don’t want to win?” you ask.
His eyes dart up to yours, something a little sharper than longing when he whispers, “I’d make you a sore loser.”
An unexpected laugh bursts out of you; his teeth flash in a crooked smile as he scoops you up so easily. He sits you on edge of the counter and steps between your thighs, pelvis bumping against yours. You gasp, head dropping to stare wide-eyed at the frankly monstrous bulge in his trunks.
“W-wow,” you mumble faintly, thighs squeezing around his hips.
“C’mere, sunshine,” he growls, cupping your jaw.
You tilt your face up, sigh softly as his mouth slots over yours. He tastes like blue powerade and sea salt, tongue curling against yours when you grant him enthusiastic access.
Your hands make scattered, eager work of exploring him, unsure where you want to touch first, just that you have to. He’s as solid as you always expected, densely packed muscle under healthy, hydrated layers of fat. Sun-warm beneath your palms, shudders as your skim them dangerously close low on his twitching abdomen.
“Can I take this off?” he asks, tugging gently at the shoulder strap of your swimsuit.
“Yeah,” you mumble, wriggling closer.
He huffs in amusement, peeling the elastic material over your arms and down your chest while you scatter kisses over his jaw and neck. You gasp into his peck when his calloused thumbs brush your hard nipples. Just a small touch, yet electricity is racing up and down your spine.
“This alright?” he checks.
You hum the affirmative, pressing into his touch as he pinches and rolls the sensitive peaks, slow searching. Reclaims your mouth to swallow each and every little mewl and moan that spills off your tongue. You can’t help rocking against him, hot and hard through the thin layers of swimwear.
“Simon,” you whine against his mouth, “c’mon.”
“Impatient,” he teases, nipping your bottom lip.
“You’ve kept me waiting long enough,” you complain, tugging at his trunks.
“I know, sunshine,” he coos, “just wait a bit longer.”
He takes the tiniest step back, fingers hooking in your swimsuit again to roll it the rest of the way off. You lift your hips to help, nearly squirming as strings of slick web between the fabric and your pussy. But Simon seems hypnotized, snapping the strands with his fingers and following them back to your swollen cunt.
“Fuck, all this for me, baby?” he rasps.
You make an embarrassed noise – which quickly graduates into an alarmed squeal when he drops to his knees.
“Simon, wait, I’ve been working all day and—”
“Don’ give a fuck,” he growls, “I’ve been dying to taste you for weeks.”
He yanks your thighs over his big, strong shoulders and dives in. It’s messy and obscenely loud, filling up the tiny shack and all the empty space in your head. Would be embarrassing if you had any room for something so frivolous. Instead, you’re gone on the way he sucks your clit and laps thirstily at your entrance. Utterly obsessed with the deep, throaty groans that leave you throbbing.
It's been a while, true, but you know he’d have you on edge so fast regardless. And he does, rushing up on it like a building, rolling wave. The devastating kind that’ll drown you in unyielding currents.
“Wait, wait,” you squeak, tugging at his coarse hair.
To his credit, he stops instantly, though he sounds absolutely gutted about it. Pulls back licking his lips like a cat with cream, chin practically dripping.
“Alright?” he asks, voice shredded to ribbons.
“I just,” you pant, “I just w-wasn’t ready to – to… I wanna cum on your cock. Please, Si?”
“Fuckin’ hell.” He surges up, pressing you down flat to kiss you stupid(er) and senseless. The taste of you isn’t as offensive as you expected, not coming from his tongue. “You’ll get anything you want if you keep talking like that.”
“Just want you.”
He helps you off the counter, drags you by the wrist to the plastic chair by the doorway. You’re about to protest – no way can that chair support someone his size, never mind both of you. But then he’s spinning you around, crushing you to his chest, and yanking you down into his lap. Any such nonsense as good sense dissolves like a sandcastle.
You can feel the length of him pressing hot and a little wet against your spine. (So, so high up your spine, good god). When he freed himself from his swim-trunks, you’re not sure, nor do you care at this moment. Your priorities narrow down to one absolute necessity: getting him inside you now, now, now.
“Easy now, baby, don’t hurt yourself,” he purrs in your ear. “Let me help.”
He curls big hands around your hips, tight enough that you relish the bruises that may bloom there later. Supports your weight as if it’s nothing to him, propping you over his lap as you line up his cock, dragging the flushed head through your pooling wetness. He curses low and rough, sinking you down until the tip catches on your entrance.
“There we are,” he grits, hands flexing in your soft flesh. “Nice and slow now, sunshine.”
If you had your way, he’d already be balls deep in your aching pussy. But his grip is firm and unrelenting, lowering you inch by thick inch down his shaft. You back and squeeze around him, encouraging him deeper, faster, helpless little noises escaping from your gaping mouth.
“That’s it, halfway there,” he breathes. “Doing so well.”
You choke. Halfway?! You already feel stuffed, walls gripping every contour of his cock like you were made for him.
He twitches inside you, bulbous, leaking head grinding deliciously, and your resolve cracks right down the middle. You dig your nails into his thighs and slam your hips down, crying out as he buries deep inside. Can feel him nudging your cervix, stretching your silky walls, all the way down to where your opening is sealed tight around the base of him.
“Fuck,” he snarls.
“F-feels so good,” you whimper, head falling forward as you clench around him.
Oh, you are definitely going to be so perfectly sore after this. You can’t fucking wait.
“If you’re that impatient to be ruined,” he chuckles breathlessly, “best brace yourself, lovie.”
You barely manage to get your feet planted before he’s fucking up into you, hard and mean. Just what you want, what you need. Your head falls back to cry your pleasure to the shack roof as you bounce. Rocking your hips each time he bottoms out, grinding him against that spongy bundle of nerves inside you. It’s mind-numbing; you’re leaking around him, know it must be dripping onto the floor at this point.
He snakes a hand around to your front. Brushes where the two of you are connected, the strange and dangerous sensation making tears prick at your eyes. Then his fingers skip up to your needy, oversensitive clit. You almost want to stop him, already so overwhelmed with pleasure. But again, anything like coherent thought is ripped away on a tide of ecstasy when he begins rubbing quick, tight circles.
Your rhythm faulters at the new stimulation, but Simon just widens his stance. It changes the angle, drags the head so perfectly against your g-spot. With the hand still on your hip, he starts jerking you down to meet each thrust. It’s slightly slower, but so much sweeter, combined with the rhythm he’s strumming on your clit.
Your orgasm rises like a tsunami, higher and higher, a devastating force building up inside.
“Simon,” you keen, “Simon, I’m gonna – right there…”
“That’s it, sunshine. Get me nice and wet with your cum.”
That voice, saying such filth in your ear, sends you over the edge. You nearly convulse, eyes rolling back in your head as you scream. Back arching, writhing and gripping crescents into his thighs. And you can feel yourself gushing all over him, onto the floor.
“Yes, yes, fuck, just like that.”
You’re near limp as he keeps hammering into you, practically using you like a toy to get himself off. The thought alone makes you squeeze around him again, a powerful aftershock bringing another flood of wetness. Your head lolls back against his shoulder, crying into his ear, begging him to cum inside you, fill you up…
He crashes his mouth into yours as he cums, groaning into your lax mouth, jerking violently into your overstimulated pussy. You swear you can feel him spurting inside you, thick and white-hot. It feels… it feels…
You break the kiss to suck in a deep breath, lightheaded and still squeaky with pleasure. Simon trails soothing kisses over your shoulder, grip easing up to caress over the forming finger marks. You hum softly, voice husky. Flutter your eyes open and blink at the pink sky out the window.
“Is it… is it just now sunset?” you ask.
Simon chuckles against your ear. “Looks like I was about thirty minutes off. Whoops.”
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marlinspirkhall · 5 months
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Humans sending out signal after signal, message after message, space probes, emails, photos, light shows, intergalactic fireworks, all in the hope that they're not alone: Please reply, please reply, please reply, ple–
Aliens, screeching across the universe in a brand new FTL ship: CAN YOU SHUT UP? WE GOT YOUR FIRST ONE THOUSAND MESSAGES, DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND HOW BIG SPACE IS?
Humans: oh my goooooosh, hi
Humans: Did you invent faster than light travel just for us? 🥺
Aliens: NO!!!
SETI: Radio message received.
Radio message: We are receiving you. We have decided to answer you in your own language, and–
SETI: New radio message received.
Aliens: Oh no.
Radio message: We have received your previous messages pertaining to life on Earth, and have included our own data packet about life on Big Tree in return. We named our planet before we learned it was only 30% arboreal. Thank you for the golden disc, it was extremely tasty. Haha. Just kidding.
SETI: Data packet downloaded. Decrypting...
SETI: New radio message received.
Radio message: As previously stated, we are receiving your messages and your gifts. We took a photo of our planet with our own photo-capture device, as we were unhappy with the one you provided.
SETI: Data packet update: Warning: Several terrabytes of information may be corrupted.
SETI: New radio message received.
Radio message: This is the Generation Ship Tree Hollow. My designation is Captain Root-Skygazer. Our people have instructed us to fly ahead and communicate with you when we reached the thirty-year marker, as these messages are likely to reach you faster. They request that you stop broadcasting messages with the subject line: 'Oh, how woeful it is to be alone in an uncaring universe (and other similar poems)' because it frightens the children and makes our scientists deeply existential. I, personally, am partial to episodes of M star A star S star H. It has been of great interest to learn historical facts about the longest Earth conflict of your common era. I miss my home, and I am saddened that I will never see yours. This ship has a self-sustaining ecosystem of plants native to our planet, and a crew manifest of one hundred and fifty-seven. The replacement generation currently numbers one hundred and seventeen.
Radio message: Hey, Ball Of Dirt, it's Big Tree again. Lose our number, would you? There must be some other semi-evolved space aemoba you can bother. (Several words untranslateable)
Aliens: Yeah, so your answering machine is going to be like that for a while–
Humans: What was that part about a Generation Ship?
Aliens: We were hoping you could tell us that, actually. We lost contact with them after the 200 year marker.
Radio message: This is the generation ship Tree Hollow. My designation is Captain Cradleroot. Captain Root-Skygazer was my grandfather. Inspired by the speeches of your contemporary leader, Ronald Reagan, I decided to restructure the existing system here which allowed crewmembers to eat as they required. Under this new system, we award tokens to whom we feel has done the most valuable work, and they can redistribute those to the hungry if they wish. But they do not. However, I believe that [...]
Humans:
Aliens:
Humans:
Aliens: This is all your fault, by the way.
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gurugirl · 10 months
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A Balancing Act*
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Series Summary: Harry is a famous, rich, handsome, pop star and he's been in therapy since his boy band days. When he meets Y/n, a beautiful and successful artist, he cannot take no for an answer when it comes to her. He's determined to make her his even if he has to bend the rules a little at first.
A/N: famous pop star!harry x normie artist plus size !reader - This is a commissioned request by @cinnamonone and is based on Harry as a famous singer who falls for a normal (non famous) woman. I've never written anything based off of our real Harry before but had fun doing this. And please note that any and all suppositions made and claimed in this story are made up and have nothing to do with actual real Harry. I do not claim to know him or his preferences nor do I know the details of his love life or relationships he's had (but boy was it fun adding some of the references herein). This is fiction even if it is based on many things Harry Styles has done.
Warning: 18+ only, NSFW, mentions of death and illness, smut, dom/sub dynamics (with use of instruments), DD/lg, angst
Total Word Count: 52k
Fan Art by @cinnamonone
Read on Wattpad
|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|X|
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Ch. 1 Sneak Peek
Chapter 1: Room #1900 & the Painting (18k words)
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Ch. 2 Teaser
Chapter 2: Latin America & the Wedding Photo (9.7k words)
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Ch. 3 Sneak Peek
Chapter 3: Pat's Disappointed & New Things to Try (12k words)
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Ch. 4 Teaser
Chapter 4: European Tour & A Little Distance (12.5k words)
Feedback/Thoughts | Support Me! | Main Masterlist
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jpitha · 11 months
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Hunting
It is unlikely that humans are the only predator species to achieve sapience in the galaxy.
In order to be a successful predator one has to be intelligent enough to learn your prey's movements and be able to think ahead to what they're going to do next but also be flexible enough in your thinking that you can improvise if the situation chances. If you don't have this elasticity, you won't be a very successful predator.
Humans are very successful predators.
****
Greg bent down low and spoke as quietly as he could to the worried Sefigan next to him. "I need you to stay as still as you can. I'm going to go around, and try and surprise the Gren guarding the exit."
The three Sefigans, caught between wanting to obey Greg and staying silent but also trying to communicate that they thought it was suicide to do so started shaking.
"No, no, it'll be fine. I've been watching him. He's not really paying attention." Greg stood silently and put one finger to his lips, then smiled.
Moving much quieter than one would think given his mass, Greg crept away, hunched down just a little to keep motion out of the tops of the bushes they used to hide. The Sefigans watched in horrified fascination as Greg would take a few steps and then freeze, not even breathing while he watched the Gren.
As he walked, he made no noise at all over the soft sand, his feet finding purchase slowly. The Sefigans, a small furry prey species from a rocky mountainous world felt very old fears from the most early parts of their brains while watching him hunt the Gren.
The Gren guard was panning slowly as he guarded the exit, his fur flat, his eyes dull and his mouthparts drooping. If one knew a bit about Gren physiology one could easily see that he was bored and tired. His shift wasn't due to end for another 3 demi-cycles and nothing usually ever happened on this exit.
When Greg was no more than 2 meters away, he reached down and picked up a stone, no larger than a comm badge. He raised his arm and in one silent fluid motion, tossed the stone high and far over his head, to hide its origin. It clattered against the wall on the far side of the pen, opposite to where Greg was standing. The noise and motion caught the Gren's eye and his whole body swung over to where the stone landed.
His back was turned to Greg.
Greg bent his legs low building energy and took two steps and lept onto the Gren's back. His higher mass bowled the taller but much lighter Gren over and the Gren's head hit the stone with a hollow thwack.
Greg jumped up off the Gren and checked him quickly. He was dead. Trotting quickly over to where the Sefigans were still hiding he motioned for them to follow.
Still terrified, they followed this... ambush predator they were scared of and by the time they reached him, he had gotten the comm out of the Gren's pack and was fiddling with a ring that had complicated studs all around it, fitting them against the door until one clicked and the door hissed open.
Minutes later they were all running across the desert to the canal below where they had hoped to cling to the side of a barge and float to the spaceport.
"Human Greg! Human Greg!" The smallest Sefigan called as they jogged down the sandy hill towards the canal.
"What is it Li? Can it wait?"
"That was amazing! I've never seen a human hunt before! Is that how they all do it?"
"Not really? Humans developed as persistence hunters, not ambush hunters, but as you well know, skills can be taught."
"Persistence hunter?"
"Yeah, my ancestors would pick an animal out of a herd and run after it. As long as we didn't overexert ourselves we could just... run until it died."
The three Sefigans looked at each other as they jogged. Greg wasn't breathing heavily as they went towards the canal, but all three of them were nearly at their limit and would need a long time to rest when they were safe.
"Human Greg, you scare us." The tallest Sefigan looked back at the holding compound and then back at Greg. "But, not as much as we were scared of what the Gren would have done to us."
Greg smiled showing his wide, large, white teeth. "In this world, sometimes you need to be scary." He looked at the canal. "Come on, the water isn't too cold, let's get in and swim towards that barge. It's not too far."
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writing-to-survive · 5 months
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#119
"You're nothing at all of what I thought an alien would look like," Human says.
"What did you think I was going to look like?" Alien asks.
"I don't know. Multiple arms or heads. Maybe three eyes. Huge heads. Green skin," Human mumbles. "But you look like a human. Like me."
"You are very stereotypical. And—" Alien states.
"Sorry," Human winches.
"—saying we look like your species is an insult. The major difference between our two species is that mine is much more advanced than yours. I mean, you guys are still traveling to space in tin cans."
"I was wrong about what I thought you looked like, but I'm spot on about your personality," Human says.
"Intelligent and honest?" Alien assumes, grinning.
"A stuck-up, know it all who thinks their better than everyone else," Human corrects, wiping the smrik right off Alien's face.
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avidcollectorofdust · 6 months
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Little ghirahim redesign thing! I had a few things going on in my mind with this one, namely: having him resemble the sword more, having him resemble Fi more, and having there be more continuity between his various forms
There are still some inconsistencies I'd like to fix (his skin changes color suddenly in his transitional form... I'd like to give him his opera gloves cracking look back), but for now I'm just gonna leave it as-is and maybe post fixes later.
Design notes, further explanations, and gameplay thoughts under the cut
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I was thinking a lot about alternate gameplay for his fights during this
My idea was that instead of having a health bar that gradually wears down and triggers his next phase, he would have little gems ("conduits", I don't have a better name for them) that act as a way for him to channel his magic. He starts by using them to attack, such as the ones at his wrist allowing him to catch Link's sword in a magic grip. Link has to engage in each attack so that he can destroy the conduit. Once all the conduits are destroyed, Ghirahim's core becomes exposed and he loses magic access, forcing him to engage in a traditional swordfight in which Link has to destroy/hit/fracture his core.
As his core becomes more exposed throughout the game, he engages more with his sword/spirit abilities, unlocking new conduits and therefore more abilities and durability. His attacks also become stronger.
I have more notes and have been doodling animation keyframes for all of the conduit attacks and counterattacks, but those are for another time. Right now I just want to get this posted lol
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humanoidhistory · 7 months
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"Science fiction is the art of the possible."
—Ray Bradbury, born on this day in 1920
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