#flufftober2020
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In Shades
Summary: Damian paints his family.
Ao3:
Part of batfam flufftober2020
Damian had an art assignment. Paint a portrait of one person in your life and use only one colour and explain why you chose that one colour.
It was an interesting assignment and Damian could not choose just one person to paint. So, he painted everyone in his immediate family. He figured he could hand in the best one.
He asked Alfred to sit down first.
For Alfred, he chose the colour grey. Dull and able to blend in, a symbol of dignity and sophistication as much as it was a symbol of loss.
Alfred had taken care of them through their losses and their fears, through their triumphs and their victories. He had stood by them as they had fought each other and had stood by them as they had held each other. Always there always reliable.
Yes, grey it was for Alfred.
"I am honoured, Master Damian," said Alfred once he showed it to him. It was the only thing he said but it still made Damian feel warm.
The second person he sat down with was his father.
For his father, he chose the colour black. It seemed a bit cliche but it fit the man. Black stood for strength and mystery, for formality and elegance, but at the same time stood for aggression and authority, for death and darkness.
This one might not end up with the rest of his assignment for it would be hard to explain to a civilian how all these characteristics could fit the airhead billionaire Brucie Wayne. But Damian could not bring himself to draw his father in false colours. He would just have to hide this one away.
Once he was done with the portrait, he looked at the harsh lines and smiled. Yes, black definitely worked.
His father must have agreed with his observations because one look at the piece and he had laughed.
"Well, you certainly got me, Kiddo. But maybe not take this to school. Though, I would like to hang it in my study instead. Would that be alright with you?"
"Yes, Father," Damian had agreed.
Father had them given him a long and tight hug, softly whispering how proud he was.
It almost made Damian cry. Almost.
Dick sat down for next, a wide smile on his face.
Damian chose to paint his brother in bright greens. Green was the colour of growth, harmony and renewal. His brother had moved non from tragedy after tragedy and always found a way to make his world right again, not only for himself but for others too. The freshness of the colour captured the man's smile in full and made him seem wiser than his years, which in Damian's opinion was exactly what his brother was.
Damian knew this one would be his favourite.
When he showed Dick, he was gushed at his talent but had been confused about the colour choice. Unlike most of their other family, Dick had never had an interest in the visual arts, opting to express himself physically as Cassandra did.
Once he explained, Dick had gotten tears in his eyes. Damian had almost become alarmed but his brother had swooped him up in a hug and held him close, much as his father had.
"Thank you, Damian,"
"You're welcome, Richard," said Damian, though he did not know what the thank you was for.
Cassandra did not sit but chose to stand instead. Damian was quite alright with that.
He painted his sister in shades of purple. Purple was the colour of royals, elegance of a certain kind, and ambition. Violet was the colour of magic and dreams.
Cassandra smiled all the way through painting, holding her pose together. This painting took the longest as Damian knew that it would e important to paint her whole body instead of just painting her face.
Once he was done, Cassandra hugged him before she even saw the painting and then hugged him again after she was it.
"Good," she whispered, "You got me,"
"I'm glad you think so," he whispered back
After Cassandra came Jason. And the only reason he had agreed was that he was stuck on bed rest.
Damian drew him in shades of red, head bent over a book. Red was the colour of anger, danger and sacrifice. It was also the colour of love and passion, the colour of a fire that burned bright and a heart that beat for others. Jason was all that and more. He rose from the ashes like a phoenix and had devoted his life to his family and city. Sacrifice after sacrifice, all in the name of love for people he thought didn't even love him. He was wrong about that of course.
"The angry brother in red, huh?" said Jason once he saw it, voice showing just a fraction of the bitterness he was feeling.
Damina instantly refuted, "No, the passionate brother, and the loving one,"
Jason looked at him in surprise.
Damian continued, "You are too sacrificing for your own good, you are passionate about what you do and you love so much that overflows out in bursts,"
For a few moments, Jason watched him with his mouth open, and then ever so slowly, a smile spread across his face.
"You know," he murmured, "I think red could be your colour too,"
"Really?"
"Really,"
Tim was surprised at being asked, and really that made Damian feel just a little guilty. He was almost an adult now and quite ashamed about how he had acted all those years ago.
For Timothy, Damian chose blues. Blue represented the open sky and ocean, depth and stability. It stood for loyalty, faith, truth and confidence.
Over the years, Damian had watched his brother grow into his abilities and become sure of himself. He was a leader, a detective and a man loyal to his cause and family. Damian was proud to have him in his life, to call him family. Even if he never admitted it out loud.
He explained the meaning of the picture in a few words, the whole interaction being awkward in a nice way, both of them feeling a bit shy about it.
"Thanks, Dames," said Tim
Damian just shrugged in response.
It was enough.
Duke was the last sibling he asked to sit down.
He chose to present Duke in pink. Pink was intuitive, pink was tender, pink was kind. It was a positive colour that inspired warmth and appreciation. All of the things he felt for the second oldest in the family. Duke had a soft way about him that drew people out of their shell. He was a leader but not an authoritative one like Father or even Timothy. Instead, his leadership consisted of inspiring and lifting others.
"Pink? Isn't that a girl's colour,"
"While you are right that pink represents feminity in today's society, it is a more recent development, I chose to focus on other meanings of the colour,"
"Yeah? And those are?" Duke asked disbelievingly, but not unkindly
Once Damian was done explaining, Duke grinned and held out a fist for him to bump. Damian complied.
"Thanks, man," said Duke, bounding out of the room as if someone had filled him with unlimited energy.
Damian watched him go with a shake of his head.
Damian contemplated whether or not he should do anyone else, and in the end, asked Stephanie to sit for him too.
He painted Stephanie orange. The colour represented friendliness and enthusiasm, competitiveness and risk. It stood for raw instinct and free spirit, lead to the person feeling warm and at home. The colour of the autumn.
Stephanie was a friendly spirit and was somehow always present. She pushed forward when knocked down and fought to make her home. Her success came from her enthusiasm and competitiveness and her willingness to risk it all.
Stephanie gave him a grin and a big kiss on the cheek when he explained the colour.
"Ew, Brown! Stop!"
"Uhuh," she cried, "Yuu love meee! Now I knooow!"
"Oh god, you are such a child,"
The last person that sat for him was Barbara Gordon.
Damian chose to paint her in browns. Brown was the colour of reliability and support, of protection and security. It stood for everything genuine, honest and sincere. It was what came to mind when he thought of Barbara. The way she was always there, a voice in everyone's ear. The way she always spoke the truth, light and clear. She was a friend, she was dependable, someone that could be trusted and relied on unconditionally.
Oddly enough, like Alfred and Father, Barbara did not need an explanation for the colour. She merely smiled and nodded.
"You have a great eye," she told him, "I really love this. Thank you, Damian,"
"No, thank you, Barbara,"
xxx
After a long night of patrol, Damian was ready to fall into bed. However, before he could do that, he realized there was an envelope sitting on his pillow. He took it out and smiled.
There was a picture of him petting his animals, most likely taken by Timothy, and it was tinted yellow. Beneath it, were words written out in yellow glitter pen.
Sunshine. Happiness. Fun. Hope. Mind. Perception. Optimism. Creativity. Freshness. positivity.
Underneath was a paragraph written in his father's neat cursive writing, though he could tell the input had probably come from a few different sources.
'Yellow represents the heat of the sun and the loveliness of a smile, it evoked hope for the future and is linked with the optimistic. Yellow showed creativity, freshness and positivity. Damian, you are almost an adult now and have grown into someone who had learned to channel your creative side, look towards the future and smile, even if it is internally. You have a beautiful mind and your artistic perception of the world takes our breath away. Always stay you, Damian,. You are bright and wonderful,'
Wiping the happy tears that were making their way down his cheeks, Damian quickly took out his phone. He pulled up the group chat and wrote a short message, knowing it would get the sentiment across.
'Thank you. I will do my best,'
#flufftober2020#fluff#batfamily#BatFam#batman#robin#batman fic#bruce wayne#Damian Wayne#dick grayson#Jason Todd#Tim Drake#cassandra cain#cass wayne#duke thomas
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Please Hand in Your Papers
[Read on AO3]
Prompt 1: Slow Dancing
Prompt 2: Sweet Rides
Mr. Singer is still going over the details of their free-writing assignment, but Dean isn't listening. Free-writes are always the same: Singer sets a timer, you write on the topic without stopping until the timer goes off, then you use what you wrote to build your next paper. Rinse, lather, repeat -- they've been doing this all year, and Dean gets it. He's got other things on his mind right now, like the conversation he'd had with Charlie at lunch...
"Stop saying you don't have a shot with him!" Charlie had hissed, punching him hard on the arm.
"There's no way, Charles. He's... He's so smart, and cute, and really nice to everyone, and there's no way he'd be interested in me."
"Why not, Dean? You're a great guy! You have so much to offer to the right person. Any guy or girl would be lucky to have you."
Dean had scoffed and changed the subject, but Charlie's words are still bouncing around in his head. You have so much to offer... Like what? What does he have that Cas Novak could ever want?
Singer stops talking, and the sound of shuffling paper pulls Dean out of his thoughts as the free-write begins. He looks down at the blank sheet in front of him.
"What Do I Have To Offer Cas Novak?" he writes at the top of the page and underlines it. Screw the assignment, he thinks. I've got the next paper pretty much outlined already. I need to think this through. He starts adding bullet points under the heading:
Someone to slow dance with at prom
Sweet rides to/from school in Baby
Can get him burgers for free at the Roadhouse
I could fix his car if it ever breaks down
Does Cas even have a car? Dean's not sure. He wants to know everything about the boy, but they rarely interact outside of class. Dean gets so tongue-tied around him. Even when they do talk, it's always kind of stilted and brief.
He runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. He can't think of another bullet point. Cas is amazing and Dean's nothing special. This is hopeless.
He doodles the Metallica logo in the corner of his paper until the timer goes off, then moves to crumple his list up and throw it in the garbage. Except then Mr. Singer says something that shuts down Dean's entire nervous system.
"Okay idjits, like I said, you're gonna swap these free-writes with a partner for feedback. But I want you all to get real feedback, so you're not just gonna trade with your bestie. We're gonna mix things up. Bass, trade with Sanchez. Banes with Miller."
Dean's spine turns to ice. His brain catches on fire. Someone is gonna read what he wrote. Singer keeps rattling off pairs of names. Too many people get up at once to pass their papers to their assigned partners, and there's a traffic jam in the middle of the room. Singer tells everyone to sit their butts back down and he starts grabbing pages off desks and dropping them onto other desks.
"Novak with Winchester."
Dean's pretty sure he has an actual heart attack and dies when Mr. Singer scoops the paper off his desk and places it in front of Cas. Unfortunately, death doesn't free him from the slow-motion train wreck he's trapped in here. Singer drops Cas's page onto Dean's desk and moves on.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass and Dean's still dazed with panic. He does actually try to read over Cas's writing and make some helpful notes, because what the hell, right? Might as well be remembered as a good student when they're giving the eulogy at his funeral. He's not sure if what he writes makes sense, though, or is even legible. The pencil doesn't seem to want to stay gripped in his numb fingers.
Singer calls time, gathers all the pages up, and returns them to their owners. Dean hears paper hit his desk but he's got his eyes closed, and he doesn't plan on opening them again, ever. He doesn't want to see whatever polite "I'm flattered, but..." note Cas has left him. Or, shit, what if Cas wasn't flattered, wasn't polite? What if he was insulted, or disgusted, or angry? What if Dean's paper is full of curse words scrawled in red ink with a big "FUCK OFF" at the top? Or, what if Cas didn't write anything at all? Dean thinks somehow that would be the worst, if Cas just ignored it completely. He has to look. He has to know. He opens his eyes.
Where there had been four bullet points before, there are now twelve. In his tidy hand, Cas has added things like "a beautiful heart" and "fantastic sense of humor" and "endless kindness" and "gorgeous". He's also left some notes beside Dean's original items. After "Someone to slow dance with at prom" he's added "yes, please!!!" He's written "your car is so cool!" next to the item about Baby, and he's drawn about twenty tiny hearts next to the word "Roadhouse" and then "I love Ellen's burgers!"
At the bottom of the page, Cas has left him a grade, perfectly mimicking Dr. Singer's style: "10/10 - see me after class! Burgers and mini-golf Friday? 778-237-3022"
Holy crap. Dean's got a date.
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Prompt: five year old imperial prince Luke Vader has been taken by rebels to a secure location and people are having mixed feelings about what to do with him (train him, kill him, use him as a bargaining chip, etc.).
Another late response to a prompt! But I’m cleaning out my inbox with Xtober, haha.
DAY 22: FLUFFTOBER: “Do you trust me?” @flufftober
The door opened.
“We should kill him.”
“You want to kill a kid? A literal—”
“Well, no, but he’s a little monster anyway—”
“He thanked you! For giving him water!”
“He’s gonna grow up to be—”
The door closed again, and the voices cut off.
The little boy in the cell—for it was a cell, for all that the Rebel leaders had furnished it with a more comfortable cot, one of the toys that had been taken with the child, and a few books—glanced up blearily, sitting up on the cot and rubbing his eyes. The figure who came in didn’t try to sit too close, respected his space, and sat cross-legged on the floor.
“Who’re you?” the boy asked distrustfully.
The figure smiled. “I’m Ahsoka Tano,” she said.
The boy paused. Then he offered, “I’m… I’m Luke Skywalker.”
Ahsoka nodded. “You look a lot like your father,” she said. “He used to be a good friend of mine.”
Luke wrinkled his nose. “I don’t look anything like my father. He has those big red eyes, and his head is black and hard—”
“He does,” Ahsoka agreed. “But he used to look a lot like you.”
Luke was silent for a moment. “Did you… like my father?” he asked carefully, testing the waters, and Ahsoka thought he might be smarter than she would expect from a kid.
He’d definitely heard some of those Rebel soldiers spitting insults at the man he loved, hissing and hating him, right in front of him. He knew he’d been kidnapped by enemies of his father’s—and he didn’t know what was happening.
Fear pulsed in the Force like an open wound.
“I loved your father,” Ahsoka said. “And I loved your mother, too—when she died I was very sad.”
Luke swallowed. “So was Father.”
Ahsoka nodded, then reached into her robes—Luke flinched, staring at the lightsabers at her waist. She moved even more slowly, and drew out a holo.
She switched it on.
Luke stared.
“That’s…” He hesitated. “That’s Mama.” He knew Padmé’s face well, it seemed, and it also seemed that he had quickly internalised what Ahsoka told him about looking like his father, because it was barely a moment before his eyes lit up again and he asked, “Papa?”
Ahsoka smiled. “Yes.”
“And…” He climbed off his cot to scamper over to her, raising a hand to almost touch the holo where Ahsoka’s face was projected between his parents. Padmé was wearing fine, fine Senate garb while Ahsoka and Anakin were in their Jedi outfits, smiling. Both parents were hugging Ahsoka. “That’s you.”
Ahsoka nodded. “It is me,” she said, and let the Force soothe Luke’s worries, whisper that she spoke true, the way it naturally would. “In a happier time, I like to think I would’ve been your Auntie Soka.”
Luke said nothing. He was just staring at the holo.
“Do you trust me, Luke?” Ahsoka asked. Her voice was as quiet as a whisper.
“What?” He raised his gaze to hers.
“Do you trust me?” In his mind, with the gentlest whisper of the Force, she told him, I’m here to get you out.
They stole you from your father.
I know their reasons. But I don’t think you should be separated from a father who loves you.
Do you want to go back to your father?
Luke said, shakily, “Yes.”
He put his pudgy hand in hers.
“Yes I do.”
#flufftober2020#flufftober#flash fiction#flash fiction: star wars#my writing#random words on a page#return of the apprentices#ahsoka tano#luke skywalker
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Flufftober day 26: soda
She tries.
#flufftober#flufftober2020#inktober2020#alternative inktober#fanart#before the storm#Life is Strange: Before The Storm#chloe price#my art#ghost draws
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Flufftober 2020 Day 31
(Something a little different for today, seeing as it’s the last day. A twist on the usual idea of “make me.” Regular font is Simon. Italics are Baz.)
Day 31: “Make Me” (Carry On)
You make me. . .
Year 1:
feel unworthy
feel strange
Year 2:
feel so inept
want to push you away
Year 3:
feel alone in our room
want to leave the room
Year 4:
You make me angry
You make me angry
Year 5:
want to hit you
want to kiss you
Year 6:
want to follow you
want to hide away
Year 7:
so confused
yearn
Year 8:
want to keep looking at you
want to be with you
After:
You make me feel whole
You make me feel human
You make me feel loved
You make me feel loved
(100 words)
#carry on#simon snow#baz pitch#wayward son#a bit different style for today#a bit of a twist on ‘make me’#end of flufftober#flufftober#flufftober2020#I did it#every single day#my fic#my writing#100 words#drabbles
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Flufftober Day 10: Cooking
He may be bad at cooking but at least he’s confident in it even though he knows it won’t turn out. (Wish I could have that much confidence lol)
#flufftober2020#nanatsu no taizai#meliodas#nnt manga#manga coloring#my art#my coloring#seven deadly sins#nnt#sds#I wouldn’t dare eat his food I’d die#I love his litlte apron it’s so CUTE#ahhh i love him#he baby#protect him at all costs#protect him pls#meliodas’s smile must be protected#I love him#i love my sunshine child#thank you Mia for your help in this coloring#I really appreciate all you do for me#I wouldn’t be anywhere without you#so thanks <3#I love you Mia and thank you again ❤️#love you
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Day 16: 100 words inspired by Flufftober’s Prompt “Always”
Luke decided to ask the third time his father’s ghost appeared. It seemed a reasonable question, after all.
“Father… why do you look so young in the Force? While Obi-Wan resembles the age he…”
“…died?” Anakin finished with an uncertain smile. “I thought… I thought this would be easier for both of us. Me, when I was still good, before my fall.”
Luke was in earnest when he answered. “There was always good in you, Father. Always. Until the end.”
“At the end,” Anakin replied gently, as his Force ghost aged before Luke’s eyes, “because of you. But not always.”
#flufftober2020#evilmousetober#Luke Skywalker#Anakin Skywalker#drabble#the young force ghost thing always drove me insane#so here's my explanation/fix it#sebastian shaw
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Flufftober Day 16: Plush.
David Burke's Dr. Watson has some very plush-looking loungewear😄 in the Granada series. His robe, as seen in "The Norwood Builder," looks especially comfy and lovely, but it has an incredibly detailed pattern on it that I just did not want to touch. So I went with his velvety smoking jacket, as seen in "The Copper Beeches." Here at the end of the episode, he is giving a dramatic reading to Holmes of his write-up of the case.
I had SO much fun drawing him. ❤️ It's definitely the best I've done with David Burke, and I think it's also one of my best drawings of a real person yet.
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Flufftober Day 1
IN THE SHADOWS
"That holo was practically slander.” Luke chuckled lightly to himself as he stepped out onto the streets one step behind Han, who was absorbed in a heated verbal review of the holofilm they’d just watched. “The way they depicted smugglers was a disgrace. No scoundrel I know would ever think to leave their way of life for some... royal. Makin’ that seem like the respectable choice was just ridiculous!”
“There was definitely some pretty far-fetched stuff in the plot,” Luke agreed, suppressing his grin. “But even if its depiction of the Spice Trade was a bit exaggerated, I still thought it was fun.” Han shot him a withering glare, prompting Luke to allow his grin to bloom undisguised. “But, next time we hang out, I’ll let you pick what we do. Deal?”
Han just looked at him for a long moment, narrowing his eyes before sighing and shaking his head. “I donno what it is about you, kid, but if you were anyone else, I’d’ve cut my losses and run long time ago. Some reason, I just can’t say no. So ya got yourself a deal. But I don’t wanna hear anything from you when you find out what’s in store.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Luke replied lightly, offering a softer, more genuine smile to his companion. “Comm me when you’re available next, yeah?”
“Yeah, alright.” Han paused a minute, a shade of concern passing over his face. “Sure you don’t want me to walk you home? The lower levels here ain’t exactly the kindest place on the planet.”
Luke’s eyes drifted just over Han’s shoulders to an alley off to the side. His expression sobered a touch, but he did his best to maintain a light demeanour when flickering his gaze back to Han. “I can take care of myself, don’t worry. My home would be... very much out of your way. Too much of an inconvenience for you. But, as always, I look forward to our little get togethers. I’ll see you next time you’re on the planet.” Offering one last genuine smile, Luke brushed his hand against Han’s shoulder before turning to walk away. “Take care, Captain Solo. Until next time.”
Han mumbled a farewell in return and took off in the opposite direction.
Luke waited until he could sense Han was well away from the area he was in before sighing and stepping towards the alleyway that had caught his attention earlier. “You can come out now, Father.”
Remaining shrouded in the shadows, the distinctive figure of Darth Vader stepped forwards, visible to Luke alone, who slipped between the buildings to join his father out of sight of any passersby.
“He’s just a friend, you know.” Luke raised his eyebrow up at his father, who folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t need to lurk around every time I spend time with someone.”
His father simply stared down at him for several seconds, conveying a blend of displeasure and doubt. “I do not trust the smuggler,” he rumbled softly, “and neither should you. He may not know of your identity now, but should he find out - ”
“Yeah, yeah, he’ll sell me out, take advantage of me, use me for his own gains,” Luke cut in, rolling his eyes. “I’ve heard the speech a million times before. But you heard him. He’s not interested in royals, and he knows me for me. And, like I said, he’s just a friend. I don’t think it’s a crime to want to be around someone who just... wants to be around you.” He’d spent so much of his life surrounded by sycophants who did nothing but praise him endlessly, serve his whims, treat him as above them, even when he insisted he wasn’t. “Han is... he’s different, Father. Please. Just... trust me.”
Vader tilted his helmet, probing his son with the Force and considering the Prince’s words. Perhaps Luke would luck out and score a victory...
“Very well.” Success! “But be warned, should this... Solo... do anything to harm you? I will personally see to his punishment, and that is a promise.”
A wry smile tugged at Luke’s lips, and he shook his head slightly. “I suppose that’s all I can ask for. Thank you, Father.”
#luke skywalker#han solo#darth vader#luke and han#luke and vader#skysolo#dad vader#flufftober#flufftober2020#imperial prince luke#idk what kind of AU this is#but han doesn't know luke is the prince#and ofc we get#overprotective vader#star wars fic#my writing
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Flufftober Day 4: Wounded
Luke swung his lightsaber in a high arc but his opponent was quicker as he ducked under the blade. The swing, finding only air, over balanced the Jedi Master but he turned his fall into a roll, coming out a few feet away.
On the other side of the room, his opponent give him a mocking wave and charged. Luke tried to dodge but the other’s weapon struck a glancing blow to his leg and Luke crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain.
“Dad!” Ben cried and dropping his toy saber to the ground, rushing to his father’s side. “Are you okay?”
Luke stopped his groaning and winked, whispering, “Yes. But this is the part where you save the damsel in distress.”
“But Mommy’s never a damsel in distress,” his five year old son said.
“He’s got you there, Farmboy,” Mara shouted from the next room.
@flufftober
Prompt List
#flufftober#flufftober2020#wounded#drabble#skywalker family#luke skywalker#mara jade skywalker#Ben Skywalker#the REAL ben skywalker#star wars#star wars legends#jade writes
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Hey, all! Here’s my take on flufftober for yet another year of fluffy goodness! Let’s make the fic world a happier place one fluff piece at a time ;)
This year’s beautiful pic was made by barbaraTP! She’s amazing. You can check her DeviantART here.
Under the read more there is some information about the challenge!
What is flufftober?
A list of fluffy prompts for the month of october! If you’ve heard of whumptober or similar challenges, it works a bit like that.
How does it work?
You write a fluffy fic based on the prompt, and post it starting on October 1st. A prompt a day! You can post it anywhere you want, be it ao3, tumblr or another website! You can tag it as flufftober or flufftober2020 so the other participants can check it out. There’s no problem if you’re late.
Is this for a specific fandom?
Nope!
Here is the list in text form:
Touch
Ink
Sunlight
Music
Sweet
Pillows
A First Time
Laughter
Rain
Leaves
Moving
White
Birthday
Indirect Kiss
Quiet
Sightseeing
Insects
Fireplace
Praise
Dogs
Late Night
Blushing
Poetry
Spicy
Clothes
Garden
Serendipity
Drunk Confessions
Cars
Dessert
Trick or Treat!
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Wound
Summary: Damian hides from his siblings in Bruce's study. Bruce is amused.
Ao3
The rest of my batfam flufftober2020
Bruce was looking through some reports when the study door banged open. Looking up, he found Damian standing by the door, looking a little haggard.
"Damian, what is-"
Just then, he heard Dick calling out Damian's name, accompanied by what seemed to be a conversation between Tim and Stephanie.
Damian's eyes widened and he hurriedly came around Bruce's desk and ducked under it. A few moments later the study door opened and Dick poked his head inside.
"Hey, B!" said Dick, "Have you seen Damian around?"
Bruce could feel Damian's pleading gaze on him.
He raised his eyebrows at Dick, "Do you really think he would come in here to hide?"
"Old man's got a point,"
Ah, Jason was here too.
Once the door had been shut, Bruce leaned down to look under his desk.
"Damian," he said
"Father," said the young boy.
"May I ask?"
"They've all gone insane!" he hissed, "Richard isn't acting that abnormal but Jason keeps offering to carry me around, Stephanie keeps wanting to watch movies with me and then Drake wanted to 'hang out'. Drake! They've all gone stupid. You should have them tested, Father. Cassandra's the only one who's acting normal. Duke keeps looking amused!"
Bruce let out a laugh.
"I see," he said, "Do you think that it might have to do with the huge wound on your foot?"
A few days ago, Damian had cut open his foot. Considering their nightly activities, it wasn't unusual. But this cut hadn't come from being Robin. It had been due to a pranking war between his siblings, one Damian had avoided due to his sleepover with his teen titans. He had come home without any knowledge of the war and had had his guard down leading to him being subjected to a prank set up by Tim and Stephanie for Jason.
It had ended with his foot bleeding over the hallway floor and some very guilty siblings.
"Why would that matter?" asked Damian, seemingly confused
"Well, you getting hurt was sort of their fault. I think they might feel guilty," said Bruce
"Oh," murmured Damian, "First, that's stupid. Second, I wish they would leave me alone. There's only so much of them I can take in a day. Also, Drake being that sweet disorienting. Our whole relationship is supposed to be based on cleverly insulting each other. And Don't get me started on Jason,"
Bruce couldn't help chuckle again at Damian's sullen expression, "Come up here son,"
Damian grumbled but came up. Bruce's armchair was an old leather design so he was easily able to maneuver Damian to sit there with him.
"Show me your foot, Kiddo," said Bruce
Damian brought it up and Bruce gently traced the scar. It looked much better now and would most likely disappear in a little while. There was nothing for his kids to worry about.
"Well," said Bruce, "You're fine,"
"Exactly!" muttered Damian, "They can stop!"
Just them, Tim poked his head into the study and gave a shout.
"He's here! I told you!"
Behind him came everyone else, though Duke and Cassandra seemed to only be there to be amused.
"We were looking for you, Lil'D" said Dick, "Your ointment-,"
"-had already been put on," said Damian, "Tell him, Father,"
Bruce considered throwing his son to the wolves but Damian's puppy eyes, courtesy of Cass, won out.
"He's right, I checked, " said Bruce, "And Damian is going to sit with me for a little bit,"
Bruce knew that it would automatically deter everyone else from staying. Tim was strictly on a 'no work' weekend and Dick had enough emotional intelligence to realize that Dami had become a little overwhelmed. Everyone else hated hanging out in the boring study.
One by one, they all left the room and Bruce turned his attention to Damian. The young boy leaned unto Bruce's side, sighing contentedly.
"Thank you, Father,"
"No problem, Damian, " said Bruce, "I can talk to them if you want,"
"It's alright," said Damian, "I can handle them after a little break,"
Bruce smiled and went back to his reports, this time his son's warmth burrowing into his side.
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Red Tulip
[Read on AO3]
Prompt 1: Floriography
Prompt 2: Electric
It starts out, as so many pivotal moments do, with some boredom and a bottle.
Sam and Jack took off together on a minor case, leaving Dean and Cas behind in the Bunker with nothing much to fill their time. Cas recently discovered that he likes the taste of those little cinnamon candies, so Dean gets the bright idea to introduce him to shots of Fireball. Turns out they both like the taste of those, and after 4 or 5 apiece, they're feeling loose and chatty.
At some point in their rambling conversation, Cas mentions that he possesses perfect knowledge of all human language, and Dean calls bullshit. Phone in hand, he quizzes his friend on every obscure, dead, or invented language he can find a lexicon for, and Cas aces every one. In desperation, Dean lands on a website for the language of flowers.
"Garlic."
"Courage and strength."
They've been doing this for five minutes. Cas has more than proven that he knows this language, too, but for some reason Dean doesn't feel like letting it go. He keeps scrolling, calling out flowers at random, and Cas keeps getting every one right.
"Marigold."
"Grief and jealousy."
"Pale peach rose."
"Modesty." The angel rolls his eyes. "Dean, how much longer are we going to keep doing this?"
"Dunno. Think it's kind of neat. Blue violet."
"Faithfulness. I have an idea."
"Snapdragon. Oh, sorry, what?"
"Snapdragon is deception. I want to try something else, though. Let's see if you've been paying attention. Variegated tulip."
"Aw, c'mon, Cas, I don't know these."
"It's okay, you can use the website. Variegated tulip."
"Ummm, 'Beautiful Eyes'."
"Correct. Iris."
"Your Friendship Means So Much to Me."
"Indeed. Stock."
"Bonds of Affection."
"Profound ones, in fact. Primrose."
"Cas?"
"Primrose, Dean."
"I Can't Live Without You."
"Correct, and very true. Orange blossom."
"Eternal Love. Wh--"
"Keep going. White violet."
"Let's Take a Chance on Happiness. Cas, I--"
"One more, Dean. Mistletoe."
"M-mistletoe?"
"Look it up. You can probably guess, but you should be sure before you reply."
"...Kiss Me."
"Very well."
Cas's lips brush against his, a touch so light he's not sure he feels it. Before the angel can retreat, Dean leans in to him and presses them together again, more firmly this time. An electric jolt passes through him at the contact, and he can't stifle a gasp. Ever the tactician, Cas senses an advantage. He tilts his jaw into it, dips the tip of his tongue into Dean's mouth to taste him, and they both moan. Before things can go any further, Dean pulls back and murmurs, "Your Love is Reciprocated."
"Ambrosia," Cas replies with a smile.
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Baby Luke running around his fathers ship giving Vader a headache.
DAY 23: FLUFFTOBER: Childhood Bedroom @flufftober
Much requested follow up to this ficlet from yesterday.
Luke, as far as young children went, was chaos incarnate.
Vader spent many a night falling asleep beside him in increasingly uncomfortable positions before the boy got to sleep himself. He would chase him through the air vents of the Executor for hours, panicking with every thud, hating the way his breathing echoed absolutely. He couldn’t hear his son’s giggles over the rasping—when he turned it off, momentarily, he could hear the laughter chiming. As worried as he was, it eased his soul somewhat.
Then Luke disappeared.
He had been kidnapped. Vader knew it. He had received no ultimatums so far but he knew he’d been kidnapped, and he knew by whom: he’d interrogated several Alliance operatives on his ship who’d been caught. They’d given him nothing, but the security holos and data proved they’d let the Rebels onto his ship, they’d let the Rebels—
He did not stop raging. Everyone, Piett included, was on tenterhooks around him, the Emperor had punished him severely for his insolence and distraction, but he did not stop raging. Rebels he was interrogating exploded before he touched them, bases were wiped out instead of captured, and with every step he left a trail of bodies in his wake. He never stopped raging.
If he stopped raging, he started hurting.
Nothing pierced the haze of fury. Not competence, not logic, not pleas. Nothing, until—
The sound of laughter in the vents again had his head snapping up.
“My lord?” Piett asked warily—it was a miracle this man had survived so long already, through no fault of his own, so his fear was justified—but Vader ignored him and kept listening.
The giggling sounded again.
Piett’s eyes blew wide and he dropped the datapad. It cracked; Vader didn’t see it. He tilted his helmet back farther and listened.
The bridge fell silent.
And the clear peals of laughter chimed out, reverberating through the metal.
“Is that…?” Piett asked, and Vader said nothing, but relief flooded him, because he had heard a lot of laughter in the weeks Luke had been gone, and none of it had been audible to anyone but him.
Vader growled, “It may well be,” and stalked off the bridge.
What was happening? Had Luke’s kidnappers been hiding on the Executor all along—that was insulting, if so—and if not, had they snuck back on? How?
…had there been no kidnappers at all, had Luke just got lost, had Vader failed to find him and left him alone in the filtration system, scared and cold and lonely…
He strode through the hallways, as fast as he possibly could, casting out his Force presence and reeling it back in to see what he caught.
Luke.
Luke was there!
Luke was… moving, through the vents, roughly from Hangar 1706 to… their quarters.
Luke’s presence was in his childhood bedroom.
Utterly, utterly confused, Vader stormed in—only to be drawn up short.
Luke was sitting on his bed, with the spaceship sheet and his TIE fighter model… except he wasn’t holding it. It was flying around his head, chased by his X-wing model, and Luke wasn’t sitting straight on the bed, he was sitting on—
“Ahsoka,” Vader growled.
Ahsoka glanced up—she had definitely heard him come in, and was just being dramatic about the delayed reaction—and said, “Hey, Skyguy! I brought your son back!”
Luke beamed at him, and—despite his shock, horror, disgust, everything, at the situation—Vader felt his heart melt a little bit. “Auntie Soka rescued me!”
Auntie… Soka…
“You,” he growled, “are a Rebel.”
She shrugged, though she was anything but casual. That… that was Ahsoka, alright, laughing in the face of danger even when she was afraid. “Still. I wasn’t about to let them kill your son. So I brought him back.”
Luke reached out a pudgy hand. “Come play with us!”
Vader, despite his reservations, was helpless to refuse.
#flufftober2020#flufftober#fluff is hard and i am tired so here we are#my writing#random words on a page#luke skywalker#darth vader#ahsoka tano#for darkness shows the stars#return of the apprentices#flash fiction#flash fiction: star wars
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Flufftober day 31: pumpkin carving
At last, it’s over!!!! *collapses*
#flufftober#flufftober2020#inktober2020#alternative inktober#fanart#life is strange#LiS#pricefield#max caulfield#chloe price#my art#ghost draws
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Flufftober Day 21
Disclaimer! I was planning a 100 word Drabble and I got quite carried away and ended up writing an entire one-shot fic. My thanks to @otherworldsivelivedin and @penpanoply for the positive feedback and the encouragement to post it, so here it is. Read the fic at ao3!
October 21 prompt: “I don’t understand” (Boyfriend Material)
Oh! You Pretty Things
Luc, mon caneton. You and Oliver are free Sunday, yes?”
I try to remember if we actually have anything planned for Sunday, other than a good shag and French toast. Maybe followed by another shag.
“Uh.”
“Magnifique. You shall come to Judy’s.”
“What?”
“Judy’s piscine. You must come see.”
“Listen, Mum, I know you two have been friends for a long time, but I draw the line at anything involving Judy pissing.”
“Do not be so silly. Put me on the shouting phone.”
“Speakerphone?”
“Oui.”
“Fine,” I huff as I switch my mobile over. She’s given up talking to me it seems.
“Oliver, Luc is speaking nonsense. Judy has a new piscine and you must come in your Speedo on Sunday.”
“He’s not showing up in a Speedo, Mum. And most certainly not to do anything involving pissing!”
“Piscine is a swimming pool,” Oliver murmurs helpfully.
This makes things a bit clearer, but still not in any way appealing.
“It sounds like it could be fun,” he adds.
Fuck it all.
“See, it is a done deal as you say,” Mum chimes in. “Do not forget the Speedo, Oliver.”
“Mum, why the sudden obsession with swimwear?”
“Your boyfriend has style, mon cher. Oliver would not wear those ridiculous pantalons you insist on wearing to the sea.”
“They’re called swim shorts.”
“Pah, even the name is foolish. I do not understand you. All the gays they wear the Speedo. Why do you not want your boyfriend in one? He is attractive, non?”
“Well, yes, but you see . . .” I flounder as Oliver’s eyebrow goes up and his lips quirk. “Mum, that’s not the point . . .”
“Ah. I see now. You do not like the other men to see your Oliver like that. It is not good, the jealousy, Luc.”
“I’m not jealous!”
“There will not be gays to flirt with your boyfriend, mon cher. It is just Judy and me. I will make my special summer curry.”
“No, Mum, for the love of God, no.”
It’s jarring to realize that what I’d once considered to be the Mount Everest of my Mum’s culinary crimes was actually just a runner-up Mount Kilimanjaro--that she’d lulled me into thinking the special curry was the pinnacle of toxicity, while unbeknownst to me the summer curry had been lurking in the deeper waters.
I know I’m mixing my metaphors and I don’t care–they still aren’t as unfortunate a combination as any of my mother’s curry ingredients.
“Sunday, Luc.”
There’s an edge to Mum’s voice that promptly disappears as soon as she directs her words to Oliver again. “Oliver, do not let my son wear the pantalons. Take him shopping for a proper maillot de bain, oui?”
“Oui. A bientôt, Odile,” Oliver replies.
I end the call with a little more zeal than necessary. Meaning my mobile flies out of my hands and skitters across the floor.
“You can’t be serious about this.” I give Oliver my keenest glare. “Speedos and summer curry?”
“What is this vendetta against swimwear?” Oliver asks, boldly ignoring the curry issue, the smirk on his face threatening to raise my blood pressure by double digits.
“It’s not a vendetta.”
“Then?” He nudges my knee with his bare foot. It makes me weak under the best of circumstances but I do my best to hold onto my indignation.
“It’s nothing.” The words come out petulant. Lovely. I sound like a sullen teenager.
“It’s obviously something.” Oliver slides his toes under my leg. It’s unfair, it really is. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be averse to the thought of me in a Speedo.”
His foot burrows further under, his toes now brushing against the inside of my thigh and my brain is overwhelmed with an image of that v-cut of his diving down into a black Speedo and it’s all my mother’s fault, which really shouldn’t be something that’s remotely allowed to be in the same sentence with v-cut.
“It’s not you,” I say, with the inevitable follow up of “It’s me.”
“How so?”
“Ok, so I know Speedos are basically the required beach couture for our demographic, but it’s not ever been something I’ve felt works for, you know,” I wave a hand at myself, “me.”
“And why not?”
I stare at him. “Listen, I know for a fact you’ve seen me naked, more than once, so you should be able to figure that one out for yourself, Oliver.”
“I’m not following you, Lucien.”
Splendid. I’m going to have to spell it out. “I don’t have the . . . well, the physique to pull off wearing one.”
I also don’t have the confidence of middle aged, paunchy French men, but that’s beside the point.
His toes do this wiggle that’s borderline pornographic.
“Lucien.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t Lucien me about this. I’m not built for a Speedo and I damn well am not about to go prancing around in one at Judy’s blasted piscine.”
I give him a side-long glance.
He’s got that creased forehead look he gets when he’s thinking of how to politely reply to some asinine thing I’ve said. I’m intimately familiar with it.
“Look, it’s fine, Oliver. We’ll go to Mum’s disaster of a pool party, swim in whatever monstrosity Judy’s installed at her estate, bathe in eau de wet dog for a few hours thanks to the spaniels. Eat the blasted summer curry and deal with the inevitable intestinal horror show to follow.” I narrow my eyes at him. “But I draw the line at the Speedo.”
Oliver has the audacity to smirk at me again. “For you or for me?”
“What?”
“For you or for me? I understand you may have reservations about wearing one—reservations I find quite concerning from a body-image standpoint, which we should probably address at some point in time—but I will support your devotion to modesty, as long as you comprehend the fact that I, for one, would not be averse to the sight.”
He’s completely lost me. “The sight of what?”
There’s that soft look. I’m becoming intimately familiar with that one as well.
Then his toes start doing that wiggly thing against my inner thigh again and I’m not sure if I’m turned on or still quivering with righteous indignation.
Right, I’m turned on.
“Of you, Lucien. You in a Speedo. Or swim shorts. Or an oversized t-shirt and hedgehog pants.”
Oliver slides his leg fully under my arse and somehow unbalances me enough that I end up sprawled in a heap on his chest. He’s not wearing a shirt so I’m not about to complain, although I do let out an involuntary squawk as I thump against the broad and luxurious expanse of his pecs.
He brushes the hair off my forehead, tracing his fingertips along my jawline until he’s cupping my face with his hand. “Whether we go or not is completely up to you,” Oliver says, grey eyes intense, yet achingly soft. “But you could be clad in a caftan and you’d still be beautiful to me.”
I should just take the compliment. I should crawl the rest of the way up his chest and kiss him breathless.
I don’t, of course.
“That could be arranged, you know. James Royce-Royce has a lovely chartreuse caftan. I’m certain he’d let me borrow it for the noble cause of seducing my Speedo-clad boyfriend in full view of my mother and her barmy old harpy of a best friend. The spaniels will be scandalized.” I can’t help grinning at him.
He grins right back, a silver glint in his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ll have to disappoint you then.”
“What? How will you resist my boyish charm? I’ll have you know that caftan brings out the green of my eyes.” I bat my eyelashes.
“I’m certain it does.”
“Then what are you on about?”
“I’m afraid I must dash your hopes of a Speedo-clad seduction.”
“What? My caftan-clad allure isn’t going to do it for you after all?”
His smile widens. “Oh, I’m sure it will.” He leans down to press a kiss to the tip of my nose, which is one of the many ridiculously fond things he does that I’m becoming terrifyingly accustomed to.
Oliver tilts his head back, radiating amusement now. “I just don’t happen to own a Speedo.”
I drop my head on the pillow of his toned chest muscles and give a snorty laugh. “Whatever will my mother say?”
He gives a laugh as juvenile as mine as he replies. “Something very uncomplimentary about my pantalons, I’m sure.”
“We’re a disappointment to fashionable gays everywhere.”
“Speak for yourself.”
#flufftober2020#fluff river#boyfriend material#luc o'donnell#oliver blackwood#odile O’Donnell#definitely not 100 words#this is a whole one-shot#my doc#my writing#Luc x Oliver
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